San Miguel's Pale Pilsen

Like many Philippine foods, the San Miguel’s Pale Pilsen has noticeable sweetness. Yet it is enough of a proper beer sweet that it does not make the brew taste like a fruit beer. It's more like if you took the sweet rice-beer flavor of a Busch Light and then added more beer flavor to it.

This is the exact vaguely sweet, light ale-ness that begins the drinking experience that, according to the bottle, leads to true Philippines friendships. Then a carbonated burn builds, and it is accompanied by a vague pineapple fruitiness, just a faint misting of it. As I said before, it is not enough to make the brew predominately fruity. It's just a hint.

Finally, the swallow leaves behind that refreshing Pabst Blue Ribbon sweetness, but like with the first contact, the flavor of hoppy lager is noticeably stronger, more vibrant.

Altogether, the San Miguel's Pale Pilsen is a wonderful welcome to the Philippines. It gives me great hope for further brew discoveries, though I am not so sure that the Philippines has a strong microbrew culture. Regardless, San Miguel's Brewery knows what kind of beer is necessary in a hot climate, and I think they would make a fine addition to a campout beer lineup anywhere in the world.

Goose Island Brewery's Matilda

People who either think Belgian style beers all taste the same or that they are as bland and boring as most hefeweizens need to drink this beer. My brew sipping days are only about a year long now, but as of this moment, this Matilda brew is the most interesting, the most dynamic, and simply one of the most delicious beers I have tried in my life. It combines a strange mixture of flavors that, when described, might not seem to be anything but another fruity beer that most beer drinkers would want to avoid. But avoiding this Belgian would be like avoiding seafood at a crab shack.

Matilda comes from Good Island Brewery out of Chicago, Illinois, and it smells of a yeasty perfume. If you took a woman who just smelled gorgeous, and then sort of flicked yeast juice on her like holy water during Advent, you'd get this smell: a sort of yeasty fruitiness that makes the nose take notice.

Drinking starts off with a light yeasty bite, and then transforms into a sort of light orange syrup. By light, I mean the flavor texture is reminiscent of syrup, but the liquid texture is firmly beer-ish. Does that make sense? It's a hard beer to describe. I'll try a different way of saying it:  It. Is. Awesome.

At the swallow, the syrup taste vanishes completely and is simply replaced by a orange crispness that ends the experience like a real tight lager. Just fantastic.

This beer is robust. This beer is a dancer. This beer defies my attempts to accurately describe it. If you want something new in your beer life, this is one to try as soon as possible.

Buckerfield Brewery's Berry Ale

Photo from Beck's Beer Blog

The Buckerfields Brewery does a terrible job of providing pictures for their brews. The only pictures that are viable are ones from other beer blogs around the internets. But at least they brew some nice tasting beers.

Obviously, this is a fruit beer. I generally like fruit beers, as long as the flavor is put into the beer correctly. It needs to be brewed in, I think. Otherwise it just tastes like beer with flavoring in it. I couldn't say as to which was which in the case of this Berry Ale, but I do know that I liked it. A lot.

The beer gives off the nostalgic aroma of raspberry kool-aid. This was not a turn-off for me, for many fond memories of mine involve a large plastic pitcher of that delicious summer treat.  The first taste is not raspberry at all, but a pleasant burn with the robust strength of a solid ale. Sort of thick, but sprightly.

The body of the brew's flavor is reminiscent of raspberry ice tea, calm and refreshing. This strengthens somewhat after the swallow to taste like raspberry flavored Crystal Light. Yet the fruitiness of both these flavors does not make the beer not taste like a beer. The ale-ish-ness continues throughout the drinking experience, and at least for me, made for an incredibly refreshing brew. It was like a beer drinker's sangria.

This is one beer to go out of your way to try if you are ever in Victoria, British Columbia. Just head for the Swans pub, and get yourself a pint on a warm summer day.

Buckerfields Brewery's Oatmeal Stout

Picture from the blog Cold War Cookery

One of my go-to beers is Tadcasters Oatmeal Stout. The review of that beer is yet to come, as I am usually too focused on enjoying it to jot down any taste notes. Yet my love for that brew was at the heart of my decision to order this beer first at the Swans Pub in Victoria, British Columbia. I don't know what it is about the oatmeal stouts, but they get me every time. Perhaps the liquorice-coffee smell of this one lured me in like Toucan Sam.

Like the other two Canadian stouts, this one seems to have some kind of fetish for Guinness. This is evoked in its milky texture. It's not bad, really, but a cleaner feel would bring out more of this brew's rather lazy flavor. However, this stout is noticeably more tangible than the others, and the beer hits your mouth kind of like buttermilk; thick, creamy, and just a bit bitter.

The initial bitterness is quickly replaced by a sweet coffee taste. It is like a good coffee in the morning mixed with an "original" flavor sweetened creamer. But then the bitterness comes back to merge with the sweetness like a happy couple, creating a bottom of the pot sort of taste. I liked that.

The Buckerfields Oatmeal Stout is the best stout I found in Canada, but it does not surpass the Beaver Brown in terms of dark beer deliciousness. If you enjoy the oatmeals, try this one. You won't regret it- but you probably won't buy a second one, either.

Bridgeport Brewery's Hop Czar

A quick brew from close to home, made in Portland, Oregon, the Hop Czar! I'm not the biggest fan of the India Pale Ales, but I am attracted by the adjective "Imperial." To me it means more robust flavor, and perhaps as important, more alcohol. It makes everything better! Imperial Stouts, Imperial Porters, Imperial I.P.A.s, Imperial Star Destroyers.

This Czar opens with a strong hoppy scent, that acrid tangyness that gets you ready to drink a beer. Of course, that makes a lot of sense by the name of the brew.  The brew goes in smooth, with a latent spiciness of hops, which then kicks into high gear. I cannot describe it better than saying it is a hop explosion, a nuclear test of the H-bomb in your mouth. And like latent radiation, the taste lingers for ages after the event, dwelling in your pallet and corrupting it for an age.

Hops. Hops. Hops. That's what this beer advertises, and that is all you get. But you get a lot of it. And it is good. I would have trouble drinking two in a row, but after a few beers in between, I would open another Hop Czar with an eager alacrity. Get one. Drink one. You'll enjoy it.

Canoe Brewery's Summer Honey Wheat Ale

The first beer I enjoyed was a Blue Moon. I was told that it was a hefeweizen style beer, so I set out on a mission to drink more hefeweizen beers. Then I grew brave and ventured into ales, stouts, porters; you know... REAL beer. Since then, I've found enjoying the wheaty beers much harder than it used to be. Perhaps it is my own beer-prejudice, like how people who became successful fear returning to their hometown where they are known as the nerd, or fat kid, or both. Or it might be because it is difficult to craft a great hefeweizen. If that's so, then the Canoe brewpub could use more practice.

What I need in a beer is flavor, and despite the faint promise of honey and citrus aromas, the Summer Honey Wheat has almost none of it. The honey tasting burn of the mild carbonation is a good start, but it quickly dissolves into something else: think of when you're swimming in a public pool and you accidentally take a mouthful of the stuff and then spit it out in disgust. That lingering flavor of community socialism which sticks to the pallet? Yeah. That's this beer.

After you gulp the stuff down, it leaves behind a bitter hoppiness that is very like a milder IPA. Which if the beer tasted, I don't know, better, it would make it more dynamic than most wheat brews. But as it stands, I would recommend any beer besides this one. Yeah, the flavor starts great and ends nicely, but you can also put a piece of shit between two slices of bacon.

Canoe Brewery's Beaver Brown Ale

From a restored warehouse in Victoria, British Columbia, the Canoe Brewpub provided me with my first genuinely impressive Canadian beer. In fact, this Beaver Brown Ale is so much more adherent to the my ideals of porters and stouts that it measures head and shoulders above the other Canadian brews I already covered. It even smells like a stout: a nice, sweet chocolate. Its texture: pleasantly heavy, yet still retaining that relative crispness of an ale. 

The beaver juice enters like a frothy, high-mountain stream; smooth, but with a gentle burn from the bubbles. The flavor follows quickly after: a moderate nuttiness that seemed acorn to me, but hazelnut and chestnut to various other tasters of my pint. I suppose the pallet molds this brew to be congruent with your favored tree.

The nuttiness fades into a gentle dark chocolate aftertaste, like the end of a dark chocolate Reese's (though much more subtle and beer-y). An incredible finish to a truly delightful brew. If you're in Victoria, I heartily recommend the Beaver Brown! You'll have a hard time being adventurous with other new beers when there is a potential to enjoy a second pint of this baby.

Unibroue Brewery's Trois Pistoles

Another Canadian beer, the Trois Pistoles comes from Chambly, Quebec. It claims to be a "very dark" ale, but no beer drinker would mistake the smell of a barley wine. It smells exactly like Manischewiz wine.

If you're thinking that is no way for a beer to smell, I couldn't agree with you more. It smells like a hangover.  And the unpleasantness continues as you bring this strange elixir to your lips. It starts sweet, but kind of like how medicine is sweet so children won't spit it out instantaneously. Logically, this is followed by a very recognizable taste: cough syrup. Yum. Very liquorice.

The aftertaste is like when you finish a whiskey on the rocks, but the server is really slow on noticing, so in desperation you drink the whiskey-flavored melted ice water. Delectable.

Altogether, this beer tastes foul from start to finish. Though I don't like barley wines, so if you do, this might be right up your alley, or cleft, or.. whatever. The one good side to this beer is that it gets you buzzin' after only 12 oz. So if you want to get drunk, this might be one to choke down later on in the night.

Phillips' Brewery's Longboat Double Chocolate Porter

I was excited to find so many dark beer in Canada, and in the middle of the summer! My next pint was this sweet smelling little number which came right down the street from where it was poured for me in Victoria, British Columbia. When you stick your nose into the glass, the festive smell of a See's Chocolate shop bubbles up into your nostrils; imagine sharing a oxygen chamber with a freshly unwrapped, slightly melted, dark chocolate bar and you'll be pretty close.

The brew passes your mouth with a bit of a fight, sizzling pleasantly, but quickly succumbing to your tongue.The texture then turns into a sort of milky cream that has a pleasant thickness to it, and a faint, bitterness filters through to your taste-buds.

The body of the beer seems to be Guinness inspired, as the tame flavor that teases you at the beginning of the experience fades into nothing. The brew then sits in your mouth, and unsure of what to do with it, you swallow it down with a twinge of disappointment: like a prostitute with a penis, the first impression was the best impression.

The porter then leaves behind a mild chocolate taste, almost as if it's apologizing for its non-performance.

Another lackluster beer that is worth a try, but it didn't sell me a second pint. Perhaps the cold of Canada is what makes the dark brews taste good? I don't know; The relative warmth of the summer sure did not.

Lighthouse Brewery's Keeper's Stout

As I was up in Canada for about five days, I had the opportunity to drink several Canadian beers. The coolness of the Great White North creates a many wondrous thing: the Northern Lights, a reason for owning a sweater in the the middle of July, and a populace that appreciates a dark brew year round. I'm a stout and porter man, so getting away the lager-sipping wusses of Nashville, Tennessee was a welcome change. I mean, if you walk into a store, and the only dark beer available is Guinness (i.e. the most overrated beer in the world), you have a problem.

While Canada offered up a selection of stouts, this first one by the Lighthouse Brewery out of Esquimalt, British Columbia was a lazy, subtle beer. The smell of the brew was light, smelling sort of like a wicker basket used to carry liquorice. It was difficult to put a finger on the scent due to its weakness.

Like a Guinness, the Keeper's Stout calmly slides into your mouth like flavorless milk. A sort of coffee taste attempts to assert itself, but it is quickly suppressed by the burn of delayed carbonation. It is almost as if flavor was a student uprising and the beer was Red China: a merciless repression of culture.

The beer slides down your gullet the same way it flows over your tongue: like a bored prostitute. But this time the milkiness leaves behind a gentle coffee flavor. Though tame and hardly memorable, it excites you because it is so much more interesting than the rest of the beer.

The Keeper's Stout is an okay beer. There is no reason to turn one down, or to try one if you never have. But you wont find much reason to grab a second pint of this lackluster brew.

Yazoo Brewery's Brewmaster's Hop Project

Nashville continues to be hot and humid, and I remind myself of a cold bottle of brew: My body is quickly covered by condensation as soon as I step outdoors and stand still. But there are many beers around that I've never seen before, and one of them is another one of Yazoo's. The Brewmater's Hop Project seems to be numbered based on its release, implying that no two batches are exactly the same.

I'm not sure what series the one I tried was, as there was no form of numbering system that I could see on the bottle. But I did notice a pleasantly tame citrus smell wafting out of the bottle after I popped the cap. It's a faint odor, and it really does not give a hint of the extreme flavor experience that is about to blast down your gaping orifice.

Even the first contact on your lips is deceiving, having what I like to call the Trojan Horse effect. There is an immediate dull, bitterness that lurks in the background of your taste perception, like Paris' misgivings about the equine gift the Greeks apparently left behind. You know, because nothing says "Sorry for ten years of invasion and butchery" like giant, wheeled horse made out of boat wood. I think that youngest son of Priam said something along the lines of "this is horseshit." The rest is history.

Anyway... as soon as that tame bitterness gets into your mouth, it explodes into frenzied activity.

Wait. I'm getting a sense of deja vu here. I'm pretty sure I've used this elaborate metaphor before.

Lemmie think. Uhh...

Like the humble HIV virus, the single bit of taste infiltrates your pallet, multiplies, and then bursts forth in extreme flavor! Your ability to resist strong hoppy deliciousness is quickly suppressed as even hardened foes of I.P.A.'s like myself are won over by the intensity and robustness of the beer's body.

Before you know it, your entire mouth is filled with hoppy flavor particles, and as the infection spreads, the background bitterness that welcomed the beer into your mouth grows steadily in strength.

Like AIDS, the taste never quite leaves you. Even twenty seconds after the gulp, your mouth will still be filled with a nice charcoal flavored buzz. An interesting ending to a beer that only seems interested in punching you in the face with one distinct flavor.

However, a beer that chooses to specialize in itself is definitely not a bad thing, and the Brewmaster's Hop Project is a good purchase for any fan of hoppy beers or I.P.A.'s. For those of us who generally avoid that flavor spectrum of beer, this Yazoo brew has just enough ale-ish thickness to satisfy. Find one, drink it, and you'll like it.

Yazoo Brewery's Hefeweizen

This next beer comes from a humble little brewery in Nashville, Tennessee.

When you open up a bottle of Yazoo, you first need to say "YAZOOO!" because it's fun.

Next: let your nose savor the the tangy banana scent of this almost clear, light-brown brew.

At this point, I too was excited to try this beer that claims to be a gold medal winner at the Great American Beer Fest in 2004. Yet judging by the content of the brew, the judges that year must not have been big fans of flavor.

To its credit, the beer instantly attacks your pallet with a refreshing acidic burn, and this experience continues until after you swallow. The body of the beer is hard to distinguish beyond this burning, but there is something a bit bitter hiding in there somewhere. It is nowhere near distinct enough to be given a specific label, however.

The aftertaste is tart, and has a real strong celery type flavor, much like Big Sky's Moose Drool. Yet celery is one of the least flavorful edibles on the face of the Earth, so that is not saying much.

Adding all these parts together and you are left with an entirely mediocre beer. If someone gives you one, there is no reason to turn it down. But if you are the one buying the beer, your money is best spent elsewhere; unless of course, your day is going spectacularly lackluster, and you want to keep the pattern going.

Iron Horse Brewery's Quilter's Irish Death

(I decided to attempt some Robert E. Howard on this one.)

Ulnine raised his tree of an arm to point down into the green valley, a pleasant mixture of peat and sheep pasture nestled between the arching mountains to the north, the sea on the east, the river on the west, and the rolling forests to the south. In the center, a small hamlet of pointed-roof cottages and a single two-story inn were puffing out dinner-smoke into the budding twilight. The distant wail of annoyed sheep, upset at being driven back to their evening pens, drifted up to the brown-haired man who was squinting intently to where his larger companion was gesturing.

It was a squat, unimpressive stone church that rested perhaps a half a mile to the north of the village proper; and even though the dusk mist were already gathering, the man's azure eyes could still make out the silhouettes of hundreds of gravestones; They surrounded the church like termites swarming about their hive.

"That is the place, Germane," said Ulnine, his voice deep like the rumble of a distant landslide.

Germane flicked his eyes from the church to his companion. The firbolg stood nearly two feet taller than Germane, making him an average eight feet tall (average for a firbolg, anyway). His somewhat bestial face was framed by a powerfully square jaw, adorned with a short goatee; red like the mangy mass of dreadlocks atop his head. Two intimidating fangs peeked their way from between his seriously clamped lips, as if they were trying to stab the often-broken nose just above them.

For his part, Germane had a sort of angular look common to the southern parts of the island, but a rough stubble and a few too many lean days made his cheeks bony, as if his visage were chiseled from some soft stone. He rubbed at his beard in thought. "We'd better hurry down there to that tavern before dark, yes?"

Ulnine's overlarge, almond-shaped eyes grinned green down at the smaller human. He shrugged, three-and-a-half feet of shoulder blades rippling under his scale mail, "If you believe the rumors."

Germane frowned at the disappearing sun, "Better to be safe until we find the truth of the matter." He adjusted his longbow so that it would hug tight across his chest and cloak. "Let's go."

The slope down into the valley was gentle, making the hasty trot of the adventurers easy, if a bit noisy. Weapon sheaths, backpacks, and armor clanked together despite the leather strappings designed to muffle such revealing noise. But the added momentum of gravity pulling downward resulted in heavier footfalls. Needless to say, the retiring shepherd boy beginning his hurried trip home easily heard the pair's approach.

As Germane and Ulnine emerged from a small copse of trees, the young boy was already taking startled steps back and away; His youthful eyes bulged as Ulnine's giant form burst into view.

"Peace!" Germane was quick to shout, "We mean no harm!" He knew that firbolg were widely considered legendary monsters, reavers and beasts, and he wanted to avoid a potentially hostile gathering of ignorant townsfolk. "We are hungry travelers on paths north, looking to make town before dark for food and ale."

The youth, still wide-eyed and trembling, only managed to shake his head slowly in an expression of disbelief. His eyes never left Ulnine.

Germane sighed. There wasn't time for this. "We're not bandits, kid. Watch. Would bandits do this?" He began removing his cloak, bow, and sword.

"Traveling show?" growled Ulnine.

"Yeah. Make it huge, so we only need to do one."

The massive firbolg grinned evilly and grabbed two fistfulls of Germane's clothing, "You got it."

Germane shouted to the child, "Watch!" He turned his head to look back at Ulnine, "Now, not too har-", but the firbolg heaved him off the ground like a doll, took two bounding steps, and then hurled Germane through the air like a living javelin.

The young shepherd's bulging eyes followed Germane's twenty foot ascension, and then they squinted into laughter at the sight of a man face-planting into the soft peat at high velocity. Ulnine's smile parted into a roaring guffaw as Germane staggered to his feet, pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his face and spitting out small bits of moss. The booming firbolg laughter was then joined by the high-pitched cackle of the shepherd boy.

"See?", Germane scraped his fingernails along his tongue, "Would bandits do that?"

The youth's smile faded into a line of cognition. After a moment, he said, "No. I guess you ain't bandits. Come on, I'll show you to the inn once I get poppa's sheep in."

Ulnine glanced about. "What sheep?"

"Oh, they are just about that hillock there. I was looking for a stray. They like to go up the ridge towards the forest for some of the high grasses. But it's too close to dark now." The boy began trotting hurriedly away. "Come on! We need to hurry! The light will be gone soon!"

Germane and Ulnine shared a glance and then broke into a trot of pursuit. "We didn't see any sheep up the hill, I'm afraid. Did we, Ulnine?"

"Nope," said the firbolg, as he picked a bit of mutton from his teeth and grinned.

"Cool it!" Germane hissed.

Firbolg chuckling boomed out once more.

True to the boy's word, the sheep were gathered about the other side of the hillock, lazily munching at some of the nearby grass. With a few high-pitched "Hee-yaaah!"s, the herd began complaining its way back towards town at a leisurely pace. Ulnine clapped his hands together with a deafening slap, and the sheep came to an agreement to move with a bit more alacrity.

As the procession made its way closer to town, the growing twighlight quickly shrunk the world in gloom. A brakish bank of clouds was rolling in over the mountain to the north, shrouding the distant church in shadow as they moved over the vale. A brief, cold wind came as a vanguard, and the sun-warmed land grew banks of mist as the heavy chill pressed down upon it.

"Well, this looks ominous," said Germane as the lights of hamlet houses were swallowed up. The sheep, for their part, silenced themselves as if by some mutual desicion.  The leading child slowed to a stop as the new fog shrouded the last of the town from view. Germane placed a hand on his small shoulder to give him courage, hard as it was to be lost, afraid, and with only strangers and sheep for company.

"What's wrong, kid?" grunted Ulnine, "They're still there, and we're half there already."

The boy jerked his head around in surprise, as if he had forgotten the firbolg which had so terrified him earlier was still there. He shook his head, "It's too dark. They come out when it's this dark." His eyes began taking on their bulging quality again as he scanned the surrounding mists.

"So, it's true then?" mumbled Germane as his eyes joined in the mist-roving. "The dead walk here?"

Ulnine snorted, wincing while massageing the back of his own neck. "I say it's wolves talked up by shepherd's fancy."

Germane frowned up at his companion, "My friend, you always forget-"

A scream echoed out from the near-darkness, high-pitched and strangled, as if something foul had been abrubtly dragged to a place it did not wish to be. It faded into the air like a bad dream, and it must have been the breaking point for the tenative sanity being held by the sheep. In a mass, they began yowling in domestic fear, and then as if on cue, scattered into the darkness till their individual mewling was swallowed up by the mists. All was silent in their wake.

"That's not a good sign," said Germane. He noticed his hand was empty; the boy had feinted away at his feet. The wandering warrior was bending down to slap the youth to, but approaching footsteps brought his hand to the hilt of his short-sword instead.

Ulnine grunted.

Man and firbolg waited as the thing in the mist approached. They both swayed slightly as their muscles tensed and releaxed in anticipation of surprise and danger. Then, the silloutte of a man slowly took shape in the fog, but stopped short of being clearly visible to the two anxious travelers.

"Hello? Are you from the hamlet?" Germane startled hiself with the volume of his own voice in the surrounding silence. "We have a boy here. He's feinted."

The shrouded man did not respond, but two coals of evil red glow appeared where eyes should have been. Two more shapes walked from the mist to join the first, and they too stared with devlish light

"Like I was saying," said German as he slowly, silently, drew his short-sword from its sheath, "You always forget that you're a shephard's facy yourself."

Ulnine gave another of his grunts. "Fancy shutting it?" His massive two-handed blade cleared the scabberd in a challenging ring, "COME ON!" the firbolg bellowed, and in a frenzy of lashing limbs, the red-eyed shades did.

They were gangly things; mobile rot that took mannish form. The flesh of each seemed ready to flake off at the slightest touch, but none did even as the creatures charged, howling frothily with their blackened lips; and ever did the red eyes burn.

Two went for Ulnine first, and the audibile whoosh of the firbolg's blade split one in half at the waist, torso and legs tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and spilt organs. Greyish blood splattered across Germane's face, stinging his eyes. He barely recovered his vision in time to raise his left elbow into the charge of the monster attacking him. Half-blind, the wanderer fended off clawing talons while thrusting his blade under his own guard and into the fiend's torso. The sharp metal sunk in hungrily, but if the creature minded the peircing of its bowels, it did not show sign; it continued to flail and bite at Germane, teeth grating on the warrior's hardened bracer.

Frustrated, Germane bowed his shoulder to the thing and shoved explosively, sending the creature stumbling backwards until it lost balance and fell to the ground. To the right, Ulnine chopped the second creature with a barbaric, overhead swing; his sword ate its way through shoulder bone, through ribs, through blood,sinew, and spine, until it fastened itself stubbornly in the creature's pelvis. Again, the blow did not seem to dampen the devil's blood lust. It frantically clawed at the blade in an attempt to pull itself along the weapon's length to get at the roaring firbolg, roaring in the effort to wrench the blade free. Meanwhile, the upper half of the first creature had crawled forward to bite uselessly at the giant's armored legs.

Yet Germane could spare his friend no time, for his own enemy was regaining its feet, and the shepherd boy was still helplessly oblivious on the ground beneith him. In a quick bound, Germane closed with the rising creature, akward in its undeath, and he chopped savagely at its right leg. The reddened eyes and hungrily sneering mouth revealed no pain, but the demon toppled sideways anyway as its shorn knee buckled, unable to support weight. It flailed about in the peat while Germane retreated to drag the boy away from its searching grasp.

Ulnine abandoned his stuck blade and reverted to primal instinct. He cocked back his right arm, and punched the offending creature in the face. The ham-sized fist slammed home with a sickening crunch, the creature's face snapping back as the red glow vanished from its cavernous eyes. It collapsed to the ground, motionless. Grinning savegly in anticipated victory, the firbolg then brough his fist smashing down on top of the skull of the ankle-biter, and that creature also went listless.

Seizing the idea, Germane strode back to where the final creature was still futily attempting to stand. It scowled at him in hatred, dead lips curling over blood-stained teeth, yellow saliva squeezing through the few gaps like juice from squeezed grapes, unholy eyes focused in nightmarish ferocity. A strong thrust sent Germane's blade into its eyesocket, and that unholy red faded as decrepid ichor sprayed out over the biting steel.

Only Ulnine's ragged breathing broke the silence which settled back on them like a heavy weight. Veterans of countless battles, both warriors quickly cleaned their weapons on the peat and returned them to their scabbards; Unlnine then tossed the unconscious boy over his shoulder like a sheaf of wheat.

"Should we wake him up?" Ulnine glanced around the darkening fog. "I can't see any trace of that hamlet."

Germane shook his head. "No matter. Night is upon us, and he would be just as lost as we are." The Irishman knew they needed to get somewhere more fortified. If more of those things (assuming there were more) found them again, the outcome could be drastically different. "We know the hamlet is north, and we know the largest mountains are north. So perhaps an echo might lead us in the right direction?"

"Or direct everything out there to us," said Ulnine while he continued to scan the perimeter.

"Yes. But we can't wander aimless in the night, either. I think we might get away with my bird call; it's loud enough."

"I think you're a moron."

"Thanks, Ulnine. Especially considering when you're drunk, I have to make sure you don't eat rocks and die."

"Those rocks looked like pastries!"

"They were in a streambed! Why would they be pastries? Who made them? Mama Catfish? Ahh, forget it- we're wasting time. Get ready for a wee bit of a run."

Ulnine huffed. "You're the one with small legs."

Germane shook his head and raised his hands to his mouth, palms cupped together. He blew a long, wailing note, like that of a loon, and it returned from every direction; but strongest off to the right.

"We'd better move quick." Germane imagined dozens of gangly demons turning their red eyes in their direction, peiricing the fog with vile perception. The two adventurers took off running, eyes alert for more attackers.

Yet their fears seemed unfounded, and both man and firbolg sighed in relief when the lights of the hamlet broke once more through the mist.

"Head for the big one," whispered Germane "it's probably the inn."

The "big one" was a humble two-level of wooden construction. In Dublin perhaps, it would have been a minor place of ill-repute in the poorer areas of the city, but here where it was the only business, it dwarfed the farmers' humble peat homes.

Ulnine tried the door and found it bolted, though the murmur of many voices could be heard within. He pounded at it, rattling the building and drawing a few started screams from inside.

"Open up!" shouted Germane, "Weary travelers in search of shelter! We have a shepherd boy who we found-"

Moving locks could be plainly heard, and then the door flung open, spilling warm light into the chilling night. There was an outrage of voice:

"-mustened be opened!"
"It might be my son! Please let it be my son!"
"The things will come!"
"Shut the door, damn your eyes!"

Then a voice of authority drowned out the others. "All of you! Quiet! Bring them inside and secure the door quickly. Quickly!"

The inn was a humble establishment, featuring a cozy common from for about thirty people. However with the entire population crammed inside, the villagers had difficulty in backing away from Ulnine, who caused a bit of a stir as he bent over to enter the small doorframe and then stood again at his towering height.

The firbolg held up the limp form of the shepard youth. "This belong to anyone?" He looked a little like a hawker trying to sell a melon. A woman near the crackling fire keeled over, drawing a few more excited screams.

"Enough with the racket!" said the authority, and a few villegers shuffled this way and that to reveal a short, frail, old man with the longest beard Germane had ever seen. He was short, almost child sized, and his bones seemed more like sticks hiding under dried sheep skin. A stooped back contributed slightly to the shortness, and it brought the wipping end of his white beard within brushing distance of the floorboards. Yet peering from that aincent face were eyes dark with experience and confidence.

"Thank you, strangers," the old man bowed his head (and his beard piled up a little on the floor), "for returning Emil to us. His mother, as you can see, has been on the verge of storm since he was late coming in from the pastures." He turned his head to the side, "Take them both to a room upstairs and lay them down." Immediately, several people swept forward to receive the unconscious boy and whisked him away upstairs. The group with the woman by the fire followed closely behind.

"Now then, it's only right we respond to kindness with kindness. Come this way and we'll get you some food and spirits to warm belly and heart." The aincent one turned and walked towards what Germane assumed to be the kitchen, and the crowd parted before him. Germane and Ulnine followed slowly im his wake, each with pleased grins despite the staring eyes and awkward silence surrounding them.

Some unlucky villigers were shooed away from a bench and table, and almost instantly two frothy mugs of brew and a spread of mutton, cheese, and soda bread was before them. The old man sat across from them, watching politely while his guests sated their hungers. Around them, conversations began to spring up, adding some comfort of regularity to the room's atmosphere.

Swallowing a mouthful of mutton, Germane raised his tankard and enjoyed the smooth feel of the brew as it quenched his pallet. It had a bitterly sour sort of flavor that was full, rich, and immensly satisfying. He was an avid beersman, but he could not quite decide if the brew tasted more like a dark ale or more like a lighter porter; perhaps a bit of both. Pleasently indecisive, the wanderer swallowed and enjoyed the bubbliness of the finish and its tangy bitter memory.

"A fine brew!" gasped Ulnine, his tankard already nearly empty.

The village elder grinned a gummy smile. "We call it the Irish Death. No, not because of things out there. But because a few of those will make even the most hardened man dead to the world till morning- and then wish the world had just finished him off!" He let out a sharp, wheezing guffaw.

"So-" Germane took a large bite of bread, "What are those things that wander here?"

"Evil that walks. A plague cast upon us, undeserved." The elder's hard eyes softened. "If you wish, I'll tell you of our sorrow."

"We wish it." said Ulnine, holding his tankard up for a refill.

"As you wish, then," said the elder with a bow of his head, "It began......"

TO BE CONTINUED.... (When a beer with a proper name is found)

Pabst Blue Ribbon

It seems that every great trade has its iconic worker. Restaurants have chefs, airlines have pilots, and academia and religion have old, bearded men. But in the end the world is like prison: if you're not great yourself, you're probably someone's bitch.

For example, in the case of the white-hatted food maker, they are supported by a team of prep-cooks, dishwashers, and servers; an entire team devoted to ensuring that the cook has everything needed, where it's needed, and when it's needed. Which isn't to say cooks don't work hard, but they are much higher on the totem pole than the poor sap in the dishpit. When the cook needs something, you go, and when you need something, prepare to be mocked or lectured.

Yet when it comes to unpleasant employment, soggy food floating in dubiously colored water is an easy gig compared to the bitch-dom available in masonry.

A mason's bitch (or hod-carrier, traditionally) is a creature of the elements. They mix together earth and water to create glue; they gulp down dusty air while endlessly carrying rocks from one pile to another, and they feel the atmosphere's ethereal embrace while perched upon rickety scaffolding over pits of re-bar spikes that look straight out of Mortal Kombat; they feel the fire of celestial fury on bared skin, long since fried an unhealthy pink by days outside in the hot sun.

Imagine, if you would, a giant, circular-saw blade, about the size of the plate your family uses to serve either turkey or ham, and serrated with menace. In the morning, its diamond-tipped edges gleam in apparent friendly greeting. You might brush off a bit of the red brick dust that cakes the engine like blood, and then you flip the switch. The powerful electric motor click on silently, overpowered by the almost instantaneous whir of the blade as it begins to cut through the air. At full speed, the machine gives off a dull whine, and the cooling water that is pumped onto the blade is flung off in a fine spray that endlessly hisses the day away (often soaking you down to the boxers).

It's a blurred circle of death, spitting water in ominous clouds of vapor.

For the most bitchy of the hod-carriers, eight hours of the day is spent feeding the malevolent beast an endless stream of brick, block, and stone. The blade gives out a hungry, teeth-rattling shriek upon contact with stone, and it is a sound that you feel as much as you hear. If there were an auditory cue for the end of the world, the sound of saw on rock would herald dark Leviathan's triumphant birth from Hell's vaulted inferno.

Ear plugs are a must.

In similar biblical badness, the clear water flung about joyously by the spinning blade turns brick red, like the muted sinew of a resting corpse. The foul mud covers your clothing, threatening to kill your washing machine upon ingestion, like cyanide.

Necessity of precision forces the hod-carrier to deftly maneuver fingers and arms around the blade; basic cuts will keep your fingers away by perhaps five inches, but more advanced and artistic shapes will narrow that distance to a half-inch. To add to the fun, the blade will sometimes catch on an impurity, and the power of the machine will wrench the offending brick from your hands and out the back of the sawing table like a cubist bowling ball.

Don't hold on too tight!, my foreman told me, Ha! Ha!

So after the hot day of menial exhaustion and ever-present subtle danger, a bitch finds a desire for a beer. In honor of the unpublicized labor of bitches everywhere, I decided to review the beer which proudly states that it is union made: Pabst Blue Ribbon. And who knows more about being someone's bitch than the Unions?

The only praise I heard of the beer is that it is incredibly refreshing after a hot day's work, and said refreshment comes at a great, affordable price. The cynical translation: The beer is kinda like water, and that is probably why it's so cheap.

The problem with cynicism? It's depressing when you're right.

Pabst Blue Ribbon slides into your mouth with a smooth, bubbly feel that is a lot like what you would get if you combined the carbonated feel of mineral water with the liquid texture of milk. There isn't a whole lot of flavor at this point, and unfortunately, the body of the brew does little to add to the drinking experience.

The body is light, almost distressingly subtle. A sort of light hoppy-ness combines with a muted skunk to form a rather unsatisfactory experience for anyone who drinks beer for the flavor. The brew leaves a lingering sweetness after the swallow, like the rice water you used to drink back in college or high school.

But it gets you drunk, and since that is probably the point of most beer drinking, you can't go wrong with the budget price that Pabst offers. So if you're in a bar or casino, and they say something along the lines of "2 bucks for a tub", you really can't go wrong with the cheap intoxication.  Looking for flavor and quality? Look elsewhere.

P.S.: Apparently, Pabst has the same strategy as big tobacco: start 'em young.

Palouse Falls Brewery's Crimson Pride

The smoke of my cigarette burned into my lungs, withering healthy cellular structure like newspaper set aflame. They say you can learn to like anything, even pain; though I never understood why someone would want to. Still, my body needed that choking smoke, and not just because of the chemicals. I needed that pain to distract myself from the reality that constantly bombarded my eyes; a curtain to draw when the light becomes too intense.

I exhaled slowly, emotions billowing away with the hazy smoke; love, anger, and sadness, drifting away between the morning sunbeams of the half-open venetians; Only did I allow logic and cold reason to remain.

The last dying ember was struggling to devour the filter, so I made a new splotch on a dirty ashtray- a final stream of smoke trailing up like a white flag. A few short paces away from the booth in which I sat, a corpse curled bloodily around the base of a swiveling barstool.  At first glance, one might take him for a simple drunk who had simply done what drunks do: his knees were bent, clasped together and against the ground, angled away from the bar and towards where I sat regarding him. It had an awkward look, though, as his hips were aligned ass to hell and cock to heaven, his left shoulder was crunched against the bar itself, and his right hand rested lightly on his gut. His mouth was even open in what could have been a loud snore.

Yet the spray of crimson, ceiling to floor, marked the final resting place(s?) of the poor bastard's head. A .44 above the right eye. Boom. The gun lay in its own drunken stupor on the counter-top next to a half-empty pint glass, recovering from its own night of shameful excess.

The uniformed officer who drove me to the bar reentered the building; his youthful face was clam and business-like.

"Sir," he said, "Forensics already did their thing, though they want that gun once you're done looking around. And it looks like the body-baggers are getting tired of waiting to get in here."

"Who discovered the body?" I asked.

"Ah, Mr. Douglas Hinter, the owner; found him here in the morning."

"Who closed?"

"Sir?"

I sighed and began rifling through my pockets in search of my smokes, "The bar! Who closed the bar last night?"

"I think Mr. Hinter's daughter, Annie Delwayne."

"So she's married. Okay. How do you know she closed last night?"

"Forensics spent a lot of time on the bar computer. I was standing guard at the door and overheard them."

My eyes flicked from the young officer to the black box of a ordering computer that sat behind the counter. I needed to have a look at that. I heaved myself out of the booth. "I want a look at that myself."

While the computer booted up (Why would Forensics shut it down? Habit?), I lit a smoke and took another calming pull. Homicide just wasn't the way to get a day started. The computer seemed to agree. Its hard drive seemed to balk at the task, crunching and grinding loudly.

"What are you looking for, sir?"

The menu screen popped up, and I began punching my gloved fingers at buttons. "You see that half-empty beer, there? The victim's?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want to know what kind of beer that was. It doesn't look domestic."

The officer peered at the beer.

I spotted the menu for the bar's order history and pushed at it eagerly. "See, I bet you Forensics will rule this suicide, and all the facts do add up to that; the side head wound, the lack of a struggle, and I bet shot powder on his right hand. Hell, he might even own that damn cannon there."

"So what is important about the beer, sir?"

My eyes flicked down the order history: A pint of Palouse Falls Crimson Pride (paid in cash, damn!). I opened a few drawers behind the counter until I found a clean glass. "The beer is a microbrew out of Pullman, Washington," I explained as I navigated my way down the wall of taps until I found the tear drop symbol I was looking for. "And in my experience, most people who choose not to drink domestic swill are beer lovers."

The officer was silent for a moment as helped myself to the tap. Finally, he asked, "So you're saying the dead guy was a beer lover? How is that important?"

I held the glass up to the streams of light arrowing through the closed blinds, admiring it's reddish amber color while the head calmed for a moment. "Stick with me and you might get yourself into some plain clothes, kid. The point is: if our John No-Head over there is a beer lover, and this happens to be a good beer; Why is the glass only half empty?"

"Because you're a pessimist?"

I guffawed before I could stop myself. "No. Why is it half full, then? Anyway, the point is: why isn't the beer ALL gone?"

The young uniform leaned against the bar to muse on that while I finally lifted the glass and took a gulp. The Crimson Pride was a red ale by the look, and I was a bit surprised by the calm, almost flavor-neutral first contact.

However, the body came to the beer's rescue and pleased my pallet with a hoppy, ale-ish carbonated burn. It was like the beer was a Trojan horse: it doesn't do anything as you tip it past your enameled gates, but once inside, flavor strikes like a host of angry Ageans.

"Oh! I see!", said the uniform as I swallowed, and the brew's dry, hoppy finish flowed about my mouth. It ended a bit like an IPA, but gentler.

The officer continued, "If that guy was a beer lover, and he was planning on killing himself; why wouldn't he finish the last beer of his life?"

I set the glass down with a loud thump. "Precisely! And this beer is good. Quite good. Or at least good enough to finish before you die, I'd say." I reached for my smokes, realized I had one lit already in the ash tray, and so hastily picked that one back up. "I have a hunch that someone helped our friend here pull that trigger, and I'm going to find out who." I began striding purposefully towards the door, questions and angles of inquiry already bouncing off the inside of my skull.

"Detective! Sir! Where are we going?"

"To talk with Mrs. Delwayne! I want to know some things about this bar!" I shoved the bar door open and sunshine blazed upon me. I had a case!

Deschutes Brewery's Abyss Imperial Stout

Often when arguing about political and philosophical discussions, I become so involved in what I perceive to be true that I become lost in a hungry abyss of my own hubris. This can lead to a series of misadventures that usually end with a certain degree of melodrama. But after one particularly heated debate over the interpretation of a worker's strike in Spain, a tear in space and time sprung into existence directly behind me, and I was quickly swallowed up. I assume only a slowly spinning computer chair remained behind as evidence of my abduction.

I suppose any attempt at description is ironic in nature, as on the other side of existence there is but non-existence. How does one seek to define that which, by definition, is indefinable? I cannot offer you a categorization of my sensory experiences, for upon my arrival to that realm, I lost them (for one cannot exist in oblivion, after all), but still, at some level, I was aware.

I was alone. And all was black.

Not that I saw the color, mind, for I had no eyes, or a head in which to house them. But still, I was in a colossal, endless, empty empty black. Whatever that was me in that place quailed at its enormity.

Yet even in that antithesis of everything, I was joined by the voice which ever watches over what I do. That voice which attempts to halt evil and scolds for unintended crimes.

Stop being a pussy, it said.

The same four words that had once pulled me from the depths of depression now yanked my sanity from the slavering jaws of madness; I fear I had been but moments from losing myself, my soul scattered away past the very edges of the universe.

I think, therefore I am.

My self solidified and confident once again, I noticed only after an accidental brush of fingertips on thigh that I had form once more. With muscle memory alone, I raised my hand and waved it before my eyes, but the dark void contained no light to bounce from my pendulum palm to me eyes.

Foul jellies!

Then I realized that only I could give myself eyes, so then, perhaps I could give myself something by which to perceive?

Let there be light!

And I found myself in a pub, or at least, the bar of a pub. A line of dark brown, high-backed stools sat patiently before a rich, dark maple bartop. A shaggy, black-haired man in jeans and a white T-shirt with a large peace sign on the back occupied one of the seats. At the moment, he was turned away from me, facing the petite Japanese woman who was calmly wiping a pint glass behind the counter.

Around the rather abruptly existing bar, the blackness hemmed in; it gave the appearance that the humble pub hung suspended in a vast empty space. There were no walls, and as I turned to gain a panorama of my surroundings, I saw behind me, opposite the bar, a brightly glowing speck. Due to a lack of an object to use for perspective, I was unsure if the speck were tiny and near-at-hand, or unfathomably enormous but a vast distance away.

I sort of waved my hand at it stupidly- to see if it might even be right in front of my face.

"Don't bother," said a warm voice from behind me, "That thing is waaaay out there."

My head jerked around to find the black-haired man looking over his shoulder at me. He had a dark tan complexion, as if Arabic or some variety of middle easterner. His mouth looked accustomed to speaking, and his eyes aggressively glowed a startling white.

"Come have a drink," He said, patting the stool next to him before turning back to where the Japanese woman stood, raising an arm in the universal request for service.

I took the offered seat as the barkeep approached (three steps down the bar), her brown eyes calm yet smiling. My new companion looked at me, offering me to go ahead, so I ordered a beer.

"What beer would you like?" Her voice was melodious, even when occupied by trivialities like the spoken word.

I said, "I want a beer that evokes this place. Something you can lose yourself in."

"You want a Deschutes Abyss," said He of the white eyes, and I decided He would probably know best. After nodding my head in acceptance of the recommendation, the bartender mentioned that it would have been her choice as well.

I decided it was time to meet my drinking companion. Turning towards him and extending my hand; "Hi, my name's Gage."

He turned, regarded me for half-a-second, then took his hand from his glass of red wine to shake mine. "Jesus of Nazareth," he said. 

I took his hand as an instinctive part of the social custom, but then held it for a moment in shock. He grinned, his eyes becoming joyful slits of white light and his flashing smile was almost as brilliant due to the contrast with his dark skin and black goatee. "Yes. That one."

I'm not sure how long it took me to close my mouth and say, "Nice to meet you," but it was about then that my beer arrived.

The brew took the color of the vast space that encompassed the bar that was nowhere. It was almost as if a liquid void were held tame by the clear glass. The minute head had a brown hue, reminiscent of other imperial stouts (and oatmeals). A sweet smell of mild licorice malt wafted from it, and I realized that it was the only smell in that bar; previously, it had smelled of neutrality.

The barkeep refilled Jesus' wine, he nodded his thanks and then turned to watch me take my first drink of the brew he had recommended.

The cold, dark liquid started smooth, but it had a thickness to it that was as near chewy as that particular state of matter could get. 

Abruptly, a hearty licorice flavor filled my pallet. Now as far as candy goes, I hate red vines, and black licorice makes me gag, but this taste was good; all the impurities of that candy's strange taste were burned away to a state of perfection.

The licorice then gave way to a firm, dark chocolaty deliciousness that lingered a moment before transforming into a final coffee farewell.

"This is my favorite beer-. Ever." I said in admiration.

Jesus smiled knowingly, sipped his wine, spun his stool to face that speck which floated an unknowable distance behind us, and then indicated with a twirl of a raised finger that I should follow suite.

I spun and my eyes were again captured by the enigmatic point.

"This is creation," said the Nazarene, "The moment; the beginning of existence itself. We're going to watch it happen from the best seats in the unformed universe."

I was flabbergasted. "Why? I mean- not that it doesn't sound incredible- but why bring me here? Why show me?"

Jesus chuckled happily, "Why not? This is my Father's great masterpiece of light and sound; of primal forces, which as we speak, do not even exist yet. Surely you can understand an artist's desire to have an audience for the great unveiling? And as for you, it was a simple lottery, and you just happened to be the luckiest guy in creation- congrats."

He pulled a large blunt case from his pocked and picked out a fatty. He lit it, inhaled, let out an involuntary coughing gag in a cloud of smoke, took another puff, and then coughed slightly again as he passed it to me: "Here. It's about to start, and trust me, you want to be blazed for this shit."

We smoked, drank, and laughed till the blunt was but ashes in a tray. Then Jesus- eyes ever-glowing fiercely white- pointed his hand like a gun at the distant speck.

His thumb twitched down.

BANG!

Big Sky Brewing Co.'s Moose Drool Brown Ale

The only time I have seen a moose in the flesh has been when I was snowmobiling in Idaho.  The deep drifts spawned by the harsh inland Pacific Northwest winters make foot travel amongst the steep hillsides of the foothills even more cumbersome than usual. As a result, the sturdy, packed-down snow of the snowmobile trails act as a sort of highway for the fauna capable of weathering the harsh winter. Predator and prey alike use the system to find their way to new food sources as they exhaust their local supplies. Thus, man and beast inevitably clash, as each seek to satisfy their individual desires.

One day, I had blazed a hasty path up a particularly smooth trail, leaving my ponderous grandparents behind in favor of the inherent excitement the danger of high speeds provides. It was then that I encountered a bull moose, standing stubbornly in the middle of the trail.

The common moose met upon the snowy highway is female, often escorting one or two younglings through the early, aimless years of life. However, the giant ungulate I met on that trail was unmistakably male, and unmistakeably ready to start a fight it was sure to win.  After all, animals are perhaps the most strict adherents to the wisdom of Sun Tzu on Earth, and this confrontational bull was no different.

He stood tall, proud, antlers a dark menace in the perpetual twilight of a foggy winter day in the mountains. Even though I sat upon a technological wonder of which the instinctual beast could have no comprehension, I knew myself to be dwarfed and humbled by the sheer organic power of the creature before me. The moose seemed somehow aware of that fact as well; it bowed its head in challenge, ready for the contest it fully expected to come.

Frankly, the bull moose was a grade-A asshole. And the one constant of our planet is that assholes, far and above, get the most pussy. Myself being an empathetic intellectual, I was aware of this, and also painfully observant of the simple truth that I got next to none. Naturally as males of any variety desire that warm, velvety caress above all else, it created in me a raging sense of jealousy that urged me; No; Commanded me to rev the engine of my Yamaha Phazer II (heavily modified) in obvious acceptance of the beast's request to duel.

It was the showdown in the graveyard, except between two instead of three, and the musical whistling was replaced by the steady rustle of the wind through the boughs of fir and pine.

We waited; our consciousnesses: his base and lacking the capability to imagine the possibility of defeat; mine determined and stubborn, enraged by years of imagined failure, blind to futility.

We charged.

His began with a simple, dismissive snort. Mine with the roar of a mechanical brilliance I did not fully understand, but could manipulate with respectable skill.

The distance between us closed instantly, time lost amongst the torrential adrenaline of us both.

The ascetic and flimsy fiberglass of my snowmobile shattered instantly; no match for the hardened external bone of the moose's glorious rack: weapons that fought and won countless battles for genetic supremacy over incomprehensible eons. So too did my frail body, made for dexterous manipulation and cerebral thought, bounce off the beast's form like a leaf blown by the wind. Yes, I could use tools and fire guns, but the moose knew its own body was the only tool it required to conquer my foolish, soft form.

I was knocked from my sled, the wind escaping my lungs, and the tightly-packed snow of the trail was eager to embrace me in its unforgiving caress. I rolled, tumbled, and crunched my way to a painful stop: prone and defeated. Gaia, in vengeance for the crimes of my people, had struck me down.

She was not finished with my punishment, gleefully applied to a ready individual since She lacked the ability to strike at the guilty whole. "Back!" She ordered the moose, back to my fallen form! The creature towered above me, a furry colossus of retribution. And he drooled! Oh, how he drooled!

As that glistening substance left the moose's mouth, I noticed a rich brown color; It was unlike the blackness of stouts and porters; however, it retained an obvious brown hue. And it was headed straight for my mouth!

It looked heavy, and its tangy-sweet, almost hoppy scent promised a heavy and hearty flavor. But when that drool flowed over my helmet, hit my lips, and forced its viscous way into my mouth, I could not help but be disappointed.

The moose drool was almost empty of flavor, or you could say "ethereal" if you were going for a more positive spin. It had an almost imperceptible hoppy flavor, but without the bitterness.

As the drool flowed sickeningly over my tongue, I could taste nothing. It felt merely bubbly and empty.

I was forced to swallow, or else drown in moose secretion (an embarrassing fate), and I noticed the first distinct flavor of the drool: a sort of earthy, celery sort of finish. I found it to be rather unimpressive and lazy, but not necessarily repugnant.

After several desperate gulps, the moose seemed content with my humiliation (Gaia not wishing the death of any of Her children), and he deigned to wander off into the forest. Left to my own devices, I regained my composure and straddled my bashed-up Yamaha once more.

The Moose Drool I had unwillingly sampled reminded me of Pabst Blue Ribbon: Empty of flavor, but still somehow positively regarded for what some claim is its refreshingly water-like qualities. For fans of that union-made brew, I would say the Drool of a Moose, drunk under a Big Sky, would be well within your tastes. But for those who like tangible flavor, there are better ways to spend your money.

Hale's Ales Brewery's Troll Porter

One day, I was on a journey from Childhood Hill to Adult Valley, and I admit I didn't know which path to take. My wanderings were far and wide, the forks were many, and I took roads well-used in some places, and roads less traveled by in others.

Eventually, I came upon a bridge which clearly separated the land I was passing through. The wood I had just enjoyed was rife with ciders and mixed drinks. Even the air smelled of the sorrows of sugary hang-overs; a scent like sour death. On the other side of the bridge, a wonderland of beers and brews glistened from every bough and branch. That was where I wanted to be.

But as I stepped upon the rough cobbles of that spanned divide, a rough, gurgling voice rose in abrubt challenge to my passage.

"Hold it, hold it! Yeh damned goat, yeh know the drill! Yeh can't just-"

The hideous creature faltered mid-sentence, as it emerged from 'neith that bridge and caught sight of my quite ungoatly form. It was an ungainly troll, disgusting and green, a reject from the land where the wild things are. (I reminded myself to visit that place, should I run across it.)

 

"Oh! Yer no damned goat! Yer a damned lush!" It snorted, dissapointed. "Well, yeh still can't cross my bridge, see? Yeh can't!"

I thought for a moment. The bridge must be crossed, but how to bypass a creature that could forcibly rearrange my insides and my outsides? I decided diplomacy would be advisable.

"Honorable Troll," I said, "Is there not some service I might provide to gain passage across yonder bridge? Some task to complete? Some desire I might fulfill?"

The troll regarded me with growing curiosity, its eyes glowing a mellowing green. "A service, eh?" It scratched its chin in thought. "The goats just talk me into things I regret later. It makes me feel like a co-ed."

I decided to remain silent at that.

Finally after some obvious internal debate, the troll said, "Well, I do have a hobby..." He shuffled his giant, clawed feet with obvious embarrassment (A troll with a hobby?). "I like to brew my own beer, but- but no one but me has ever tried it."

Try a new beer to cross the bridge! I hastily agreed.

"Wow! Really! That's great!" the troll exclaimed before disappearing back beneath the bridge with an excited hopping gait.

The bridge was clear! I had brief seconds in which to simply cross the bridge and beyond the troll's reach forever. But an agreement made is a promise given, and the tattoo of Truth upon my back held my feet in place. The troll returned and the window of escape closed.

"Here it is!" The troll offered me a wooden mug of questionable purity filled with an ominously dark brown liquid. "I call this the Troll Porter," it said.

I accepted that mug with trepidation, but was surprised to find it cold to the touch. Lowering my nose to take a cautious sniff, I detected a faintly sweet aroma, common to brews and breweries. I was encouraged by this, and I even became eager to take the first drink of that trollish concoction.

When the dubious liquid first passed my lips, I was immediately aware of its smoothness, but it still contained a slightly bitter bite; To be expected from a troll, I thought. Then as that delicious drought flowed over my tongue, I enjoyed a tangy bitterness that had but a hint of dark chocolate. The troll, anxious, watched me intently as I swallowed. It offered a fangy grin to match my toothy own, for the brew's finish was chocolate as well, and skillfully rendered to bring a smile to the face of any beer lover.

"Do you have this bottled?" I asked, eager. "This brew is stupendous!"

The troll's face lit up in humble happiness, and it gifted me with passage over the bridge, and a cold bottle of brew for the road.

As I crossed, I thought that if man and troll can be united in a love for beer, why not all mankind?

The Pike Brewing Co's XXXXX Pike Stout

Being a self-motivated, self-taught, and mostly self-read beer blogger has distinct advantages. The world of beer is incredibly rich and diverse, and as each new brewer begins experimenting with a new brew, that world grows. With the next post always in the back of my mind, I take advantage of new and intersting excuses to explore.

"Hey, end of the week. Time for a beer."
"That was a long day. Time for a beer."
"Aliens didn't probe me last night, or if they did, I don't remember. Time for a beer."
"That street is a nice gray color. Time for a beer."
"I'm not currently drinking a beer. Time for a beer."

It's a dangerous form of the devolution of cause and effect, to be sure. But a beer blogger never needs to worry about concerned family and friends interveining to make them go to meetings; a blogger isn't someone with a problem, he/she is just in love with an intellectual hobby.

For this entry, I actually had a legitimate excuse: my birthday. So when the bartender placed a XXXXX Pike Stout in front of me, I drank in the absence of a concerned conscience.

Like most stouts, the Pike Brewery's version of the beer is an abyssally dark brown color. In most any lighting, it appears black, but the few bubbles of the calm head glow a rich brown. The aroma of these bubbles is noticeably sweet, and for a second I though I had just bought a porter. The brew itself was quick to remind that no, this was definately a stout.

The first contact attempts to lull you into a false sense of security; Its unassuming in only a slightly bitter fashion. Abruptly after that, its plainly obvious that this beer was designed to punch you in the face with coffee bitterness.

I'm talking the sort of accelleration you see at Best Buy on Black Friday; you start outside, it's cold, it's early, you strike up conversations with your neighbors because you're sharing an experience together (and you want to know if those assholes are after the same deals as you.) That's first contact with this beer.

The body is when the doors of the store open, and everything transitions from utter stagnation to chaotically frantic activity; people shove, basic politeness falls to the side, and that bastard in front of you better not fall down because it would take you crucial moments to run your shopping cart over his pathetically prone body.

0-100. That is how this beer works.

The memory sticks with you, too; the deals, the blood, everyone else there seems crazy when viewed through the lens of retrospect and self-bias (though you were foaming at the mouth a the time). So too does the stout linger after the swallow. A delightfully strong bitterness that seems more like post-tramatic stress than an aftertaste.

It is this power and aggressiveness that makes the XXXXX Pike Stout so delicious. For those who tend to dislike dark beers, this might be a gem to save for after your enlightenment. Leave this delightful beast to those who love beer they can't see through.

Riverport Brewing Co.'s River-Rat Red

 

    The local jazz pub in Pullman is called Rico's. It's not managed by a guy named Rico, owned by a guy named Rico, nor perhaps, even frequented by anyone named Rico. But it is a great place to enjoy a beer. When I was there on my birthday this last week, I thought I would take advantage of that and down a delicious pint.

    My selection was the River Rat Red by the Riverport Brewing Company out of Clarkston, Washington. Now Clarkston is a humble little burg that manages to be downwind of both the local paper mill and the local sewage treatment plant, so I had some laughable concerns regarding the beer as the 'tender placed the cold glass before me: "I hope the beer doesn't smell like farts, too."

It didn't. In fact, it smelled a lot like a beer I knew I would enjoy drinking.

The rich amber of the River Rat Red gave off a delectable aroma. It was a sort of acrid hoppiness that promises a dynamic taste. The armoa reminded me of tailgating parties and football-watching sessions: a bright, warm room, good friends and snacks in every direction, laughter, howls of indignation, cheering, and the feel of a cold brew resting lazily between your fingers and the couch's arm-rest. The R.R.R. smelled just like the beer for such an occasion. Luckily, it tasted that way, too!

The moderately hoppy-bitterness of the first contect is unique in my beer experiences. I can only describe it as a sort of "low" taste. But in the sense of elevation, not as in "base" or anything negative like that. The flavor just sinks into your pallet, as if it payed rent for the room in the basement of your mouth.

As the beer transitions into the body portion of the experience, the brew escalates in a caramel-ish bitterness that peaks in an orange-y climax. Then, a tangy sweet hop finish follows the beer down the hatch. I especially liked how this portion of the beer contrasts with the first contact. The initial "low" flavor develops into a "high" one in a matter of moments. In fact, a line graph of this beer would follow the parabolic arc of a James Cameron plot-line: Start low, go high, then hit an iceberg and sink.

The R.R.R. is a great beer from the unassuming edge of Washington State. Its playfully tangy flavors make it a joy to drink, and its rich, hoppy soul is sure to satisfy. My advice would be to give this diamond in the rough a try.

Elysian Brewery's Perseus Porter

            Pullman, Washington is a rather humble college town nestled in the gently rolling terrain of the Palouse. Choices for fine dining can be counted, more or less, on one hand. Still, the college draws great minds and budding prodigies alike, and some of them know how to cook a hell of a steak.

    One of these steak masters opened The Black Cypress, a restaurant that has established itself quickly as one of the best dining experiences in the region. Here is a review, if you happen to be interested. Anyway, the thing about The Black Cypress that is pertinent to this blog is that they have microbrews on tap; hole-ly-crap, pour me one! For my beer of the evening, I chose the Elysian Brewing Company's Perseus Porter. This Seattle-area brewery has truly created a symphony of deliciousness in their rich brew.

   The porter is a dark, black beer, almost obsidian, but the bubbles of the minute head are an appealing coffee brown. The Cypress is a cozily lighted restaurant, so the beer may have seemed a darker black than it truly was. Regardless, the beer has a dampened, dull sort of brewery smell. It is gentle, yet promising; inviting you to a smooth ride. In fact, the attitude of the beer's smell is similar, in a way, to the flavor of it.

   First contact with the Perseus Porter is calm, and the initial carbonation lacks any sort of aggressive nature. This makes the brew smooth from start to finish, and you become relaxed as you continue to drink.

The smoothness of the brew as it passes along the tongue melds almost imperceptibly to a sweetly bitter body. Its a smooth sort of both flavors, combined together in an equal union. The flavors do not confront you, so much as they pass calmly by like veterans in a small-town parade. 

Following the lingering semi-sweetness of the body, an aftertaste of coffee gently finishes out the brew. Depending on what you are eating, the coffee taste can transform into more of a dark chocolate flavor and then back again.

Altogether, the Elysian Porter is a delicious beer, and it stands as an excellent example of the brilliant Seattle brewing community. So if you happen to get a chance to try a frosty brew of this Perseus Porter: take it.

    

 

Newcastle's Brown Ale

For my final purchase in Elk River, I went with a six-pack of Newcastle Brown Ale. I remember this beer was a favorite of my friend, Weston Karnes, during the college years. He lifted his bottle, said "This Newcastle stuff is good," and then he hit a beer pong cup. Talk about effective advertisement. So with a touch of nostalgia, I opened up a cold one and drank it down.

A hint of applesauce; that was the first smell that my nose could identify when I took some hefty, nasal wiffs. It was a rural sort of smell, reminding me of scenes from Cider House Rules or Robert Frost poems. An orchard enclosed in quiet winter slumber, the rotting vestiges of the previous seasons still strewn about like the ruins of some forgotten civilization.

The ale itself hits your mouth smooth, easing itself onto your tongue. The carbonation bite is there, as it is with most beers, but there is a definitive tang in this case. This tang begins the transition into the body flavor of the brew. It is a mix of sour and bitter that is noticeable, but not strong enough to approach the line of undesirable. It is sour, yes, but its a refined, tasty sour that makes the second swig even tastier. The flavor fades quickly, leaving vague evidence of sourness behind, but softly enough to be highly enjoyable.

I would recommend the Newcastle Brown to anyone who is looking for a unique new beer. It has some flavor twists that make it exciting, and it will keep you tossin' em back.

Pyramid's Haywire Hefeweizen

Still in Elk River, a fellow rider gifted me with a bottle of the Pyramid Haywire Hefeweizen. The Pyramid brews all originate from a chain of West-Coast alehouses, each brewing delicious Pyramid Brewery beer. As a prominent macrobrew of the area, I will definitely be drinking more of their brews in the future. Still this is the present, so let us get to the drinking!

The bottle has a base grey-blue tint, and it has a orderly, precise looking title. The picture is a new-urban sort of city scene imposed within the outline of the great pyramids, and a blue guy is climbing them like mountains. I suspect this is supposed to evoke action, but as moving around and sweating is the last thing I want to do while tossing back a cold one, the picture doesn't exactly speak to me.



Once the bottle was open, I noticed a distinct, fruity-fermented smell that was quite sweet. The beer itself is not sweet at all, so anyone against sweet beers, don't let the smell of this brew turn you away from having a taste. You won't be turned off by the flavor.

Pouring the Haywire Hef out: it has that classic, murky, brownish-orange color that pleases the eye, and it lets you know you're drinking a wheat beer. As soon as I saw it, I thought "this is gonna' be a tasty brew."

Now before you drink, you need to make a decision: add a lemon, or no. The sweet-sour of the lemon will make the drink sweeter and a bit more dynamic in that respect. But I opted out and drank the beer without the fruit for the sake of exploring the pure taste of the brew.

The first contact with the beer is enjoyably tingly. After a few moments, the tingle fades into a tasty, bitter-smooth wheat body. It glides across your tastebuds. It is full, but not overpowering: a well-balanced and smartly crafted taste.

The malty-flavored finish ends the experience with a pleasant surprise. It is a refreshing, semi-sweetness that cleans the pallet a bit, and leaves you ready for the next swig. It adds some welcome taste variation in an otherwise very traditional tasting Hef.

The Pyramid Haywire Hefeweizen is a solid choice for this variety of German-style beer. Its flavor and smoothness will be appreciated by anyone who likes a good Hef, but it might be a bit challenging to any who prefer more crisp, hops-based beers. If you are looking to start trying wheats, the Pyramid Hef, though excellent, might be too Hef, and thus scare you away from the genre. But don't forget to come back if you do because this beer is not one to miss.