Rob Sobel realized he was an aspiring beer enthusiast the day he and his buddies shared a sixer of Victory Storm King Imperial Stout and he was the only one not to chase it with a Miller Lite. He is currently a student at James Madison University, studying English, and actively furthering his knowledge on the art of a good brew. Rob is a Pascack Hills High School alum, from New Jersey, where he was an All-League, All-County baseball and basketball player.
Guinness inserts a “widget” into their bottles (no, it’s not one of the brewer’s lost wedding rings clinking around in there), Coors has transformed their cans and bottles innumerable times with a vent, temperature detecting blue mountains, and other oddball creations. Miller Lite has recently come out with a new bottle that looks capable of a trip to the moon, and Bud Light even serenaded my university’s city with our school colors adorned on all the cans. All of these wanton marketing strategies certainly catapult the respective beer companies financially, sure, but are, as aforementioned, “wanton”, uncalled for, moot. What do these ideas and transformations really do? The answer is simple. Not much.
Dogfish Head Palo Santo Marron seems to be tickling the same idea with its plethora of seemingly unnecessary ingredients, predominantly its use of a rare wood from Paraguay, the Palo Santo wood. The beer is brewed with the wood mingling about and is also fermented in Palo Santo wood tanks (10, 000 bbl tanks, the biggest wooden tanks in America). Incredibly enough, and to put it simply, this expensive and ostensibly ridiculous endeavor, actually reflects beautifully on the taste and aroma of the beer. You will never taste a beer like this one merely because of the fact that this rare wood is used throughout the brewing process. At 12 % alcohol by volume, the aroma is pungent, formidable, and telling you who’s boss right off the bat. Vanilla and caramel notes are also noticeable. But that mystic element, which is the wood since you’ve probably never smelled or bitten into a Palo Santo piece of lumber, takes a powerful and positive toll on the beer.
Drinking this midnight black brew made me do a double take on the glass I poured it into. This is beer at its ultimate best, the Exosphere of brewing capabilities. This is the type of beer that begs the question: Why isn’t beer treated with the same care and pretentious outlooks as wine? Shouldn’t I be able to hold my beer by the stem of a glass and wiggle it around? Shouldn’t I be able to revel in just the aroma for five whole minutes? Can’t I perfunctorily pour myself a glass every night with my dinner and pretend it is wonderful for my heart and soul? Yes. Now you can. This is the wine of beers, if you will, though I’m not fond of that statement because beer is atop the pedestal in my opinion, but will say it for logical purposes. With ostentatious zest we pronounce Cabernet Sauvigon (Cah-bear-nay So-veen-yohn) and Pinot Noir (Pea-no Nwar). How does American Strong Ale sound? Or Barley Wine? Or Imperial Stout? Sounds stronger doesn’t it? That’s because beer is for Americans. If I were to pair this brew with a ball game I’d have to give it to the World Cup soccer that has now just blown over. Only a beer of this formidability and character can drone out the perpetual buzz of the blow-horns throughout the stadium.
I always like to imagine the founding fathers shooting the breeze over dinner. My imagination never finds them sipping on oversized, oblong glasses of red and white wines, but rather clinking their brimful pints of robust, dark beers together in joyous celebration. Today, America has a beautiful and endless list of craft brewers who, I’m sure, would please our beloved fathers, but maybe not to the extent that Dogfish Head does with this concoction.
Dogfish Head, as previously mentioned, utilizes the biggest wooden tanks to ferment their Palo Santo Marron in the U.S. They do not utilize the largest wooden tanks of all time, however. Prior to prohibition, wooden tanks were much more prevalent, and only later on lost its wood for stainless steel and bronze. This only tells me that Dogfish Head has resurrected a flavor that has been lost for decades, a flavor that is now unique in so many ways.
We, as Americans, have all become Pavlov’s dog. We bark at the red Budweiser truck streaming past, eager and wondrous of how beautiful the inside must be. We chug light beers at ease and then burp and praise the smoothness and how pristinely it resembles water. We drool gazing upwards at the television set in awe of that beautiful woman serving up the Miller Lite. Bark. Bark. I will say this—and I may be saying it again; all beer is good beer. Hops, water, yeast, malts, etc. is a wonderful idea for a drink. Bravo. But we have become excessively used to beers that would never have been considered beers before. Sit and ponder on this Palo Santo beer, sip and wonder, you can even wiggle it around and waft it in for five whole minutes; it smells like roses rising out of the Palo Santo wooden creaks with vanilla ice cream melting atop and caramel dazzled about. It’s that good. But once you go in with the predisposition that this is just another beer, it will taste too peculiar for your liking. Be prepared with an opened mind and a high-class demeanor, for, Sire, this is the king of beers.
Ironically enough, I went onto the Dogfish Head website, and they compare all their beers with a wine. This is a great way to parallel two of the two best drinks in the world. The Palo Santo comparison is Oak Aged Cabernet.
www. Dogfish.com
July 15, 2010 · Filed under The Brewmaster's Corner
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I apologize for the momentary hiatus from beer blogging. To clarify, it was a pause in writing, not experimenting. Seemingly all of a sudden the sun has ferociously emerged, yellow flowers have bloomed over night, clouds have been washed away along with wintry thoughts, and beer has changed along with the season. I’ve been slightly distracted from my priorities.
I was splashed with loud colors as I careened down the beer isle yesterday and was immensely pleased to see a golden plated sixer of Sam Adams Summer Ale tucked away in the corner, whispering seductively to me: “Time goes by quick. Here we are again.” The weather calls for it, but it does seem slightly premature to throw out a summer ale at this point. I couldn’t help but picture Jim Koch, Sam Adams founder (you’ve probably seen him in commercials advertising unorthodox, oblong beer mugs in which, due to scientific law, somehow makes the beer better), holding a meeting with his big-bellied, bearded crew, announcing their quiet entry into the summer, placing merely one six pack in all stores. I snagged the seasonal six instantly following this thought. Just incase.
Sipping on the summer ale, leaning against the ledge on my balcony, inhaling the sudden rush of peaceful weather and all newfound senses that come with it forced me to recall a wonderful brew for the season: the Sea Dog Bluepaw Wild Blueberry Wheat Ale. Here at James Madison University, amidst an unprecedented amount of Natty spillage during the nationally televised supposed riot, I took a step back from the wreckage to get back to my roots and got my hands on this majestic blueberry liquid.
I don’t know how to put it for this beer. I’m not one to encourage and harp on the positives of fruit beers; they’re ultimately un-beer like, soft drink-esque…fruity. Not really a legitimate beer category in my mind. The color is quite pedestrian, light, dull. You can see your friend’s distorted face jumbled on the other side as you look through it. It looks like a beer at the ballpark. But there is something to it. Waft it in; taste it with purpose.
A friend of mine recently sent me a video starring a college aged girl, it seemed, who just awoke out of the wisdom teeth removal daze, still brimming with laughing gas or whatever anesthetics were flowing through her veins. To quote her word for word she said, as she drooled onto her chin: “I feel like a unicorn just took me on a ride to a magical place, to the land of blueberries.” That’s pretty much this beer in a concise sentence. She says it better than I ever can. A nice stroll to the land of blueberries, tip the unicorn generously, borrow a bottle opener from Papa Smurf, pop open the beer, and there you are. A blueberry muffin in a bottle.
You’re not sure if you want to admit that you’re absolutely in love with this beer. After all, it thwarts the taste of a real beer, which consequently creates a very unmanly situation as you sit with your capers discussing the previous night’s game, reflecting on the big hit, the game winner, et cetera as you all hold a longneck of blueberry beer in hand. So, don’t mention it. Just drink it absentmindedly and stick to sports. But converse in mind to yourself when you can and you will admit that it is probably one of the better beers you’ve ever shared a moment with.
When I was a kid I’d play basketball from roughly 8 am until 9 pm every single day of the summer. One day as the sun descended peacefully like always, and the gnats swarmed for their sweaty feast, I became incredibly vertiginous, the world bouncing left to right all around me. I sat down and lied back on the grass as the un-ballast world came back to a steady medium. I made my way home following a ten-minute recovery process and found myself intensely craving fruit. I ate seemingly endless amounts of Dole fruit bowls, strawberries, oranges, and bananas until I was finally sated. This event turned out to be reoccurring. Mom told the good ole pediatrician what was happening and he said… “He could be somewhat hypoglycemic. Though, his numbers are good.”
“Hypo what?” Mom said.
“Glycemic. Could be. Just needs some extra potassium when he’s out there playing ball all day.” From then on I told people I was hypoglycemic and would always receive an “O” face of pseudo-astonishment and any amount of fruit from all kitchens in town. I cleaned kitchens out of fruit my entire childhood. I don’t know how serious hypoglycemia is and I’m pretty sure I don’t have it. The equation of 13 hours of basketball plus 0 ounces of water is what probably equaled dizziness/intense need for potassium. And now, at an age when beer is welcomed, I am falling dizzy again on all front yards. I am coming into your kitchen. And I am taking your fruit, along with the blueberries and the bottle it comes in. Unfortunately this new source of fruit seems to keep the world bouncing all around me. Who knew as you got older this feeling of an unbalanced world would be embraced?
The Sea Dog Bluepaw Wild Blueberry Wheat Ale is a fruit beer done right. Potassium and hops. A hypoglycemic’s perfect poison. Cheers to bright blue, yellow, and orange beer shelves. I welcome you, Spring, along with all the beers that complement you.
April 28, 2010 · Filed under The Brewmaster's Corner
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At my high school graduation party I showcased Samuel Smith’s Nut Brown Ale, Blue Point Hoptical Illusion, Victory Storm King Imperial Stout, and Brooklyn Lager (I obviously did not indulge in these alcoholic beverages, as I was underage, but nonetheless provided them to the adults present that evening). I was a young, energetic, aspiring beer enthusiast and was subsequently euphoric that momentous night when I made my rounds offering every Sara and Cara and Tom and John any information I had concerning the extravagant beer list on the menu. I met all of these overzealously kind couples maybe once or twice in years prior at some other stepping-stone moment in my life, but even amidst the forced awkwardness I felt perfectly at ease, giving everyone the run-down on the breweries, styles, origins, and so on of all the beers clutched under my arms. “Let me try the nut brown ale,” John would say confidently after my informative but brief lecture. “Good choice,” I would respond. “Samuel Smith’s brewery was founded in 1758 in England. They also have a great oatmeal stout, which was made primarily for lactating mothers. But nowadays it’s considered one of the best brews around, gender unbiased. Enjoy.” I continued to glide around the room with this objective at hand and found myself face to face with some Tom or another, and he said to me, “Can I get a real beer around here?” The audacity! I was frozen in time, heartbroken, red in the face. But I played good host and made my way to the garage to find a “real beer.” As I shuffled around baseball bats, gloves, basketballs, and skateboards I came across an old, half-finished case of Miller Lite. I grabbed a can and went back up to the man with such effrontery. I couldn’t let this slide. I prayed I wouldn’t. And then I was in front of him again seemingly out of nowhere, motionless as before, can in hand, waiting for myself to say something. “You know… back in the day they would’ve made fun of you for calling this a real beer.” And I plopped it down in front of him and walked away. I felt good about the comment. I continued my lecturing and continued to “natapult” high-end beer to aunts, uncles, grandmas, cousins of 1st, 2nd, and 3rd degrees, friends, friends of friends, strangers and I remained as joyous as I could possibly be. But I kept closing in on the man sipping out of the can and cringed every single time. His smirk with his lethargic, effortless demeanor made me sick. But it wasn’t the beer, I came to figure. I think all beer at the end of the day is good beer. It was the damn can. Cans are out of luck—they have no place in society anymore besides silent, underground high school parties where mom and pop sleep unknowingly upstairs, or at loud, clamorous ragers or tailgates at college campuses. I felt that cans were becoming obsolete, and this man was out of place just like the can in front of him.
But today I realize I was wrong. I have stumbled happily upon a brewery that only produces canned beer. Oskar Blue’s brewpub out in Colorado. I’ve read here and there that this is the highest rated, most venerable, and most sought after canned beer in America, but I have a hunch that there isn’t a great deal of competition out there. The difference between Dale’s Pale Ale and any other canned beer—or at least the standard canned light beers—is, simply put, flavor. Flavor. Flavor. Flavor. This thing has taste, taste that will surprise you even if you’re expecting it to be overwhelming. And I think this is strongly associated with conditioning and brainwashing induced by the big dogs like Anheuser-Busch and Coors. These gargantuan monsters have implemented a standard taste for canned beers, a taste of not so much taste. But this conditioning works as a positive here when drinking Oskar Blue’s Dale’s Pale Ale because you are bum- rushed and imploded by such a flavorful beer out of a can that it will surprise you every single time. I would suggest trying one out of the can just for this revelation but then to pour the rest in a glass to witness all the beer’s elements. It pours a cloudy reddish-beige color with a bright white head; it smells of hops on top of hops with some kind of fruity note to it; the taste is powerful, a very strong pale ale, but not at all overpowering. The hops are omnipresent, everywhere, in all sips and all wafts. But there is something that takes this beer to the next level. Pale ales are known to be relatively hoppy; this beer’s got that. They are known to be a very smooth and easy drink; this beer is that. But the color of this beer and the slight alteration in taste—that mystical fruity note—enhances this beer’s prowess amongst other pale ale’s.
There’s something melodic, something pleasant about snapping a can open. It’s a grand entrance, a ceremonious crack, an explosion of meaning. “Well, here we are,” the can says, “Welcome to my world. Only good things from here.” A bottle keeps things indirect—it’s fancier of course— and doesn’t really need the big entrance. The can is the party animal; it’ll tell it how it is. And with Dale’s Pale Ale you get the best of both worlds: bottled beer in a can. I look back at my graduation party and I feel embarrassed. I stereotyped that canned beer like I knew what it was all about. But I was wrong. Tom (or was it John?), I’m truly, wholeheartedly, infinitely sorry.
March 17, 2010 · Filed under The Brewmaster's Corner
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Have you ever mulled over the names professional sports teams have been given? Have you ever significantly thought about the actual meanings of such names? Have you pondered and come to realize how original some team owners are and how unoriginal are others? (I’m postulating that the owners make these decisions over lobster and ancient wine with the rest of their upper management—name picking being a highly aristocratic notion). A great deal of these high nobles certainly jump the gun with this agenda evidently, worrying about other, more important objectives, like keeping the butter sauce from falling onto their Dockers. They initiate the conversation and too readily terminate it, proclaiming, “Yes! That shall be the one! The Nets! The ‘N’ from ‘New’ contrasts the ‘N’ from ‘Nets’ exquisitely. More vino, anyone?” Any name created for a basketball team composed of baskets, nets, or balls cannot possibly have exceeded more than five minutes in conversation, if that. I also believe, for the most part, that animals are a cop out , e.g. Bobcats, Tigers, Grizzlies, Raptors, etc. For some reason the birds seem to work well though, I think, at least in the MLB with the Blue Jays, Orioles, and Cardinals. But the only way to guarantee a name upholding critical acclaim and infinite success is when making it historically significant. This is always a shoo-in. They are the names you might not understand at all, but know that the name is somewhat significant to that certain city’s history in some way; those are the names that resonate. Which brings me to the team I’m throwing into the spotlight: the 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers. Their name derives from the myriad of trolley cars the denizens of Brooklyn had to dodge in the streets in the late 1800’s. They were originally named the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers. I’m going to guess that people weren’t actually dodging trolleys and a subsequent swift death, but either way—that is a name, my friend. And 1955 is the highlighted year for two reasons: one because it was Brooklyn’s only World Series win, and two because today Brooklyn Brewery distributes a wonderfully crafted pale ale titled “Pennant Ale ‘55” as a tribute to the ’55 Dodgers.
I believe that life is worth living and being thankful for merely for the fact that we can drink beer and watch baseball simultaneously. It’s a beautiful thing. And now that Spring Training is on the prowl I am obligated to bring to your attention a beer that is entirely perfect for having during a luminous, sunny day game. This Pennant Ale glistens with the sun, pouring a light reddish-brown with an unsubstantial off-white head. Like all pale ale style brews the hoppiness is evident, but unobtrusive, unlike the India Pale Ale style, which takes hoppiness and bitterness to the highest level. The taste here goes further than the Cascade and Willamette hops Brooklyn uses, as you’ll find a citrus and sweet component to it; it goes down smooth and easy, finishing with a gentle zest, pulling at your hand kindly asking you to go ahead and pick up another one out of the cooler. With the crack of the bat, the pop of ball on glove leather, and the chatter of tobacco filled mouths of grown men, this beer complements the sounds of baseball all too well. Unlike a lot of the beers I find myself indulging in, this beer is more light than dark, it is not a robust, powerful, wine-like sipper, but, to put it simply, is just a good ole American brew. Now, don’t get me wrong, it will drown any Bud, Miller, or Coors light, but it is truly smooth, genuinely and painstakingly created, and a perfect complement to a ball game.
I get antsy this time of year, yearning for the first pitch in April, the day my life realigns itself. But until then I will seemingly look over my 5th grade MLB folder of all the team names and logos, and continue to be impressed and unimpressed with different upper management team’s decision making. I have to hand it to some team owners who first took the time to eat their lobster, finish their wine, and remove their bibs before assiduously coming up with a significant team name, giving the objective the time it deserves. The Trolley Dodgers—a thought provoking, smooth sounding, historical name. Certainly one of my favorites. But you probably already know what my favorite team name is. It’s obvious. The Brewers, of course.
February 24, 2010 · Filed under The Brewmaster's Corner
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“I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad’s voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of ‘Yellow Submarine,’ which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d’être.” This is how Jonathan Safran Foer (have you heard of this guy?) delves into his second best-selling novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, a novel focusing on a young boy who lost his father in the 9/11 terrorist attacks. It is wholeheartedly a moving story, thought provoking, and a recommended read. It surrounds the story of this young kid, Oskar Schell, who is constantly inventing things in his head and is always alluding to the term: raison d’être. There are many more aspects to the story, but I digress. Anyway, after reading this novel I had many thoughts—nothing too groundbreaking, nothing undeniably enlightening to me and the betterment of my life (or at least I don’t think so, though quite possibly)—but I realized that we all should at least have our raisons d’être or our “reasons to be.” One of Oskar Schell’s reasons to be is entomology. One of mine is the Raison D’être. That’s right…one of my raisons d’être actually is the Raison D’être. But don’t worry my friend; it is not as philosophical as you think. As a matter of fact it is not philosophical at all. I’m talking about Dogfish Head’s “Deep mahogany ale brewed with Belgian beet sugars, green raisins & a sense of purpose,” as they put it. I’m merely talking about the celestial, ethereal, any other heavenly term possible, beer Dogfish Head has put out for the world to revel in: The Dogfish Head Raison D’être.
This rapturous creation of a beer pours a deep brown color with hints of red and mahogany throughout, it has an off-white head, and it smells like roses just watered under the brightest noon sun, whipping with the wind as rabbits and goddesses walk the infinite lawn reaching out and meeting perfectly with the bluest sky, i.e. the beer looks and smells great when you pour it. Then we must taste it of course. I will be shorting you with whatever I try putting into words concerning taste because it can only be deciphered and pinpointed by the actual human palate—not words. You really have to try the damn thing to know. But I will say that it is quite an experience. It almost tastes like a wine, but it clearly doesn’t (is that confusing?). It has hints of raisins and chocolate, it is sweet but not too sweet, and somehow incredibly drinkable. I’ve given this beer to a plethora of contemporary men who claim Bud Light is the realest beer on the market, who believe a real beer has always tasted more like water than beer, and who believe that these light beers are what should be drunken at all sporting events even though light beers really belong to the dieting person and the self-consciously overweight individual; in other words…it belongs to no man. And this contemporary fellow has actually fallen in love with the Dogfish Head Raison D’être every time I’ve provided it, thwarting the belief that Mr. Macho Sportsman/Bud Lightman could not possibly enjoy a true dark brew. So, I bring it to your attention that this beer, the Dogfish Head Raison D’être, is a true innovation.
But what game does this beer go hand-in-hand with exactly? You can’t waste this magical glass on a regular season Nets/ Pacers game (you really shouldn’t be drinking it with any Nets game at this point), and you shouldn’t drink it during one of the 162 games in baseball’s regular season; you really should avoid drinking this beer during any regular season game, now that I think of it, because that will ultimately trivialize this beer as…well…regular. This beer is everything but regular and it must not be drunken in this sporting time period in any sport. You really can’t even have this beer in the playoffs as a matter of fact because this Raison D’être is even bigger than the post-season. So, when can you really have this beer? In my mind, there is only one time to have it: in a deciding championship game. You, by all means, can have this beer at family BBQ’s, Holiday grab-bags (which was the last time I partook in a glistening bottle of Dogfish Raison) or even a lonely evening gazing out amongst a quiet town, snow falling silently everywhere around you. But when it comes to sports there is only one time to drink it, for this beer is as good as it gets; it is a winner and a champion. Sorry High Life, the Dogfish Head Raison D’être is the true champagne of beers, which is why it must only be opened when your team will be popping them bottles…when they win a champion-ship game……feel like I got on a champion-ship ring…
P.S You can attempt to drink responsibly, and please, a message from the beer gods: Do not drink it out of the bottle, please pour into either a Trappist or Tulip glass and by all means do not freeze the glass; this Belgian Strong Ale should be served at 50-55 degrees F. This beer is becoming popular and can be found in various locations.
February 18, 2010 · Filed under The Brewmaster's Corner
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