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The Session #91 – Forgotten Friday: My First Belgian

September 5, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

(I missed the last few Sessions due to travel and exhaustion and illness, but I’m back! This month’s topic is “My First Belgian” hosted by Breandán and Elisa over at Belgian Smaak.)

Occasionally, the many moving parts of my writing life line up in a perfect row, like some rare celestial event where arcane energies mingle and a portal to other worlds opens very briefly. As the Session falls on a day I had other writing plans, I can feel the gears of my mind click and sync, suddenly whirring together as one as the clutch reengages. I typically write “Forgotten Friday” posts about places and items that have been lost in plain sight, but today, I’m using the literal definition of my favorite nostalgic infinitive: “to forget.”

This month’s topic asks me to recall the first Belgian beer I ever managed to sneak down my gullet. The problem is, no matter how far I stretch my brain, how many stories I pull from the depths of my hippocampus, how many bottles and labels I recall on the selves of the dozens of fridges of my life, I cannot remember my first Belgian beer. I can remember the first beer; it was a Boddingtons Pub Ale, at the dinner table with my parents, around 7th grade. Although, photo evidence says I probably drank a bit earlier than that (thanks, Dad), that’s my first fermented memory, the first time I remember drinking beer.

I also remember thinking it tasted like bitter instant oatmeal that someone had added way too much water to, followed by a quick internal question, “why would anyone want to drink this stuff?”

Don't judge, it was the 80s in England. Just look at that red table.

Don’t judge, it was the 80s in England. Just look at that red table and white leather couch.

If I had to guess, my first was probably one of the big boy Belgian beers: Duvel, Hoegaarden, maybe even a stray bottle of Delirium Tremens left to age in the back of our family fridge after a party. It’s possible, in all its wasted decadence, that my first Belgian was Trappist; my mom would often keep a bottle of Chimay Red on hand during the holiday season, for reasons I don’t quite understand, because neither she nor my dad drank it. But I cant’ say for sure. It’s a black void in my mental vault, one of those things I never built a place for in my memory palace, that will probably be forever lost in the deep dark ocean of my memories.

I’ll confess; I probably don’t remember because I’ve never taken to Belgian beer. I’ve homebrewed it, tried countless styles and brands, forced my tongue into a steel-cage death match with funky fermentation, hoping to one day emerge bloody but victorious, the Champion of Brussels. While I’ve gotten in a few good punches, I’m still likely to brace myself before taking a sip of saison, clench my jaw when quaffing a quad. I appreciate the artistry and heritage of many Belgian breweries, but something in the bready unmistakable yeast character of Belgian beer is antithetical to what my taste buds want.

While that may seem tragic (and trust me, for years I was convinced there was a fundamental flaw in my mouth), it has allowed me to finally accept a reality a lot of modern beer enthusiasts forget, try to dance around to avoid appearing unlearned or inexperienced: it’s OK to not like a certain style of beer. It’s OK to not like super hoppy, high ABV imperial IPAs. It’s OK if you find the salty sour of a gose a bit too much for your particular preferences. It’s OK to say, “I have tried this, and it is not for me.”

The only thing you’re obligated to do is appreciate that someone else, somewhere, probably does like that style. Maybe likes it so much they’re known to throw “favorite” in front of it whenever it comes up in conversation. You don’t have to like a beer, but always keep in mind: your not liking it doesn’t make it bad. Subjective bad and objective bad are wildly different beasts. If you’re into beer enough to have opinions (and don’t just enjoy it as a drink), it’s on you to be able to acknowledge when a beer is well made but not to your tastes, verses poorly made, and not up to the quality standards of excellent beer.

Memory is tied to taste, and I was hoping that sipping on some Belgian beer would cause a chemical cascade of mnemonic flashes. But it didn’t. It just reminded me of all the ways I’ve tried to force myself to like a style because of faux cultural pressure and personally manufactured expectation, and how, when looking at it in hindsight, that seems like a very silly thing.

hsredskyatnight

Review: Sam Adams Belgian Session

May 1, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Guys! Guys!

Guys. (And I use the term “guys” androgynously, like “dude”, so don’t feel left out ladies)

I found another session ale. If you remember my review of Smuttynose Star Island Single, you’ll also remember that I’m a big fan of these session ales. I love that they possess a certain drinkability due to their low alcohol, but simultaneously pack a lot of taste, unlike their domestic, “carbonated piss”, brethren.

They’re pretty awesome beers.

While the Smuttynose version was hoppy and a tad sweet, the Sam Adams Belgian Session is wheaty, sour, and yeasty. It sits at 5% ABV, putting it very slightly higher than what others might consider a session ale, but it tastes light and refreshing.

I’ve gotten so used to bitter and hoppy (from drinking so much IPA) that yeasty and sour took me quite by surprise. This beer smells very strong and hearty, reminiscent of Chimay White, Leffe, or Hoegaarden.

If you don’t like yeast, you certainly won’t like this. If you do like yeast, and a beer that is refreshing and quenching, you will like this. As I sipped this yellowish ale from my glass, I started wondering why Belgian beer is so yeasty and sour. To the Internets!

Here comes the science: Brewer’s Yeast, or any yeast in the family Saccharomyces cerevisiae (literally, sugar fungus of beer), is used to make beer. There are 2 main sub-types within this family, the top-fermenting “ale yeast” and the bottom-fermenting “lager yeast.” There are hundreds of strains of yeast out there, all of which offer slightly different character, flavors, and aromas.

There is also a way to brew beer (or wine) using wild yeast by simply leaving the wort (or must) exposed to the open air called “spontaneous fermentation.” This method allows naturally occurring yeast to process the sugars into alcohol, resulting in a much more sour, unfiltered, cloudy beer. This is the way beer and wine was made pre-1836 (when French scientist and lush Cagniard de Latour discovered that yeast was alive and made alcohol as a by-product of eating sugar); a period in history when people assumed tiny, invisible fairies swam around in their beer, creating magical happy-juice in the process. This method is highly volatile, often resulting in gross, possibly dangerous, undrinkable beer.

While there are dozens of varieties of Belgian beer their brewmasters are fond of a particular strain of yeast that results in sulfur-like smells and leaves a substantial amount of yeast flavor in the beer. This may have something to do with the 15th century Trappist Abbey beer, which was originally brewed by selfish monks who wouldn’t share their delicious brown ales. Or weren’t allowed to share it because of Catholic doctrine. I can’t remember. Either way, their work set the bar for how Belgian ales should be produced and how they should taste.

As a result, contemporary nods to Belgian ale are packed to the brim with certain strains of yeast that make them – unsurprisingly enough – iconically Belgian. Belgian Pale Ale sits at an almost perfect juxtaposition to the England-born India Pale Ale.

It’s a battle of hops versus yeast.

The winner? My tongue.

8.75 out of 10.

Those Belgians sure like their yeast. And waffles. And chocolate.

Next up: Flying Dog Road Dog Porter!

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