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The Real Threat to IPA Market Share: Consumer Health

July 2, 2015 · by Oliver Gray

(Warning, this post contains some dietary SCIENCE! I’ll also note that I’m not a doctor or a scientist, so any doctors or scientists who read this can feel free to correct me and I’ll update accordingly)

There’s a lot of buzz in the beer industry about India Pale Ale (IPA) reaching critical mass in terms of market share, and a quick glace at any US beer store might betray a prophecy coming true. But despite an overwhelming selection, the data and money follow the hops, and for the time being, America can’t get enough humulus lupulus.

The legacy of lager rumbles in the background like a storm on the horizon, while sour beers pop up in a perfectly mowed IPA lawn like defiant dandelions. The winds are changing slowly, subtly. If I had to bet, I’d put my money on a trend shift away from IPAs, and my guess is that the move won’t be entirely grounded in consumer burnout or “lupulin threshold shift,” but partly fueled by consumer health.

Let’s make no pretenses: as much as we love it, beer is not a health food. The contemporary spike in beer appreciation means a lot more people are putting a lot more beer into their systems, which will, at some point or another, manifest as slight (to severe) medical complications. By graduating from pale adjunct lager to IPA, we’re ingesting record numbers of hops and their constituent chemical parts, the impacts of which have yet to be realized (but no, for the millionth time, you won’t grow man-boobs).

Alpha Acids

The metric used to measure a hop in brewing is alpha acid. Typically listed as a percentage by weight, this term as Stan Hieronymus defines it in For the Love of Hops, “in fact refers to to multiple acids that are similar in structure but significantly different.” The three that matter most to beer are humulone, cohumulone, and adhumulone, which, when isomerized in a brewing boil, become the six iso-alpha acids that give us that desired bitterness.

The amount of acids extracted during the boil is reliant on the pH of the mash and wort, but IPAs tend to have significantly more parts per millions than other styles:

“Commonly, these iso-alpha acids are found in beer at levels from a staggeringly low value of 1.6ppm (Michelob Ultra) to over 40ppm (Ruination IPA)” -Beer Sensory Science

TL;DR – IPAs, by nature of being an aggressively hopped style, contain more iso-alpha acids.

A few months ago, a former coworker and brother-in-writing-arms sent me what I thought was an innocuous message over Gmail chat:

“I’m telling you, since I quit drinking IPAs, no more heartburn.”

I dismissed his comment as a personal gastrointestinal discovery, thinking maybe the rest of his diet was contributing to his over-achieving acid production. But the thought stuck with me, festered as if it were indigestion itself, until one night a few weeks ago, when I drank a Bell’s Two-Hearted IPA.

Heartburn after about half a beer. For the medical record, as to not appear to be falsely attributing causes, I’m an athletic, water drinking, veggie eating young man, with no predisposition to acid reflux in my genetic history.

I’ve had plenty of Two-Hearted in the past, love the beer, and never had an averse reaction to drinking it. But recently, any IPA over ~50 IBUs sets me off, and if I dare drink more than a couple in an evening, I wake up feeling like I used my esophagus to put out a campfire.

Time to dig deeper, said my brain. Time to drink more water, said the rest of my body.

Beer pH and You

A normal human body has an overall pH that hovers around a very slightly alkaline ~7.4 (remember from Chem 101: the logarithmic scale is 0 to 14, acid to alkaline). Beer’s pH varies by style, but is always acidic (~3.1-~4.5). For reference, black coffee tends to have a pH of ~5, while soda pop sits around ~3. That’s a lot of liquefied acid.

Basic logic and chemistry means that when we drink beer, we’re adding an acidic solution to an alkaline environment, which, after diffusion, will bring down the alkaline levels of the body in turn. This is normal; hell, our stomach is filled with 1.5-3 pH hydrochloric acid, but the deeply alkaline environment of our bones and muscular system help balance everything out.

Homeostasis is amazing.

The problem appears when consistently introducing acidic solutions to a body trying to remain neutral. While its pH remains similar to other styles, IPAs tend to have more additional acids in suspension waiting to be processed by your body, meaning the style contributes even more acid increasing compounds on top of an already acidic drink. While all beer will eventually lower you body pH, (in theory) IPA will do it faster, and with more gusto!

Eventually, if chronic enough, a low body pH leads to a condition called acidosis. This condition can cause serious respiratory and nervous system issues, but is also one of the main causes of acid reflux and GERD. Combine IPAs with other acidic or acid-promoting foods (like those found in large majority of American diets), and you’ve got a recipe for a pretty miserable existence where popping Prilosec like Larry the Cable guy becomes a morning ritual.

Alcohol, too

Brewing an good IPA is a beautiful tango between sweetness and bitterness, between malt and hops. As the amount of hops in a recipe rises, the brewer needs to use more malt to retain a semblance of balance. More malt means more sugar, more sugar means more alcohol. It’s the reason a lot of modern IPAs clock in around ~7% or higher, and why a lot of people (like me) think session IPAs lack body and taste like hop water (not enough malt for the amount of hops).

Alcohol inhibits your kidneys’s ability to regulate phosphate ions against mineral ions, which helps balance body pH. Mixed with a physical increase in the amount of acid in your system, you’re looking at a spike in acidity that your body can’t effectively control. If you consume hoppy beer daily, your body never has a chance to reestablish a neutral base, increasing your chances of developing acidosis and its sundry symptoms.

RIP IPA

What does this mean for the future of our beloved hop-bombs? Young, healthy people tend to process alcohol and acid quickly and efficiently. But as the “craft” beer market ages, and the average drinker’s body is not as able to process additional acidity as effectively, we may see beer drinkers move onto styles that contain fewer suspended iso-alpha acids, or at the very least, significantly curtail their consumption of IPAs. Ultimately, the trend may shift not because of taste, but as consumers are forced to consider the detrimental effects of too much beer, or vis a vis, too much acid in their diet.

The solution to the potential IPA-to-acidosis problem seems obvious, I’m sure: moderation plus a healthy diet. But some of the underlying hedonism of being into beer juxtaposes “just having one,” as evidenced by the World Health Organization’s survey noting that the average American drinks 778 drinks per year (or ~2 every day). Beer enthusiasts (myself included) are probably guilty of even more than that, on occasion (thanks a lot, SAVOR).

While moderation is the ideal, those with IPA-laden habits are not likely to break them. Not unless they have to for some major reason.

Like, oh I don’t know, their health?

(Obviously this post contains a lot of conjecture. I just wanted to probe potential health issues related to pH, so don’t take any of it as gospel, please. I should also note that there are some fringe health benefits to some of the alpha acids in hops, but most of those come from ingesting small amounts, and are probably lost when talking excessive drinking.)

Beerology: You getting fresh?

March 14, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

The word “fresh” wields potent adjectival power.

At first glance, “fresh” unequivocally translates to better. Fresh fruit? Superior to canned or jarred. Fresh air? Good for the soul, lungs, and the rest of the pulmonary system. Fresh beats? All the better for general grinding and grooving.

But when you apply fresh to a concept that’s negative (like a fresh wound), the meaning changes. Suddenly fresh doesn’t mean better, but instead acts to grade the noun, placing it at the apex of a spectrum of intensity. Fresh connotes that your noun is at the most potent, pungent, and powerful it will ever be, and further infers that it will degrade, eventually, in some capacity.

Outside of those few styles that improve with age, it would make sense that fresh beer – beer at its most innately flavorful point – would be the ideal. If fresh means the apogee of flavor, and the reason we drink beer is for flavor, then we should drink the freshest beer possible! A+B=C, so A=C, right? Right.

Despite holding this notion for years, I’d never actually tested it. It’s hard to judge just how fresh a bottle or can of beer can possibly be, given that a case may sit for weeks or months in storage and shipping, be subjected to different temperatures, light, and environmental conditions all before you even have a chance to pry the cap. Many small breweries still don’t include bottling dates, or if they do, they’re more often than not smudged illegible marks that look like a spider got into a cask, then into an inkwell.

In post-brewed storage, as the small amount of oxygen left in the bottle reacts to the rest of the primordial beer soup, trans-2-nonenal forms and leads to paper/cardboard-like flavors. To make matters worse, long siestas in non-refrigerated warehouse resorts accelerate this oxidative process. Brown bottles will also still let in some light which will strike the riboflavin, break down isohumulones, and create skunky 3-methylbut-2-ene-1-thiol. The hoppier the beer, the more isohumulone, and the easier/faster it will skunk when exposed to light.

Cans, while totally shielded from light, aren’t perfect either, and will still oxidate just like their glassy brethren. Over time, the quality of a beer inevitably fades, it’s defining characteristics changing forever. Beer is sort of like memory that way. The fluid itself is still there in the bottle, is decidedly still beer and probably tastes OK, but when you go to drink it, it’s not quite exactly like it once was: changed, muted, revised by time’s unbiased hand.

I knew all of this, but blindly assumed our distribution system worked, and that as long as I wasn’t drinking a brew months and months (or years and years) past its prime drinking time, that it had no obvious defects and looked good in the glass, I was coming pretty close to taking in the flavors, smells, and mouthfeel the brewer truly intended.

But holy hops, I’ve never been so wrong.

Doug Smiley, fellow blogger and beer-buddy, invited me to apply some science to our theories by heading to the Heavy Seas Brewery with some bottles of Loose Cannon IPA he purchased a few months prior. He suggested we do a head-to-head taste test, to see what ~90 days tenure in that brown glass did to the spirit of the beer.

I don’t like to rely on clichés for description, but in this case one serves quite well. The differences between the November 26^th 2013 bottle and the February 17^th 2014 pint from the keg (that we sampled on February 22^nd2014, for the record) were night and day. The bottled beer was quiet, subdued, like long night had cloaked the ale, the hops tucked into nice cozy water beds with the malts rolling lazily at their feet, a starchy dog mid-nap. Conversely, the keg-poured pint blazed midday summer; crisp bitterness and bright, floral citrus notes from the hops: a warm breeze through an orange grove on a Floridian afternoon.

Dan, the hospitality manager at Heavy Seas, said to us as we sat down to begin our experiment, “I never drink bottles of Loose Cannon anymore.” Having tasted the IPA at only 5-days old, I can see why. Not to say the bottled beer was “bad” by any stretch of the imagination. It was still pretty excellent, and this little experiment won’t stop me from buying bottles in the future. It will however, encourage me to drink at brewery tap rooms much more often than I had before. If you’re looking to squeeze ever possible micron of flavor out of a pint, you’ve got to drink straight from the keg, as soon as possible.

While this conclusion might seem obvious, it waxes voluble about the store-bought bottles we’re drinking, and the supposedly educated judgments we’re making on the assumption that the bottled beer is “fresh.” Especially given the popularity on IPAs, and the hop’s natural propensity to break-down rather quickly. Double especially given that a very large number of beer reviewers are basing their reviews solely on bottled and canned versions of a beer. Triple especially given that bottles are the only way to sample almost every beer that isn’t served on tap near your home.

Before you commit to an opinion about a beer or a brewery, keep in mind that when you drink bottled beer that comes from the other side of the country (or the world), you may only be drinking a shade of what came out of the fermentation tank. It may be generally representative of the recipe, but unless you know it was bottled very recently, may not always a great point of reference to form objective opinions.

For me, it’s just another reason to drink local: it legitimately tastes better. Because science.

P.S. I know there are obvious exceptions to this with styles that age or cellar well. I’m talking specifically about styles (like those on the heavy end of the hop scale) that get worse with age. So you can put away the pitchforks, barleywine and RIS folks.

The Twelve Sips of Beermas

December 25, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

No, this isn’t a post about the 12 beers your should drink over Christmas break, or on Christmas day, or in some post-Christmas but pre-New Year binge.

It is about what you might do after drinking 12 of any one beer, especially in the company of friends, who might also want to join in. It’s about the purest of holiday traditions. Wassailing. Caroling. Drinking heavily in public and singing off key. It’s about mangling a classic song to fit your hobby.

The Twelve Sips of Beermas

On the first day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
An IPA in a tulip

On the second day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the third day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the fourth day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the fifth day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
FIVE GOLDEN ALES!
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the sixth day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Six Gueuze a blending
FIVE GOLDEN ALES!
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber Ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the seventh day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Seven Stouts a sating
Six Gueuze a blending
FIVE GOLDEN ALES!
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the eighth day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Eight Marzens mashing
Seven Stouts a sating
Six Gueuze a blending
FIVE GOLDEN ALES!
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the ninth day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Nine Lagers lilting
Eight Marzens mashing
Seven Stouts a sating
Six Gueuze a blending
FIVE GOLDEN ALES!
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the tenth day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Ten Lambics lacing
Nine Lagers lilting
Eight Marzens mashing
Seven Stouts a sating
Six Gueuze a blending
FIVE GOLDEN ALES!
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the eleventh day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Eleven Pilsners paling
Ten Lambics lacing
Nine Lagers lilting
Eight Marzens mashing
Seven Stouts a sating
Six Gueuze a blending
FIVE GOLDEN ALES!
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the twelfth day of Beermas my true love took a sip:
Twelve Dubbels deigning
Eleven Pilsners paling
Ten Lambics lacing
Nine Lagers lilting
Eight Marzens mashing
Seven Stouts a sating
Six Gueuze a blending
FIVE GOLDEN ALES!
Four Barley wines
Three Flemish reds
Two Amber ales
and an IPA in a tulip

On the thirteenth day of Beermas my true love did sleep in.

See: an IPA in a tulip

Beer Review: New Belgium Accumulation

December 19, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

Despite being completely translucent, snow appears white because the crystal lattices of each flake contain so many tiny facets that they diffuses the entire color spectrum on their way to the ground. It’s like a reverse version of the cover of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon falling lazily from the sky a million times over.

But this winter for me, for once, for real, isn’t about the twinkling aggregation of frozen water that piles up so beautifully on my lawn. It isn’t about the trance inducing schizophrenic blinking of the LEDs framing the houses in my neighborhood. It isn’t about the joyful chorus of Bing and Frank and Dean that floats so nostalgically into my ears from every speaker.

This winter is about fingers and keyboards and quiet clacking long into the night. Words, not snow, will fall this winter.

Despite appearing blank, the white background of a newly opened Word document is actually millions of engineered points producing every color as a literal carte blanche. What looks like nothing, a void of anything, is actually everything, all at once.

But this winter isn’t about empty Word documents, or sullen writers block, or bouts of seasonal affective disorder. It’s not about regret or longing, or trying to find meaning in what was otherwise a pretty bleak year.

This winter is about sharp black letters etched into the flesh of a white form, tens of thousands in little lines like mustering soldiers, all waiting their turn to see the front lines.

Despite being called white, a white IPA is more of an opaque gold, giving new meaning to the idea of yellow snow. White IPA is a marriage of the complexity of high hoppage and the effervescence of a wit, all while retaining a singular, unique identity that nods to both styles but lives as neither.

But this winter isn’t about trying to identify as something that already exists. It isn’t about assimilating, or conforming, or finding comfort in the protection of the familiar.

This is a winter of words, of intent, of future; watching my words pile up in drifts, watching the bubbles rise in my glass like an upside down blizzard, watching them accumulate at the top like a pristine, un-walked-through blanket of perfect white.

This is a winter of trying new things. Starting now.

Brew Fiction: Firestone Walker Double Jack

July 2, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

The flames speak.

Each crack a noun, each snap a verb, each sizzling hiss an adjective. All part of a language no person can comprehend, part of an infinite chain of echoes that has been flaring and dying since that first bolt of lightning kissed the trees in the Earth’s infant years.

Interconnected, but not a hive-mind. Sentient, but not sentimental. Alive, but not quite living.

The flames sing.

They repeat every story ever told to them, mimicking the words and waves that thump out a beat for their endless dance. They absorb and become those stories, fueled by the tales and their troubadours, perpetuating the oral tradition with burning lips.

Every campfire a ghost story. Every grease fire a spitting satire. Every bonfire a Homeric odyssey.

The flames rage.

They’ve seen it all, those eyes in the inferno; the wars of steel, the wars of hearts, the wars of gold and greed. They know our history as it is their own, and lash with red-hot whips against the conflagration of our culture.

Unable to stop us. Unable to tell us. Unable to do anything but burn us if we get too close.

The flames die.

Their energy dissipates, leaving only the light of elder embers and the chants of a slow dirge. The heat leaks, and with it the story, warming the air and ground and soul of the planet, sprouting into new fledgling flames somewhere in the unseen distance.

In every flick then lick of fire or flame a word and idea. In every human eye a reflection of the glow. In us all a burning need to tell.

The 10 Types of Craft Beer Drinkers

May 23, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

With an ever-increasing selection of high-quality beers available, well, pretty much everywhere, craft beer enthusiast are experiencing an age of taste enlightenment, a malt and hops renaissance clad in glass, bearing colorful, cleverly labeled heraldry. With so many options, it was inevitable that drinkers and drinking habits would naturally stratify, form groups based on behaviors and preferences and concentrations of alpha acids. I give you, distilled from the hot mash of beer culture, the ten archetypal craft beer drinkers. For the record, I’m some kind of mix between #4 and #9.

(Side note: I used the pronouns “he” and “his” for simplicity only, and am by no means suggesting this is a male-only thing. We’ll just assume that “guy” in this context is as gender malleable as “dude.” Everyone is a dude, male or female or equine or mythological.)

1. The Local

This guy drinks beer brewed in his home state, and maybe the bordering few states, exclusively. He’s a champion of the local craft scene, often espousing the local nanobrew that is climbing in popularity in a new brewpub two towns over or announcing what seasonals his favorite nearby brewery will be shipping out next. He doesn’t scoff at great beer from other places, but given the option, he’ll say “think locally, f*ck globally” every time. You can’t really be mad at him for it either; he’s a catalyst for brewing progress, keeping the smaller brew pubs alive, supporting the system at the roots, nourishing all those little guys with precious praise and dollars.

2. The Old Faithful

This guy has worked the same job for ten plus years, orders the same meal every time he goes to that same restaurant, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, always drinks the same beer every weekend from the comfort of a well-worn chair. It’s usually something pretty good: an IPA from an established brewery or a modern, well executed lager. But, like an old man stuck firmly in a rocking chair at a retirement home lamenting how the world “used to be,” he gets grumpy and dismissive if someone suggests he tries something new. He’ll likely drink that beer until he dies, or until the brewery goes under, at which point he’ll try to find a beer exactly like it which may be the only time in his life that he tries new beers.

3. The Critic

This guy is a roiling mess of negativity, who despite having downed some of the best beer in existence, cannot seem to say anything good about any beers. His rampant criticism of anything and everything beer related makes the people around him wonder if he actually likes beer at all, or if he just really likes to talk about how much he doesn’t like beer. He’s not uneducated, often correctly pointing out faults like over-hopping, high acidity, off flavors, and weak malt backbones. He’s probably tried more beers than most people who claim to “love/adore/admire” craft beer. But no one has ever seen him actually enjoying a beer. The day he does, the universe might implode.

4. The Appraiser

This guy is the antithesis of The Critic, who, despite tasting some stuff that a man stumbling through the desert dying of thirst would reject and wave off, loves pretty much everything that passes his lips. Even beers that could potentially be toxic or cause a severe allergic reaction; even bizarre beers, like that homebrewed rutabaga porter he tried last week; even beers that are stored and served in screw top two liter Mountain Dew bottles are OK in this guy’s world. If the beer really does taste awful, he’ll find something else to compliment, like the labeling or cool off-curlean blue of the bottle cap. When his drinking buddies say, “How can you drink this shit? Tastes like Scotch tape mixed with pureed owl pellets!” he’ll respond with, “Yea, a little bit I guess. But it’s definitely not the worst I’ve thing I’ve ever had!”

5. The Clueless One

This guy really wants to be part of the craft beer wave, really wants to fit in with all his friends at the bar on a Friday night as they take turns sipping from a sampler, but the combination of an unsophisticated palate and a possible learning disability keeps him from grasping the finer nuances of good beer. He’ll often ask, attempting to look beer-literate, if a lager is a pale ale, or if a stout is a hefeweizen. He means well, and seems to enjoy his beer, but can’t for the life of him keep styles or breweries straight. He once correctly identified an IPA and now that is all he will order, partly out of fear that people will realize he has no idea what he’s talking about, partly because he’s proud he finally got one right.

6. The Flavor Finder

This guy could be also be named “The Bullshitter.” His ability to identify flavors – many of which were not intentionally added to the brew – borders on paranormal. He’ll sniff at the settling head of an IPA and make verbal note of the subtle wafts of “raspberry, turmeric, and waffle batter.” He’ll take a sip and, swirling his tongue around his mouth, ask if you noticed the way the hops created “a dirty, rusty flavor” but “in a good way” then point out how the finish is like “molten cashews, cooked over a fire of pine needles and Brazilian rosewood.” The dude will claim to taste things humans can’t physically taste, like passion and eccentricity. If he is really tasting all of this stuff, there might be something really, really wrong with his tongue. Or maybe he’s about to have a stroke. No one knows.

7. The Beer Snob

Everyone knows one of these guys, the person not just happy to crack and pour and drink his beer, that guy who cannot control the urge to explain why the beers he drinks are vastly superior to the beers you drink. He’d never be caught dead with something less than 9.5% ABV, somehow equating alcohol content to quality. If it’s not a double or triple or Imperial version, he won’t even consider drinking it, as it is clearly below his refined tastes and standards. He spends his free time on BeerAdvocate and RateBeer writing short, overly-harsh and condescending reviews, always adding the note, “it’s no Old Rasputin” to the end of each. No one really likes this guy, but he thinks he’s doing the beer-drinking community a favor by ranting about the “impurity of large scale brewing” whenever he can.

8. The Beer Snob Snob

This guy has gotten all meta and is snobby about how snobby the beer snobs snob. He is the counter-culture backlash against the condescension that permeates the beer world, falling back on non-craft beers with lots of folk lore, like Pabst Blue Ribbon and National Bohemian. He wears square rimmed glasses, porkpie hats, and too-tight pants. This guy isn’t actually into beer for the sake of the beer, he just really, really likes to annoy people and say the word “irony” a lot. As soon as good beer isn’t cool anymore, it won’t be cool to like bad beer, which means it won’t be ironic to like any beer at all, and this guy will fade into mismatched, dub-step thumping obscurity.

9. The Comparer

This guy can’t help but compare the beer he’s currently drinking to every other beer he’s ever drunk. The first words out of his mouth after a virgin sip of a new (to him) brew, are always, “Hmm, this reminds me of…” It’s his mission to compile a mental database of every beer ever, to create connections between breweries, to be a walking, talking reference encyclopedia of craft beer. He’s actually great to have around if you’re trying to find new beers of a certain style to try, but otherwise his incessant obsession with categorization and beer hierarchy make him tough to hang out with. Never, ever, under any circumstance, unless you need to kill two or three hours, ask this guy what his favorite beer is. Trust me on that one.

10. The Brewbie

The new guy! The excited guy! The guy who just tried his first Stone Ruination IPA and just can’t stop talking about it! A new craft beer fan is born in the maternity wards of brewpubs every Friday night. This guy is usually overly enthusiastic, recommending every person try every beer ever, even if they’re underage, not a beer fan, or not even a human. He’ll go on about how IPAs are his favorite, no ambers, no pilsners, no stouts, no IPAs again; drunk on the new breadth of styles and flavors he’s just discovered, and also the beer itself. This guy tends to drink too much out of excitement, not realizing that his new beau is a good 2 or 3 or 5% ABV higher than the stuff he was drinking in college. No one gets mad when he gets a little out of hand though. His zeal and excitement remind us of ourselves when we first took a sip of that beer that turned casual drinker into enthusiast, and turned beer into art.

“Milk is for babies. When you grow up you have to drink beer.” -Arnold Schwarzenegger

Beer Review: Evolution No. 3 IPA

March 29, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

The memories are inconsistent, jumbles of pictures and sounds but nothing concrete. A fall. A cut. Bleeding. Healing. I recognize these wet, fallen leaves, but not this naked skin or the blood on my hands.

“I have the schedule. We’re going to review batches one through eight from Sample Block E.” The lab coat, animated by some pale ghoul wearing glasses, spoke with authority. “We purged blocks A and B earlier this week. Only one batch had a slight improvement over earlier iterations. Strains were isolated and taken for further study.”

I hear water. Somewhere off to my left, the trickle of a stream. I try to move towards it, but my muscles ache from the gnashing cold. My bones feel like iron being dissolved by acid. The branches from these fallen trees jab my bare feet, poking and stabbing and torturing with every step. I can see my breath.

“I was disappointed with the results from number one. Do you concur?” One lab coat shuffled awkwardly next to another, hazy outlines of men washed out by glaring overheard lights. “Number two shows a lot of potential, but it’ll never work with those defects. We’ll extract the sequences and move on.”

The sun is dropping in perfect time with the temperature. As the shadows grow longer, my aches burrow deeper. I’m not sure I can outlast this day, not without finding some kind of haven. The water soothes my cracked throat. My teeth chatter.

“Ah, three-ee. Three-bee showed great improvement, but we had to remove it due to a psychological abnormality.” One lab coat marked something on a clipboard, pen skittering across the paper like a spider across a web. “I think this one is the first passable example we’ve seen. Except…”

The sun is gone. I don’t know if I’ll see it come up again. I can see a light in the distance, up high, casting a yellow glow over the clearing. My legs feel too sore to run, but I move towards the light. Towards the light. The warm, seductive beams of light.

“No, no. This won’t do. The project parameters specifically set the tolerances of variation. If we accept this batch, we’d be undoing years of meticulous splicing.” Lab coat one turned and whispered something to lab coat two. “No. I said no! Flush the chamber.”

The light is affixed to a wall of stone. Several more throw flat light in all directions. The wall is smooth and cold, but I can feel a hum coming from the other side. The leaves and sticks have been cleared here. Familiar.

“I don’t care if you think the progress is too slow. Natural evolution takes hundreds, thousands of years. We can speed it up, but these changes are subtle, gradual.” Several other lab coats had gathered, all of them moving away from Block E, ghosts moving from one life to the next. “We’re scheduled to review Blocks C and D tomorrow. There’s still hope our engineering will have the desired effect.”

I pass several large, round openings, most dripping water into shallow pools. Tracks, deep grooves in the mud, move off in every direction. I can finally see a door, brown and thick and metal. I run my hands along the concrete for guidance and support. I move slowly. I see a sign.

“Good, good. Three-cee appears to be within limits. Inform the director. We’re ready to move to live trials.”

The metal is cold, etched. Words. A language. Words I know: united, lab, genetics, states. My fingers are numb. I try to remember, but the memories are inconsistent, a jumble. I slump against the wall. I rub my hands across my chest, trying to keep warm. I find something. Raised skin, painful lumps. A three. A bee. I close my eyes.

“Natural selection, as it has operated in human history, favors not only the clever but the murderous.” -Barbara Ehrenreich

Review: Magic Hat Encore Wheat IPA

December 12, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Doing that podcast with Josh opened my drunkenly glazed-over eyes to a startling truth: I drink and love and appreciate beer, but I know very little about what goes into officially judging the quality of a beer.

To all the Beer Judge Certification Program (BJCP) people: I am so very sorry. I have been living an unintentional lie. I have been a poor herald for the beer drinking community.

But almost any mistake can be rectified and I chalk this one up to poor self-education. I downloaded the “BJCP Style Guidelines” and began scrutinizing it like a graduate student let loose on his favorite author’s magnum opus. I’m amazed at the nuance outlined in this guide. I discovered several new words for describing the taste and presentation of my favorite beers, all of which I will henceforth abuse and overuse all over this blog for a brief period that will probably last until I annoy myself by using them too much.

This guide is also packed with short histories on styles, judge’s comments, and common ingredients. If you haven’t read it, or at least checked out the notes on your favorite style (I found the Marzen section extra fascinating) I highly recommend you do. It’s like a text book, technical guide, beer overview, and flavor bible all in one!

2008 is the latest version I could find. If anyone has a new version, send it my way!

My favorite new term is actually for judging mead (and other wine): Mousiness.

I can’t wait to hold a glass of mead up to a light, tilt it slightly and say, “Almost no mousiness. Nice.” I will then, in a very unprofessional and unrestrained manner, drink the rest of the bottle of delicious honey wine without scrutinizing every sip because I’m lacking quite a few of the qualities that might elevate me from “uncouth” to “refined.”

Other additions to my reviewing vocabulary:

Acetification (the process in which wine becomes vinegar)
Astringency (the dry, coarse taste often associated with tannins and overly sparged grains)
Diacetyl (the “slippery” or buttery taste of alcohol)
DMS (or dimethyl sulfide, a corn-like taste/smell found in lagers)
Melanoidins (the smell that comes from something that has been “browned” like a malt or a piece of toast)

Time to put this to good use. Here is my official BJCP-guided review of Magic Hat Encore Wheat IPA!

Aroma: Powerful up front hop character hits you like a prize-fighter’s right jab; grassy smells follow, after the beer has sat in the glass for a bit. Memories of being a child running through Floridian orange groves follow. Subtle wafts of wheat oscillate in the background between the hops and alcohol.

Appearance: Freshly minted penny meets Crayola orange. Cloudy but not completely opaque, probably a result of the wheat. The thin, brilliant white head persists for several minutes and crowns the beer like a laurel of foam. Probably a 15-16 on the SRM scale.

Flavor: Similar to other IPAs until the back end, when the wheat sneaks up and bites your tongue. Complex hop flavors come from the Simcoe and Amarillo fighting each other. Strong citrus flavor finishes off each sip.

Mouthfeel: Medium body, nice tingle from the carbonation, but no burn. Relatively smooth, enjoyable to drink.

Overall Impression: A serviceable and drinkable IPA. Don’t see how the wheat really helped things, but it didn’t hurt things either. Would buy again, maybe in Spring/Summer instead of Fall/Winter.

8.25 out of 10.

I feel like I should use monosyllabic expressions of my feeling when writing a formal review. Hrm. Yes. Quite. Mmph.

Review: New Belgium Ranger IPA

April 24, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

“Kyle. Kyle!”

“What?”

“It’s your turn.”

“Oh. What do I do again?”

“Roll the dice. The same as the past 8 turns.”

“OK.”

Kyle rolled the oddly shaped dice. He had no idea why he’d accepted the invite to this eccentric meet-up, but here he sat in a poorly lit basement, slugging down high alcohol beer in hopes his drunken stupor would lead to some fun.

“Are you kidding me? This guy has to be the luckiest player I’ve ever seen.”

Apparently Kyle’s roll was good. He had no idea what was going on. The leader of the group, who was sitting behind a piece of elaborately decorated cardboard, began to speak.

“A half-giant approaches from the north. He smells like filth and goats. Seeing you on his territory sends him into a rage!”

“Uh oh.”

Kyle didn’t know if this was bad or good. At least half-giant didn’t sound as drastic as full giant.

“I have a pet or something right? A bear?”

“Yes, a bear.”

“I want my bear to fiercely maul the half-giant.” Kyle took a large swig of his IPA. It was hoppy enough to remind him of a cool summer night, far away from small, stuffy subterranean hovels.

“Your bear can’t just fight it alone. It’s a half-giant for christ sake. You have to help!”

“Why? It’s a bear. I think he knows what he’s doing.”

Kyle poured more delicious beer down his throat. It was a shame; a brew this fine should be savored. The gaze of the players around him were piercing, burning, seethingly angry. He had tread on sacred ground. He had defiled their haven. To make matters worse, he was too drunk to drive home at this point.

“OK, then I shoot the half-giant with my bow. Can I do that?”

The Dungeon Master looked at him and sighed.

“Roll.”

The dice fell clumsily on the foldable card table.

“No way! He has to be cheating.”

“Critical hit!”

Two of the party members cheered. Another scowled, checking the character sheet to make sure Kyle wasn’t cheating. Kyle decided he was going to sleep in his car, and chugged the remainder of his current beer.

The DM broke character and told the group to take a break. The largest member, a halfling illusionist of some note, labored to rise from his chair, grunting as he waddled over to the fridge for another Pepsi Max. The DM asked Kyle to step into the next room.

“Have you played before? We invited you here for a beginners game, but you’re ruining it for everyone else. It seems pretty clear you’ve played the Ranger class before.”

The pock-marked face was fuzzy, like Kyle was speaking to him through a waterfall. He felt dizzy, but happy.

“This is my first time. I’m just doing what you tell me to. Shit, I don’t even know what a Ranger is.”

Kyle felt a burp slowly creeping from his stomach, up his throat. There was a chance he could throw up on this kid.

“I only picked it because it had the same name as my beer.”

9 out of 10.

+3 against thirst (and ogres)

Review: Yards IPA

April 23, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

That fool Mortimer did it again.

I told him that he’d never get away with it, but his stubbornness is trumped only by that of a mule. His last minute, hair-brained scheming always leaves me worried that I’ll find his body in the trash-filled gutter one of these days. Given his propensity towards the drink and the company keeps, that may be all too appropriate.

I arrived in London by coach but a few days ago. My travels southward were mostly unimpeded despite the recent flooding of the Thames. Mortimer sent word that he would meet me at the old Dog and Tree, but I’ve yet to uncover any sign of him. His commitment to truancy in our schoolyard days was well known, and much of that behavior spilled over into his adult life. I’ll save my worrying for when I’ve got more information about his condition or whereabouts.

The pub is just as I remember it. Dark, musty, full of the most unsavory types Brixton can muster. I feel at home staring at these disheveled denizens over the brim of my pint glass. The amber of my India Pale Ale tints my vision. The place looks a bit brighter with ale on the brain.

I won’t waste my time asking the barkeep if he’s seen Mortimer. At this point, he’s cocked up the original plan so badly that he’s either dead, or on the run. I hope for my Mother’s sake that he’s not dead. Her old heart couldn’t take a final let down from that life-long disappointment.

Halfway into my beer, a scuffle breaks out on the far side of the tavern. Some surly gent appears to be upset that another, smaller, cruel looking fellow has been cavorting with his wife. I watch the scene unfold, eventually coming to blows, until the smaller man deftly sticks a thin blade in between a few of the larger man’s ribs. He winces and slumps. The wound is bad, but he’ll likely survive. Before he leaves, the smaller man spits on his beaten opponent.

An antique clock chimes, letting me know that Mortimer won’t be coming. The bustling of the bobbies outside causes a lump to rise in my throat. Scotland Yard would be hot on my heels if they’d intercepted my oafish brother, and he, being craven to the core, would quickly betray me to save himself.

I finish the rest of my pint. The bitterness fits the mood of the evening and the bubbles sting my throat. I should go look for him. I should do it for my family, for my surname.

I slide a counterfeit shilling to the barman. The beer was good; I feel guilty for such brazen robbery. The fog has settled heavily on the damp, English night. I hear a blaring siren a few blocks away.

8.75 out of 10

The fog settles on London like the head on a freshly poured pint.

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