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Brew Fiction: Southern Tier 422 Pale Wheat Ale

June 17, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

The waves never relent. A group of Sanderlings, all grey and brown and white like they are made from the same sand they run on, chase the ebb and flee the flow. Two boys, lathered with lotion and stung with sun, fight over the height of their tiny Tintagel. The high tide washes over my feet, baptizing them in the name of this unchanging summer ritual.

It’s impossible not to notice the surfers, the dots of purple and blue and orange on the horizon appearing and disappearing behind troughs and crests. I watch their practiced patterns: wait, paddle, stand, ride. I admire how they jump up from their knees to their feet, like proud warriors against the waves. I cringe as they fall, face first, into the greenish brine. From the dry safety of my chair I’m with them, balanced as precariously between awake and asleep as they are between surfing and swimming.

As a black wet suit and orange board peaks at the top of a foaming surge, another surfer slides by, thrashing wildly on the stubby East Coast wake, like a shark caught in waters too shallow for comfort. He turns hard, spraying water behind him, before the energy of the wave is spent, and his ride unceremoniously ends. Slapping the water out of frustration, he pulls himself back up onto his board.

I’m sure out there -weightless, bobbing, free – we sand-slugs look silly hunching under umbrellas, sprawling on towels like jerky left to dry in the sun. Out there, in the endless tides, where a dolphin is more than just a fin in the distance, a man can be calm. Out there, where the only focus is feet and wax and waves and wonder.

Out there.

I swear to myself I’ll ride one of these days, feel the spray of salt on my face. I swear I’ll know the freedom and fun of a day on a longboard. I tell myself to just stay positive, to work hard, to take it one day at a time. I tell myself that practice makes perfect and without pain there is no gain.

I call to my assistant. The thin wheels of my chair are stuck in the wet sand. This happens every summer, when I demand time at the beach, and then demand I wheel myself to a ramp, off the boardwalk, into the sand, down to the water.

I tell myself that soon I’ll be unstuck. I won’t need an assistant to wheel me back to the van. Soon I’ll be able to feel that water washing over my feet, feel the sand burn my soles. Soon I’ll have an orange board and a black wet suit of my own. Soon it will be the power of the wave carrying me forward, not the power of my arms.

Soon I’ll be out there.

Writing Contest – Liquid Literature – Vote for your Favorite!

May 5, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

I would like to thank all of the wonderful people who took time out of their busy writing schedules of typing words and drinking coffee and swearing at the screen to write for this contest. Every entry has a unique perspective on the provided topics from literal to figurative, fiction to nonfiction, so there should be a little bit of something for every reader.

Voting will be open through next Sunday, May 12, 11:59 PM EST. You only get one vote, so don’t accidentally click on the wrong story. No pressure.

Here are the stories, presented in the order they were received. They are all under 1000 words and there is some really delightful writing in each, so I encourage you to read them all before voting:

Hitting the Big Time – Melanie Lynn Griffin
A confession from a bar stool – JC
The Pale Ale Induced Brutal Hangover – Philip McCollum
Pale Ale – Baltimore Bistros and Beer
On the Count of Three – RememberMemories
“Dubliners” by James Joyce – Melody Wilson

I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I did. Good luck to all!

Review: O’Hara’s Irish Pale Ale

September 21, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

(Forgotten Friday will return next week when I stop being such a slug brain and remember to upload my pictures to the correct computer)

O’Hara wasn’t sure what to do with himself now. Sarah had told him to meet her in the parking lot of the Tesco, just after her shift ended. He parked his old Volkswagen Golf around the corner, hoping to surprise her when she appeared with a rushed hug from behind and a kiss to the neck. He always thought she liked that kind of thing.

But the sun had long set, her shift had long ended, and another was about to begin. O’Hara sat watching the next round of employees mill at the dirty back entrance of the grocers, smoking cigarettes and murdering time before starting their work for the evening. Their actions were perfunctory but oddly charming, like watching a family come together to eat dinner after very long, very different days. As the last blue-aproned employee ground the butt of her cigarette into the ground, O’Hara was all alone in that parking lot.

He spread himself across the hood of the car. The dusk air was cold, but not yet freezing. If not for a dwindling wind off of the coastline, he probably wouldn’t have needed his jacket. The emerging stars were obscured by the storm that was still lingering after its earlier tantrum, but every few minutes a gap appeared, pouring the black sky and its tiny diamonds through his eyes into his outstretched unconscious.

The pills had little effect. Flynn could never be trusted to deliver, even when he promised “great stuff.” O’hara closed his eyes to the invading stars. Sarah’s face – like freshly washed linen pierced by two sapphires – appeared as a smokey wisp. Her features were soft and motherly. Her hair flickered like campfire. She was so delicate the he thought his mind might break her.

Her face merged into a xylophone of colors, which spread from the periphery of his view to the dead center of his vision. He could hear her laughing somewhere in the basement of his memories. The giggles echoed and rebounded, getting louder and louder until they seemed more like surreal bird calls than a young girl’s laughter.

The sound smashed into the colors; a car crash of imagination and hallucination. Heat built in his chest. Spark plugs around his heart exploded into beat after beat after beat with the rhythm and power of an ’65 Mustang. Her laughter came from every angle, except directly behind him. As his mind lost the ability to process the stimuli, he heard Sarah’s voice; low, sad, crying, asking him to stop.

The light above the rear entrance was out. Only a weak security lamp shining from behind a barred window illuminated the empty blackness of the street. O’Hara realized that he was aching from the cold. The night had turned and was siphoning the heat from his skin like a vampire on a fresh kill.

His Golf was alone, all the other cars had gone home to sleep in their garages and carports and freshly asphalted driveways. He slid off of the hood, stabilizing himself against the side view mirror as a hammer pounded at head from the inside of his skull.

His mouth was dry. His eyes hurt.

He slid into the seat of the car, taking a moment to right himself and shake the cold from his arms. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Three missed calls.

Sarah.
Sarah.
Sarah.

The keys fit into the ignition like they had thirty thousand times before. The engine labored, but that old VW just wouldn’t start.

9 out of 10.

Glass and fancy backsplash courtesy of the Riverside Hotel, Kilarney, County Kerry.

Review: Troegs Pale Ale

June 8, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

It finally happened. I drank so much pale ale that the subtle flavors of different pale ales all started to blend into one homogeneous river of hoppy, bitter liquid.

It’s sort of like that odd linguistic phenomenon that happens when you say one word over and over and over again until it loses all meaning.

Chair. Chair. Chair. Chair. Chair.

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh yea! Apparently the aforementioned phenomenon has a name! Semantic satiation. We’ve all been there, saying something banal like “rope” 50 times until you stop and say to yourself, “What the hell is a rope? Why did someone name it ‘rope’? Rope. Rope, rope, rope. Roooooope. Ropey ropey rope.”

According to this theory, your brain eventually stops recognizing the individual word and instead interprets the series of words as a pattern, changing the way you process the sounds. It only works with things your brain has to process externally; you can think of a word as many times as you want, and it won’t lose meaning.

It happens with pictures too. Imagine looking at a group of 4 different colored dots. Then imagine looking at a whole page of the same dots, repeated over and over again. You look at and take them in quite differently, whether you mean to or not. Eventually, all of the colors and details blur, until your mind no longer can (or no longer cares to) differentiate defining details. You can’t even tell what colors things should be or what elements might be out of place, because your mind has gone all stoner on you.

You can feeeeel the colors, man.

Until just now, I didn’t think the principle applied to taste. I should have, because I often find myself mildly disgusted with even the idea of a food that I’ve eaten way too much of over the course of a few days. I recently picked all of the cashews out of it huge can of mixed nuts until the point where I wished no one had ever figured out that cashews were edible. And normally I really love cashews! I’m just on cashew overload at this point. Wait, what is a cashew?

Pale ale is by far my favorite, but I have to learn to randomize my choices. Variety is the spice of life, right? I want to appreciate this beer for all of its hoppy, in-your-face flavor glory, but I feel like my tongue is just confused. He knows it is good, but he doesn’t know why it is good. My nose recognizes the heavy bouquet of flowery citrus, but he doesn’t know if it belongs to this beer, or Dogfish Head Shelter Pale, Smuttynose Shoals Pale, or some other, undefinable delicious alcoholic tincture.

OK tongue, fine. Shut up, nose, I get it. We’ll leave pale ales alone for a while so you two can recover. Since it’s summer, maybe I’ll switch to something a little lighter. Maybe. Maaaaaybe. May, be. May-bee.

8.75 out of 10.

Diffusion of flavors does not mean diffusion of deliciousness.

Next up: Gordon Biersch Czech Style Pilsner!

Review: Flying Dog Snake Dog IPA

April 30, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

The Merchant of Venice Beach

Players:
Oliver – The reasonable guy
Snake – The party guy

Act 1:
Scene: It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m trying to get some chores done, when Snake Dog IPA comes strolling in, looking to party.

“Hey Snake, I can’t hang out right now.”

“Awww come on man! Just a few games of ‘pong, maybe shotgun a few brewskis?”

::Snake pantomimes throwing an invisible ping pong ball at some invisible cups. He flips his wrist at the end to suggest he “swished”::

“No, really, I can’t. I’ve got a lot that needs to get done today.”

“Man, you are harshing my buzz. You never wanna party anymore, you’ve changed man. You’ve changed.

“Don’t give me that Snake, I’m older now, I have responsibilities. I can’t just party all day like you.”

“Ouch dude, ouch. You know I’ve been taking bar tending classes part time. And my dad totally told me I could intern at his pastry factory.”

“That’s great Snake. I can hang out later, just not right now.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m out-y 5000.”

::Snake proceeds to open and take a drink of himself before staggering off stage::

Act 2:
Scene: At an indefinite point later that night, after Oliver has finished most of his chores. Snake, drunk by now, knocks boisterously on Oliver’s front door.

“Duuuuude, you gotta meet these chicks man. These chicks are so hot.”

“Snake, that’s a broom and a mop.”

“You’re just jellyyyyyy.”

::Snake blows a kiss to the mop::

“I see you’ve been drinking yourself again. You need to get your life together. At 7.1% ABV, you’re going to drink your life, and yourself, away.”

“I’m sorry maaan, I just can’t face being an adult. The transition from no responsibility to total responsibility was weeeeaak. I expect my life to be different…y’know?”

“That’s life, Snake. Responsibility can be fun. You can learn to enjoy things differently. You learn to sip instead of chug. Appreciate the good flavors over the alcohol content. There is freedom and pride in being independent. Now come inside before you get arrested for public intoxication.”

::Snake begins to cry and comes inside. He promptly passes out on the couch, cuddling the mop and broom::

Act 3:
Scene: Snake wakes up on Oliver’s couch, hungover, inexplicably holding some cleaning supplies.

“How you feeling this morning?”

“How did I get here?”

“You came over last night, remember? You drank a lot of yourself, you were less than half full when you got here.”

“Oh man. Did I score?”

“Not unless you count sweeping my kitchen as scoring.”

“I gotta stop this shit.”

“Yes. Yes you do.”

9 out of 10.

This snake's got bite.

Next up: Sam Adams Belgian Session Ale!

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: Harpoon Belgian Pale Ale

April 18, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

In 2006, I crossed the ocean blue to watch France play South Korea in Liepzig, Germany. Play each other in a match of football, that is. Real football, where feet kick balls, none of this American hand+egg nonsense. During that big event that happens sometimes. It’s called the World Cup, I think.

My little adventure had me back on European tides for the first time in a long time. My family is British (my little, squishy baby self appeared unto this world in Manchester, England some 26 years ago) and I’ve spent a decent amount of time gallivanting in the countrysides of those neighboring members of the EU.

My earlier trips back to the motherland were during that tragic age where it wasn’t socially, mentally, or physically appropriate for me to be drinking beer. Thank the maker those days are behind me. I missed out on countless pints of traditional British Ale, slowly pulled Guinness in the pubs of Ireland, and myriad tastes of masterfully made German brews.

But in 2006, I was 21. The magical age when your body magically becomes able to process the magic inside of beer that makes it just so…magical. I was also able to legally buy it and not get thrown out of bars, which was a definite plus.

I drank all sorts of beer, most of which had names I couldn’t pronounce. Most of it was good. Some of it was very bad. But I distinctly remember that it was all of the highest quality, served at the perfect temperature, served in proper, made-of-glass glasses. It was like being in my own personal heaven for a week.

I remember thinking that some of the beer tasted funny. Not bad, not off, just different. The ales were a little more pale, somehow. Fewer hops, more yeast.

Harpoon Belgian Pale Ale is brewed in this tradition. It tastes as though it were brewed with aged hops, offering a much more understated hop flavor, which allows the traditional Belgian yeast to permeate the rest of the beer. The hop flavor is not completely absent; it offers just enough flowery citrus to truly put this in the pale ale category.

It maintains a solid, craggy head for a good few minutes after de-bottling. At 5.8% ABV, it’s a tad on the strong side, giving a bit of alcohol aftertaste. But hey, it’s beer; that’s to be expected.

As I finished my glass, my memory sparked. This is the kind of beer that makes you want to go back to Europe. Sit on a little table outside of a pub, watching the soccer hooligans flood the streets and set fire to anything flammable. It’s orange body reflects all of the adventures you had in the days of your misspent, drunken youth.

It washes back a lot of fond memories.

8 out of 10.

Bubbles from Brussels.

Next up: Brooklyn Brown Ale!

Review: Brooklyn East India Pale Ale

April 12, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Friday, 9:29 p.m.

::Bzzzzzzzt:: ::Bzzzzzzt::

Oliver: Oh hey Yuengling! What’s up?
Yuengling: Hey Oliver…
Oliver: Are you OK? You sound weird.
Yuengling: Yea…I’m OK…hey I’m glad you’re around…we need to talk.
Oliver: We do? What do you mean?
Yuengling: This isn’t working out. We’re growing apart. I feel like we don’t even talk anymore.
Oliver: Yuengs…baby…don’t do this. We can work through this…I’ve just been really busy at school, and…
Yuengling: Oliver…don’t make this harder than it already is. I think it’s time we go out drinking with other beers.
Oliver: No, no…we can’t…we’ve been through so much! I love you Yuengling!
Yuengling: Goodbye Oliver.

::Click::

Saturday, 2:21 a.m.

::Riiiing:: ::Riiiing::

Yuengling: He…hello? Oliver?
Oliver: Yuengssssss baby! Hey! Hi! Sup? Sup yo! Yo yo.
Yuengling: Oliver. Do you have any idea what time it is? Are you drunk?
Oliver: Noooooooo. Nope. Maybe. You don’t know! I only had like four hundred and sixty THOUSAND shots. Hahahahahha.
Yuengling: You’re an idiot.
Oliver: And you’re a bitch! No, I’m sorry, I dinnnn’t mean that. I’m just druuuunnkkkk. Hey. Hey. Can we talk? Like, about us?
Yuengling: I don’t think that is a good idea Oliver. Maybe we can talk once you wake up.
Oliver: You alllwaaays say that. You never let me say what I wanna say. I’m jusss trying to tell you words about stuff. About important stuff. Life stuff. Hey. Heeeey. You wanna go get Chipotle? You think they’re open? I’m so hunnnngry!
Yuengling: Go to bed, Oliver. Drink some water. Call me when you grow up.
Oliver: You cannnit tell me how I can do. What I can do. Do. Yea, I’ll be right there. I KNOW, it’s my ex. I KNOW.
Yuengling: Wait, who is that? Is that another beer in the background? I thought I heard the sound of a bottle opening.
Oliver: Whaaaa? Nooooo. No way dude. You so cray. Um, I gotta go or something OK byyyeeee.

::Click::

Saturday, 10:12 a.m.

::Bzzzzzt:: ::Bzzzzzzt:: ::Bzzzzzt::
::Bzzzzzt:: ::Bzzzz:

Oliver: Ugggghhhhhhh…hello?
Yuengling: Hey there champ, how you feeling?
Oliver: I can’t feel my face.
Yuengling: Did you drink any water? Do you remember calling me last night?
Oliver: I called you? Shit.
Yuengling: Yea, you did. It was pretty funny. Who were you with last night?
Oliver: Oh…just the guys. Some other people came over, I think. I remember someone with an abundance of bubbles and carbonation.
Yuengling: I thought I heard some other beers in the background.
Oliver: Oh, yea, I think some of Steve’s friends came over. I didn’t know them.
Yuengling: Oh, OK. Hey, I was thinking, maybe I rushed things…can we meet up tod…what was that? Did I hear a giggle?
Oliver: Huh? No…that was the TV…
Yuengling: I knew I heard other beers! Are you with that slut, Brooklyn East India Pale Ale!? Do you have any idea how many pint glasses she has been in? I know her type, everyone thinks she’s exotic with that “East” in front of IPA, but she’s nothing special.
Oliver: Hey, she was here with her IPA-like flavor and relatively subtle hopping. She cared about my opinions of what glassware works for what beers. Plus, I distinctly remember you breaking up with me.
Yuengling: You are such a pig. We were on a break.
Oliver: Sounded like a breakup to me. Anyway, me and Brooklyn are going to get some breakfast. Probably something that will help get rid of this hang over, and the bitter after taste she left in my mouth.
Yuengling: You were many things in our time Oliver, but cruel was never one of them.
Oliver: I’m sorry Yuengling, I never meant to hurt you…it just happened. I had an empty glass, and she was an open bottle. I hope someday we can work out our differences and be friends.

::Click::

9 out of 10.

Pretty, isn't she?

Next up: Harpoon IPA!

Review: Heavy Seas Black Cannon IPA

March 30, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

The Blacken

Below the bubbles of the upper deep;
Far far beneath in the glassed in sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Black Cannon IPA sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy color; above him swell
Huge foamy heads of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous mix and scalding brew kettle
Unnumber’d and fragrant Humulus
Winnow with giant lacing arms the slumbering brown-black.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge malted barley in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and drunks to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface be drank.

(The Kraken by Alfred Tennyson circa 1830. Modified by Oliver Gray; original here)

This beer is amazing. It’s delicious and distinct, releasing gentle wafts of coffee as it slowly settles in the glass.

I could wax poetic about how…oh wait.

This is only one of two black IPAs I’ve ever tried. Stouts and Porters are generally low on my list of favorite beers, but somehow, when mixed with the hoppiness and strength of an IPA, their status greatly improves. I’m sure this sort of beer requires an appreciation of stouts and IPAs, which may both be acquired tastes.

As I mentioned in the primer post, this was the “Mystery X” beer of my sampler pack. I’ve had it before (and loved it before) so I was excessively delighted to find 3 of them safely tucked into the back of their cardboard home.

It pours black. No-light-escaping black. Pretty much like a Guinness or a Murphy’s Stout, but with significantly less silkiness and foam. It lacks the nitrogen smoothness of a widget-can beer, but that takes nothing away from this exceptionally brewed beer.

The texture is similar to Sierra Nevada Stout. It’s lighter and easier to drink, and doesn’t feel like you’ve swallowed a loaf of marble rye whole if you take an extra large swig.

The smell is what will first captivate; powerful dark roast coffee smells supported by flowery hops. I imagine the first pot of coffee each morning makes entire breweries smell like this. It’s wonderful. I would probably be content to just sit and smell this beer, without ever taking a sip.

But I’d be a fool not to. The taste is unlike anything I can list, even the other Black IPA (which unfortunately, I had in a restaurant and didn’t have the forethought to write down) which is saying something for a small brew American beer. At first, you might think you’re drinking a full-bodied stout or porter, with roasted malt flavors backing up the fresh coffee bean smell. But then, like a wave of flavor crashing on the shores of your tongue, you’re hit with hops – lots of them – from the IPA side of the world.

The union is just great. Dandy. The bees knees (whatever that means). I won’t bother wasting more words. Just go try it.

10 out of 10

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's beer for me.

Next up: Smuttynose IPA!

Review: Smuttynose Shoals Pale Ale

March 27, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

As promised in my sampler post, here is review one of eight.

Pale ale refers to beer that is brewed with more pale malt than not. The term came into being during the 1700s, when many malts were dried using coke (the coal byproduct, not the high fructose corn syrup mess). Pale ale is a blanket term for many sub-styles, including popular variations like Amber and Indian Pale Ale (IPA).

If you’re used to traditional, American pale ale, Smuttynose Shoals will punch you in the face, knock your teeth out, and steal your wallet.

I should qualify (having tried five varieties from the New Hampshire brewer to date): these guys don’t mess around with hops. They’ll hop and then hop and then just when you think there are too many hops…they’ll hop some more.

Remember that Dr. Suess book, Hop on Pop? It’s like that, but it’ll get you drunk.

This isn’t your typical Bass or Sierra Nevada. It’s must closer to an English Bitter than an Amber, and closer to an IPA than you might expect from its name. It’s fierce and aggressive, leaving a nice bitter aftertaste in your mouth and plenty of bubbles on the glass. Don’t bother drinking this from the bottle; half of the flavor comes from the smell, which can only be unleashed in a nice pint glass.

If you don’t like bitter, don’t even bother opening the bottle.

If you do, you’ll be very, very pleased.

It pours a beautiful translucent, ruddy orange. The head is generous, but not overwhelming. It smells fresh and flowery, suggesting it was dry-hopped. While there is a slight sweetness to the first taste, the full body is more like a good loaf of sourdough. It’s not smooth, but the bite works with the complexity of the flavor. There is very little alcohol taste or lacing, as it is hidden behind the aforementioned copious dose of hops.

It’s not refreshing, but it is tasty. I wouldn’t recommend it as a lawn-mowing beer, but it would definitely pair well with a fish or chicken dish, especially one with lots of fresh greens and veggies. It would also make for a delicious beer batter, if you could find the heart to cook with it instead of drinking it.

Overall, 8.5/10, but if I had reviewed it as the weather was getting colder, not warmer, I’d probably give it a 9/10.

A shoal is a somewhat linear landform extending into a body of water, typically composed of sand, silt or small pebbles. This is a somewhat delicious beer extending into my stomach, composed of water, hops, and alcohol.

Next up: Heavy Seas Gold Ale!

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