southern tier brewing | Literature and Libation

Beer Review: Southern Tier Warlock

September 10, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

I made a promise to myself last year, after I burped the last of my cinnamon and spice binge into the ether. I swore, to the old gods and the new, to my inner demons and guardian angels, to all the demigods of diet and phantasms of flavor. I vowed and declared and committed not to give in to the siren song of gourd whispering to me on the autumn wind, that this year in beer would prove different.

I made an oath in those dark winter months, in the foggy hangover of post holiday splurge. I signed it with the alcohol in my blood and the sugar on my breath. A contract with one a relatively simple clause: do not drink any pumpkin beer until at least October 1st, 2014.

It was not an agreement I entered into lightly, for my weak, mortal side craves the succulent orange flesh in pie, in coffee, in all unholy abominations of pumpkin and product. I know it’s wrong to lust after brown sugar and nutmeg, to let a cultivar cultivate my destiny, but I’m just a man. Seasonal creep sneaks and slithers onto me, seductively suggesting I take a nice clean bite from that orange apple, season and weather be damned.

At first, I held strong. Summer’s insistence on postponing his vacation to the other side of the planet gave me strength. The orange, brown, and black of the labels did not sway my conviction, and I walked past them boldly, bravely, to other, less obnoxious fermented fare. The Pumpking held no regal power over me, the Great’er proved lesser. IPAs bolstered my resolve, and Marzens marched across my tongue and down my throat in a delicious cavalcade of beverages that were decidedly free from pumpkin. I thought I could do it. Thought the vine fruit would be defeated, left to bake until its time was ripe some time near Halloween.

But such dark energy is not to be denied. The pumpkin, knowing my devotion to the cause, summoned his darkest agents, the most twisted and malevolent of his creations, to bring me back into the fold. Little by little, day by day, the jolly jack-o-lantern chipped away at me. Every sign of Fall, every crunchy brown leaf, every slight whiff of cloves or ginger fed the entropy, increased my desire to sup at the forbidden table, sip from the forbidden cup.

From the soul of his stout, inky black soul, he captured, raptured, and ultimately tore my pledge in two. I let his eight armed ABV wash over me, surrendering, suffering, savoring.

I drank the Warlock. I broke the oath.

I am the warlock. I am the oathbreaker.

And now as his energy surges through my veins, I know that no matter how silly or sickening, how gimmicky or gauche, I will give into him, because hot damn, I love pumpkin flavored crap.

“Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.” ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

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.

Pilsner Madness Round 1: Southern Tier EuroTrash Pilz (13) -VS- Great Divide Nomad Pilsner (14)

May 1, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

Today New York faces off against Colorado with Southern Tier EuroTrash Pilz versus Great Divide Nomad Pilsner!

The Contenders:

Southern Tier EuroTrash Pilz (13) – Southern Tier, an eponymous nod to the southern most counties in New York, was started using the equipment from the (sadly now defunct) Old Saddleback Brewing Co. in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Non-East Coasters might know ST for their more novelty beers, like the excellent fall seasonal Pumking or the desert-like “Blackwater” series that includes Chokolat Stout, Creme Brulee Stout, and Plum Noir Imperial Porter. Their primary line-up is nothing to shake a proverbial dead workhorse at, made up of a nicely balanced IPA (comparable to Brooklyn IPA or Harpoon IPA) and my personal favorite, 422 Wheat Ale.

As I was searching high and low for Pilsners, my wife spotted this one, tucked away as a single near the back of the seasonal shelf at Total Wine in Laurel, MD. It’s labeling makes it look sort of like an edgy unicorn who spells his name with a totally hip “z” who was playing chess fell into the label printer, but it’s appropriately refreshing garb for this crisp pilsner.

Great Divide Nomad Pilser (14) – Great Divide is particularly decorated, having won twelve Great American Beer Festival awards and four World Beer Cup awards. Their original mission was to brew “strong” beer, both in ABV and flavor. To that end, they’ve succeeded, powerfully. I’ve only had two of their other beers – Titan IPA and the Bronco’s Pride, Denver Pale Ale – but they are undeniably, unquestionably, unforgivingly, bold.

Nomad Pilsner was the last beer I found for the tournament, but certainly not the least. The mission for strong beer carried over into the body of this malt-strong and abundantly hopped pilsner. Lagered for five weeks, it has the weight of an ale, but the tickling effervescence and refreshment of a Rhineland lager.

The Fight:

We’ve got two completely different beers clinking glasses here. The EuroTrash is so light, its bubbles whispering through my tongue to my brain, telling me to go outside and drink this while playing mandolin in the Spring sun. The Nomad is the opposite, its heavy malten-spine and powerful upfront, slightly alcoholic flavor demands I sit down on the couch, put on a bad SciFi movie and just chill the eff out.

The head on the EuroTrash froths enthusiastically during the pour, but settles to just a few puddles of bubbles within minutes. The Nomad retains a meaty, creamy pure-white head until the beer is about halfway gone. Both smell delightfully hoppy; notes of citrus and grass waft from the tops of the thin glasses.

The EuroTrash is clean, but unembroidered. It makes no pretenses about who it is, or why it’s here. It wants to be consumed, probably in large amounts, probably to stymie relentless summer heat. The Nomad is full of pretenses. It’s a pilsner that seems to want to be an ale, that wants to echo its IPA and PA and Stout brethren. It don’t take no guff about being a “light” beer.

While I really appreciate the simplicity of the SouthernTier offering, I have to give this one to Great Divide. This is the first pilser I’ve had that had the audacity to try and keep up with the regime established by the ales, and I think it did a mighty fine job. It’s not quite on the level of Victory Prima or Sam Adams Noble, but it’s damn close.

Winner: Great Divide Nomad Pilsner!