Trappist Beer at LaTrappe

Welcome back!  I’m sorry for the unscheduled hiatus from blogging for the past week.  I’ve been busy in the interim with continuing the search for the right beer job, planning the next event in the monthly tasting series (more details on that in my next post), and taking the GMAT.  Apparently, it is recommended that one spend more than a week studying for this test, and that one not decamp to Yosemite for three of the days out of that one week devoted to studying.  No matter!  It’s over and I got to go backpacking for the first time so far this year.  It was my annual dose of nature that I had been sorely missing.  In fact, it also marks the one year anniversary of The Thirsty Hopster, which really started last August following my previous backpacking trip (through the Grand Tetons), when I visited 11 microbreweries in 4 states in 4 days with my sister and two friends.

So, what brings me back to the fold?  Well, after finding out that I had done pretty well on the GMAT, especially considering the circumstances, I decided to go out and celebrate… with beer, of course.  When I left the GMAT testing center, I wasn’t too far in terms of straight-line distances from LaTrappe, in North Beach.  The only problem was that the entirety of Telegraph Hill stood between me and my brew and there was nothing to do about this other than haul myself over it, or go the very long way around.  My immense hatred of inefficiency led me to choose the up-and-over route, though I later came to regret this decision at about the 500^th stair when I looked up and realized I had several flights left to go.  It’s also worth noting that the Filbert Steps, which climb the east face of Telegraph Hill, are no picnic for someone with a fear of heights whose particular weakness is hyperventilating when she can that there is nothing under her feet (as on grated metal stairs, or glass skywalks, etc.).  Luckily, my endorphins and adrenaline were still running high from the test and carried me over the hill, delivering me to the cozy, monastic basement of LaTrappe.

I mulled over the list and resisted the temptation to order one or another of my old favorites, resolving to try something new.  I made my decision, ordered my bottle, and sat back waiting for it to arrive, feeling pretty smug because the bar was full of business types in suits and I’ve been free of that lifestyle for going on a month and a half now.

I am both ashamed and proud to admit the bottle of Orval I drank that night was my first ever.  I’m ashamed because my first Orval ought to have come sooner in my personal beer drinking history, but proud because at least it wasn’t later.  Orval is one of the seven Trappist abbeys that brew beer, and its beer is known for its earthy/sour Brettanomyces character.  I’ll come back to the taste of Orval in a minute, but it’s worth going over the history of Orval and what exactly the Trappist abbeys are before going any further.

The Trappists are an order of Catholic monks the split off from the Cisterian monks in 1666.  The Trappists formed their own order because they believed in the strict observation of the Rule of St. Benedict, which specified that monks maintain an ascetic lifestyle, while the Cisterians practiced a relaxed observation of this rule.  The name of the order comes from the abbey of La Trappe, whose abbot was a leader of the reform movement.

Trappist doctrine calls on its monks to support their abbeys through their own work, so many Trappist abbeys produce goods to sell to the public, including but not limited to beer.  There are currently seven Trappist breweries, six in Belgium and one in the Netherlands: Achel (Be), Chimay (Be), Koningshoeven (Ne), Orval (Be), Rochefort (Be), Westmalle (Be), and Westvleteren (Be).  When applied to beer, the term ‘Trappist’ technically denotes only that a beer was brewed in a Trappist abbey, not that it is of a particular style.  However, because most of the Trappist breweries have historically brewed a small selection of beers within narrow range of styles, these styles have become associated with the term Trappist.  As a result, the term ‘Trappist’ is sometimes incorrectly used to refer to all beers brewed in these styles, regardless of whether they were made in a Trappist abbey or not.  The correct term for any beer brewed in one of these styles, but not in a Trappist abbey is an “abbey style” beer.  The wine drinkers reading this post will recognize this as being similar to the distinction between “Champagne”, which though often used to refer to all sparkling wine, technically only refers to those made in Champagne, France, and those made elsewhere are properly called “sparkling wine.”  The original Trappist brewers have formed a trade association that has trademarked the term “Trappist” and formulated rules for which beers are may be officially designated as Trappist beers:

1. The beer must be brewed within the walls of a Trappist abbey, by or under control of Trappist monks.
2. The brewery, the choices of brewing, and the commercial orientations must obviously depend on the monastic community.
3. The economic purpose of the brewery must be directed toward assistance and not toward financial profit.

To complicate matters further, some beers that have historically been brewed by Trappist abbeys are no longer under the direct control of the abbey, and are being made under a license agreement by commercial breweries.  So, these beers which were once truly Trappist beers are now abbey style beers.  Affligem is a good example of this scenario.  The beer is still of the same style, but the organization responsible for producing it is different.  Thus, Trappist beers are a small subset of abbey style beers.  All Trappist beers are abbey style beers (with a few exceptions in cases in which the monks have branched out and brewed styles outside their historical repetoire, e.g. Koningshoeven Bockbier), but not all abbey style beers are Trappist beers.  Got it?  Then, it’s on to Orval…

The Orval abbey itself is much older than Orval beers.  It is located in southern Belgium very close to the border with the northern edge of France.  The site first became home to a monastery in 1070, when a group of Benedictine monks exiled from modern day Italy settled in the valley.  The monastery changed hands several times over the next century as different groups of monks came and went, but in 1132 a group of monks from the Abbey of Clairvaux settled in the monastery and stayed until the French Revolution.  During this time, the abbey did not brew beer, but made its money from salt quarries and forging mills.  Unfortunately, in 1793 the abbey was destroyed by revolutionaries and remained in ruins until the 20^th century.  In 1927, Dom Jean-Baptiste Chautard, the Abbot of La Grande Trappe, took over the site and rebuilt the abbey.  And it was in 1931 that the abbey decided to establish a brewery in order to support the maintenance and reconstruction of the abbey.

The beer brewed at Orval is very different from most of the other Trappist beers in several respects.  First, it is very dry, while most Trappist beers are characterized by a high residual sugar content.  Second, it has a distinct earthy Brettanomyces yeast flavor, while most Trappist beers use cultivated brewers yeasts that put off very fruity esters.  Finally, Orval has noticeable hop character that is somewhat more prominent than in most other Trappist beers.  The brewery attributes this unique combination of characteristics to its first Brewmaster, a German named Martin Pappenheimer, and to his assistant, a Belgian named John Van Huele.  Pappenheimer brought the hoppy German brewing tradition to Orval, and Van Huele introduced dry hopping, which may account for the introduction of Brettanomyces yeasts to the brew.

When I sat down at LaTrappe to drink my Orval, I paused to read the bottle.  I was happy to notice that the brewery stamps each bottle with the packaging date and a “best by” date.  Because this is not a high alcohol beer, and hops make a significant contribution to its flavor, it is not as suitable for cellaring as many of the other Trappist beers.  The beer itself was a light orange color, with a foamy white head that wasn’t as big as I expected.  I believe this was the result of the bartender’s pour, and will have to get another Orval to double check this.  Not that the bartender didn’t know what he was doing, he left an ounce or so in the bottom of the bottle to avoid pouring yeast into my glass, and the beer did have something of a head.

Once my eyes were done drinking in the beer, it was my nose’s turn.  The musty farmhouse smell of hay and wet earth was the first thing to hit me.  This is definitely a Brett beer.  I had been expecting a more subtle Brett character (in retrospect, I’m not exactly sure why), but am on quite a Brett kick at the moment, and so I was quite happy with it.  As I took the first sip, the earthy wild yeast character continued, but it was joined by a slight sour twang.  It wasn’t sharp or particularly citric, just a mild note adding its voice to the chorus of flavors.  The beer’s bitterness rises in the second half of the sip, and the hops left a lasting impression of bitterness and dryness at the back of my tongue.  The carbonation was relatively high, which was my only complaint.  It both overwhelmed my taste buds a bit and carried a slight metallic taste.  As I let the beer sit and warm, the carbonation relaxed a bit.  The beer tasted best to me after about 15 minutes.  It tasted predominantly earthy, bitter, and dry, very Brett yeast dominated, but with supporting hops backbone.  And as I was about to finish what was left in my glass, I paused and noticed a mild light fruitiness, maybe apples and oranges, that I hadn’t tasted earlier.  While different elements of the yeast and hops showed themselves across the course of a single taste and across the time it took me to drink the whole glass, my overall impression is one of incredible dryness.  Orval isn’t just dry for a Trappist beer, it’s an incredibly dry beer, period.  Though I’ve been making much in this time of hops crisis about sweet low hopped beers, and am not about to abandon my newfound fondness for Scotch beers, my beer roots must be showing because I loved the crisp, dry flavor of Orval.

Just Fred — Beer of the Week

Beer of the Week is something I like to pull out every once in a while around here when something impresses me enough, for whatever reason, that it deserves a column of its own.  There are lots of fabulous beers that never get named Beer of the Week, and lots of weeks that never get honored with a beer, but that’s often because there is so much else swirling around the beer (a whole rest of a flight of beers to be drunk, a brewery to be toured, a festival to attend, beer friends to be made) that any one beer just becomes a small part of the overall story.   Beer of the Week is a simpler concept: one beer, one review, end of story.  Indeed, it’s where I started with this blog, and nice returning point every once in a while.

This week, we have a BotW because I made a resolution lately to stop being a stockpiler and to drink my ’special’ stuff when I feel like it, because, hey, life is short.  The exception, and of course there is always an exception, are the beers that I am deliberately aging.  However, I differentiate that scenario from just accidentally holding onto a beer for 3+ months because the time never seems right for cracking it open.  Even the name of this post’s BotW seems unassuming and weeknight appropriate: Fred.  Just Fred.  Ok, actually it’s Hair of the Dog’s Fred.  Still, what kind of name is that for a beer? All of their people-named beers seem to lend themselves to confusion.  Mentioning enthusiastically in front of my grandmas that “I really love Fred!” would get them so excited about the almost-given-up-on prospect of great-grandchildren that I might suddenly be the favorite grandkid again… that is, until they heard me praise Fred’s “spiciness”, at which point I imagine they’d feel intensely uncomfortable, never mind the consequences of letting slip that “I had Fred after dinner last night.” 

Seriously though, this is one hell of a beer.  It was light amber colored, with a thick, long lasting off-white head.  I poured it into tumblers (we don’t have a lot glassware at chez Hopster) for myself and my roommate Kathleen, and each had over a finger’s worth of foam that persisted as we drank the entire bottle.  Or rather, as I proceeded to drink the entire bottle after commandeering
Kathleen’s share when we realized how hoppy this was (hops just aren’t her thing). 

The aroma alone is pretty intoxicating, with intense floral and green hop scents and powerful baking spice aromas from the yeast and rye malt.  There was also another smell that came through “loud and clear”, actually the first thing I smelled upon pouring the beer, and that was sour green apple.  This is usually the smell of the chemical acetaldehyde, which is a flaw in just about all styles of beer (Except Budweiser, but then, who reads The Thirsty Hopster and drinks Budweiser?  No one I hope.  And if you do, let me know because your next craft beer is on me.  I just can’t in good conscience let you continue in this vein.  It’s like those mothers who get arrested when Child Protective Services finds out they’ve been off galavanting around and letting their kids forage in the garbage.  At least this is my understanding from what I see on Law And Order: SVU.  So please, think of my clean criminal record.  Let’s keep it that way — don’t drink garbage).  Anyway, the point is, the acetaldehyde was unmistakable.  It’s usually either a sign of a sanitation problem or a very young beer.  Considering (A) everything else that was so right about this beer, and (B) Hair of the Dog’s all around stellar reputation, I want to give this the benefit of the doubt and assume that it is something that will die down with more age or that was specific to this batch, or this crate, and the way it was handled.

Getting past the aroma and into the beer itself was like going down a deeper and deeper rabbit hole.  It’s a whopping 10%, and heavier in body than most 10%ers, with a thick, oily mouth-filling texture and noticeable alcohol warmth.  The hops & spice continue their dual reign in the flavor. and I imagine it’s those 10 varieties of hops in here that give the beer it’s “oiliness.”  I keep using that word, and it probably sounds off-putting, but I mean it as a sincere compliment.  If I had distilled hop oils in a vial, this is what I imagine that they’d taste and smell like, all flowers and nectar and resin.  Except, the bitterness wasn’t over-the-top.  It’s not benign at 65 IBUs, that’s for sure, but it shares time with the other elements of the beer.  The rye is more assertive in the flavor than in the aroma, overtaking some of the other spice components.  I think Hair of the Dog knows how to work with rye better than any other brewery I can think of, and I wish they’d put out even more rye beers. 

In all, this beer had just about everything I want in a beer: a dense and persistent head without a bursting and seltzer-y carbonation, a layered aroma that pulls in the best that each of beer’s three non-water ingredients has to offer, a luxuriously thick texture, a pungent and varied use of hops that avoids brutal bitterness, and a collection of spice flavors that shifts and shimmers and only gets stronger as the beer warms up.  Try it if you can find it, but be warned, even just one bottle was enough to entirely bowl over my expectations and nearly bowl over the rest of me.

An Imperial Procession: Drake’s Stouts at City Beer Store

As someone who loves all things that come in matching sets (I once spent 5 hours at IKEA picking out a wardrobe because all the complimentary options were just too overwhelming), I am naturally a fan of split batches of beer. There’s no better way to understand yeast than to taste two beers that started from the same recipe and yet end up completely different due to those microscopic brewers’ helpers.

Though I’ve seen many blended beers recently (two or more beers brewed separately are mixed to form a single final product), I’ve seen very few commercial split batches (a single wort is brewed and then split into two or more batches to be fermented separately to form multiple final products). On one hand, this doesn’t make too much sense to me: wouldn’t split batches be a great way to save time and money as a brewer? Brew one wort, get two beers? On the other hand, economy and quality often don’t move hand in hand. It’s hard enough to craft a recipe for a single great beer, and thus harder still to brew a wort flexible enough to ferment into two different, yet still amazing, brews.

With this in mind, the series of Imperial Stouts brewed by Rodger Davis, formerly of Drake’s Brewing Company, is a feat. Not only did he coax four unique beers out of one base recipe, but he had the patience to age some of them up to four and a half years in oak barrels. That’s longer than some marriages, longer than I’ve been of legal drinking age, and longer than I can imagine waiting to serve anything that tasty. Then again, patience has never been my strong suit: Of the two bottles of Angel’s Share I picked up on Saturday, one has already met its happy demise in the bellies of appreciative beer drinkers (more on this in a later post).

The line-up I tried at Thursday’s Rodger Davis Night at City Beer Store was:

1. Imperial Stout aged in pinot noir barrels for 8 months (9.5%)
2. Imperial Stout aged in bourbon barrels for 2 ½ years (10.5%)
3. Imperial Stout aged in port barrels with blueberries and brettanomyces yeast for 4 ½ years (11%)
4. Imperial Stout aged in port barrels with cherries and brettanomyces yeast for 4 ½ years (11%)

Whew! Those last two have so much going on – any one of those features (the barrel aging, the fruit, the brett) would be enough to make a more-interesting-than-your-average beer. I tasted them in the order listed above to work my way up the ABV and aging spectrum.

At the end of the night, my favorites were the bourbon (#2) and the port-cherry-brett (#4) beers, though I was drinking alongside two friends, Brandon and Will, who both liked the pinot (#1) the best. Unfortunately for the blueberry beer (#3), it was nobody’s favorite, and thus the quest for the ever elusive high-octane blueberry beer that doesn’t disappoint continues.

All the beers were a deep, dark, espresso-like color, with a small off-white head. They could have been your average stout… until you get close enough to catch a whiff of the boozy aromas wafting out of our 5 oz. taster glasses.

The pinot put off the strongest chocolate aroma. I think the red wine from the barrels emphasized that characteristic, while the sourness of the last three hid some of the stout roastiness. This was particularly surprising in beer #2, which wasn’t a brett beer, but which was sour nonetheless. Tasting it next to beer #1, I would never have guessed they had come from the same recipe if I hadn’t already known. The first was smooth and creamy, while the second was bold and disconcerting, almost like a Flanders Brown Ale in its sourness. I preferred the second, mostly because I think it’s hard to beat bourbon barrel as a pairing for a dark strong beer, as a matter of taste (not fact). That said, the bourbon and oak flavors weren’t quite as big as I would have expected in a beer aged for 2 ½ years. Vanilla flavors, which can come from both the oak itself and the bourbon with which it’s been saturated, were nearly indiscernible.

After sampling back and forth between the first two, and being pretty pleased with each as individual beers and as an example of the magic of split batches, we moved on to beers three and four. Moving from the unexpectedly sour bourbon barrel to the very intentionally sour blueberry and brett beer highlighted the difference between the two types of sourness. The bourbon barrel was more of a high-acidity flavor, the same type found in certain blends of coffee, and caused by the roasting process. By contrast, the blueberry brett had a rounder sweet-and-sour tartness. The cherry brett beer had this as well. However, it seemed to work better in the cherry beer because the cherry flavor harmonized with the brett, while the blueberry flavor contrasted with it. Cherries themselves are sweet and sour, and the resulting beer had an integration that the blueberry beer lacked. It tasted sweet and blueberry-like first, followed by the brett sourness, which tasted a bit too strong following such a sweet flavor. This is not to say the blueberry beer was exceptionally sweet, this was no alcopop, just that the flavors never seemed to work together. In discussing this beer the next day with Sam from Better Beer Blog, we wondered how a blackberry Imperial Stout would do, since it would be sweeter than cherries or raspberries (often used in beers), but more sour than blueberries (not used very often).

I’m not sure when, how, or where, these beers might be available again, but I recommend them to anyone with an interest in barrel beer, or in learning more about how to parse the flavors of beers by drinking similar brews side by side.

Dropping the Big Bucks: Lost Abbey Night at Toronado

Man! I have never seen a bottle-buying frenzy the likes of which was taking place at Toronado last night.

When I arrived at 10 minutes after 6pm, there were already guys at the bar with hordes of bottles lined up in front of them like bowling pins. As I sidled up to the end of the counter, hoping to procure a few myself, I heard the bartender say to the guy next to me, “That will be one seventy five, please.” Not one seventy five as in, “This can of PBR is $1.75 during happy hour on weeknights” (not that they serve PBR at Toronado), but one seventy five as in, “These four bottles of beer will be $175 dollars.” Phew!

The Cable Car (American Wild Ale) was the priciest, at $40 for a 750 mL bottle of the 2008 vintage (if it’s beer instead of wine, does that make it a brewage?), and $80 for a 750 mL bottle of the 2007. Now, I love me my sour beers, but damn that’s expensive! I’m not saying it’s not worth it, and I can’t really comment on that for the 2007 as I’ve never tried it, but as someone without a job at the moment, I’m not really in a position to drop $80 bucks a bottle. Plus, as a nice alternative for us somewhat thriftier drinkers, they were serving the 2008 Cable Car on tap, alongside the year-round brews. I got an 8 oz glass for $4.  It was a hazy golden color with a small, foamy, white head.  It was easily one of the most drinkable sour beers I’ve ever had, not nearly as bitingly tart as the Deschutes Saison I had in San Diego or the New Belgium Foedre #3, but pleasantly sour.  It also hit the carbonation level just right, being more relaxed than at least the Foedre’s, such that it brought the flavors up through the beer without being distracting.  I might have liked a bit more prominent ‘wild’ funk or oak character.   I think the De Proef Signature (also a Lost Abbey beer of sorts in that Tomme Arthur helped brew it) beats the Cable Car out on funkiness, both quantity and quality, though I’m going to reserve final judgment on that until I taste Cable Car again, or taste Cable Car and DP Signature side by side.  My estimation of the DP Signature has gone up each time I’ve drunk it, so I ought to at least give Cable Car the same chance, provided that I can afford to.  I also think I like Russian River Beatification and Lost Abbey’s Isabelle Proximus slightly better as funky sour beers, though it’s hard to say since last time I tasted Proximus it was the eleventh beer of the night.  In the meantime, I’ll say that I think Cable Car was perfect on sourness, but narrowly beaten out by just a few other beers (two of which being other Tomme Arthur beers) on funkiness.

I made two separate trips last night, first to buy bottles and hustle them home, and then to go back for glasses.  I’ve got a stash of 4 bottles that cost a whopping $95, though only two of them are for me and the others have happy homes waiting for them with Rob of Pfiff! and Jeff of Beer Stained Letter.  Jeff’s getting a bottle of Judgment Day in return for generously offering me some Troeg’s Nugget Nectar and Victory Baltic Thunder after I missed out on these bigger brews while in Pennsylvania.  Rob’s getting a bottle of Isabelle Proximus I was authorized to buy on his behalf.  And for myself I picked up: Gift of the Magi and Cuvee de Tomme.  There were no bags for the bottles, so I had to grab two-per-hand and walk them the one and a half blocks home ever so carefully, as a broken bottle would have been an expensive and devastating loss.

When I got back, I had the glass of the 2008 Cable Car described above, and then later a glass of the Judgment Day ($4 for 12 oz).  I still love the Judgment Day, but I have to say that it didn’t quite measure up to the taste of it I had on tap at the Lost Abbey brewery a few weeks ago.  I was thinking this and keeping it to myself until my friend Bryan, who had also been with me at the brewery, said the same exact thing.  I don’t know what it lost in transit, or if drinking the sour Cable Car first was a mistake, but the flavors just weren’t as pronounced as they were last time around.

The more I write about all this though, the more I’m starting to get tempted to run back to Toronado to see if they have any bottles left of the Proximus, or the Red Poppy, or the Angel’s Share.  I regret not buying them all, though if I had, I never would have gotten them all home in one piece.

Belgian-plus beer dinner at Millennium

I’ve been carrying the Millennium beer dinner around in my purse for almost a week now, so it’s high time I write it up.  I realized exactly how incredible a job Eric (the chef) had done in picking beers for the dinner when I tried to list my favorites for a friend, and ended up naming four of the six beers. 

For those who haven’t seen my last write-up on Millennium, it is an upscale vegan restaurant based in the Hotel California (since writing that last line, the Eagles have started playing on repeat in my head).  But, as tonight proved once again, they really ought to be known as an all-around amazing restaurant, for vegans or otherwise, that just so happens not to use animal products in their food. 

So, I was excited for the dinner given my prior dining experience at Millennium, the enthusiasm that Eric and Erica (the General Manager) show for beer, and because this was to be a debut of sorts for The Thirsty Hopster.  Generally, when I have attended beer dinners, it’s been as an eager diner.  This time, I was still an eager diner of course, but I was also invited to ‘provide local commentary’ along with a few other ‘panelists’ of sorts.  The other panelists switched up a bit the day of the event as they were supposed to include Tim Selvera from Bar Crudo and Vinnie Cilurzo (to introduce the Russian River beers on the menu).  Tim had gotten the flu and Vinnie ended up get stuck at the brewery, which I have enough conflicted feeling about to write a whole blog post in itself.  On one hand, I was devastated because getting to sit across the table from Vinnie at Millennium was going to be an experience for me equivalent to an avid politico getting to sit down for dinner with the president, or a U2 fan getting to eat with Bono, or a foodie sitting down for dinner with Thomas Keller.  So, yeah, I disappointed by this news. 

On the other hand, I have to admit that I was both a little relieved (I had a fair bit of anxiety about discussing Russian River beers with their creator) and completely excited when I saw who Tim & Vinnie were replaced by: Christmas from Russian River, and Nicole from The Trappist.  This was the first time I’ve been to a beer event where, not only were 50+% of the attendees female, but 100% of the ‘commentators’ female, and young women to boot.  Way to go, women of beer!  It got me thinking that it would be useful it will be to have some sort of career development society for women interested in the beer industry.  We’ve got the Pink Boots Society, but they’re brand new and I’m not sure how often they intend to meet, and whether it will be a strictly professional group, or also a social group.  I just hope they grow and develop quickly because it would be great to be able to have role models, or even just a single role model, of my own sex.  Nothing wrong with looking up to the big boys, but it gets significantly harder to imagine myself stepping into their shoes one day when I’ve never personally met a woman who’s been able to do that. 

In any case, Christmas and I sat at the far end of the table, and I slowly realized that I’ve just about followed her from job to job, as her prior position, pre-Russian River, was at Father’s Office in Santa Monica.  This is one of my favorite places to eat or drink in LA, despite the velvet roped wait for a hamburger (oh, so LA).  My favorite story of the night was when Christmas told us about the time during which she kept their water tap handle labeled “Koors” and would serve it up on requests for macrobrew, until of course, she was required to take it down for fear of lawsuits. 

As we talked, the courses started arriving, one tasty bite after another:

• Trumpet mushroom ceviche with coconut milk, chiles, aromatics, and little gem lettuce
• Russian River Little White Lie (witbier)

• Cornmeal crusted squash blossom with herbed tofu ‘cheese’, roasted corn salad, saffron scented squash coulis, and New Mexican chile emulsion
• Lost Abbey Red Barn Farmhouse Ale (saison)

• Apricot and caramelized onion flatbread with purslane salad, cashew ranch dressing, white beer battered blue lake green beans, and basil aioli
• Russian River Beatification (gueuze)

• Butter ball potato stoemp cake with seared porcini mushrooms, wilted bloomsdale spinach, smoked dried cherries, and a Supplication reduction
• Russian River Supplication (Belgian-style sour similar to a Flanders red or oud bruin)

• Beer braised morel and exotic mushrooms with Collaboration broth, grilled broccoli rabe, and gigante beans
• Avery & Russian River Collaboration Not Litigation Ale (A blend of a golden strong Belgian-style ale, and a dark strong Belgian-style ale)

• Summer cherry napoleon with bourbon glazed cherries, coconut vanilla bean ‘ice cream’, toasted coconut tuile, and black pepper-marionberry coulis
• Avery Samael’s (old ale/English strong ale)

I prepared some materials on the styles represented here to give the diners, especially the new beer drinkers, some context about what it was they were sipping. 

There’s a lot to love on this menu.  My favorites from the food were the cornmeal crusted squash blossom and the apricot and onion flatbread.  The squash blossom was crunchy on the outside and soft and rich on the inside, putting aside any doubt I had about whether ‘cheese’ could ever stand up to cheese.  The flatbread was sweet and tart, a perfect pairing for the super-tart gueuze that was served alongside it.

Of the beers, I loved the Red Barn (on of two favorites from the saison tasting), the Beatification (which I acquired a new respect for at this dinner), the Supplication (my all-time favorite from Russian River), and the Samael’s (definitely a night-ender, but oh so good). 

Samael’s was the only one that was new to me on the menu.  It’s an oak-aged English-style strong ale, meaning that it is dark, rich, and highly alcoholic (14.5% ABV).  It could easily replace brandy or cognac as an after dinner digestif.  The aroma was magnificent, carrying many of the same notes apparent in the taste, and I just sat there cupping it in my hands for several seconds breathing it all in.  My first thought on tasting it was oak (vanilla, woodiness, slight mustiness), but the more I sipped it, the less I tasted the oak and the more I tasted tropical fruits.  It was a very different fruit flavor from the fruits conjured by Belgian esters, which often taste like bananas, apples, pears, or citrus.  As I was trying to put my finger on what kind of ‘different’ fruit it was, strawberry came to mind first for its sweetness.  However, this was actually a quite a bit more lush and less tart a flavor than strawberries, and I eventually settled on tropical fruits more generally and papaya specifically.  Papayas have a muskiness and a lack of tartness, that I think fit this flavor well. 

Talking to other people around the room, it was clear that while there were definitely some other beer geeks there, there were also a fair number of vegetarians and other Millennium regulars who had come for the food, not necessarily the beer.  I loved this because it meant our numbers are expanding slowly but surely as we win over all the different foodie niches.  Long live beer!