Nom de Bier – Samuel Smith Yorkshire Stingo by William Shakespeare

This is entry #1 in the series “Nom de Bier” – good beer reviewed by famous authors (as emulated by me). I do not claim to speak for these authors, nor am I an expert scholar in their particular style, so please feel free to correct/admonish as you see fit.

Beer Review – Samuel Smith Yorkshire Stingo (barrel aged)
Style: English Strong Ale
ABV: 8.0%
IBU: 30-35

By: William Shakespeare

Sonnet CLV

From bottom where Eros did spring his Sting,
Through much bubbly affair rose sweet head, O;
But focus nay on bubbles should the tale sing,
Instead in oaken planks dark fruits do grow.
A Smith named Sam, a hero born into
Malten cavalcades proceeding to tun;
Man and Nature together set to brew,
And what yeast embark may ne’er be undone.
An odd thing though this, partly tongues note sour –
By work of raisins and spry, teeming wood –
It dances reliquary, somber, dour;
As if mourning a time long passed, lost good.
A tribute, nay, an homage aged old,
Captured in glass, for you to pour, to hold.

Sonnet CLVI

That god not settled with simple ale bliss
Sought more beyond what tradition limits,
As sailors once set eyes on ambergris,
So too did Smith on the cooper’s habit.
And O! How the amber flowed from slick steel,
Down and round bent staves to beer bellies bound,
And here it stayed, a year, flavor made real:
The hold of a ship, full of beer, run ‘ground.
That year much did swirl for yeast finds sleep rare,
And what once was beer in tree’s brace did find
Notes, smells unfettered now but palate fair,
And bitter music played in time with rind.
If one sought brown or pale or stout sweet woe
For neither, nor, and none, this strong ale show.

Sonnet CLVII

Elements conjured forth through Water pure
A tincture; Fire’s bane and Earth’s lament.
On Air life gulped sweet life shy of demure,
And found in liquid our Spirit’s repent.
Ask one now, she, ‘should imbibe or abstain?’
‘All depends’ answer they, ‘what dost thou seek?’
From life from this place, melodic refrain?
Or days left unfulfilled, the same, so weak?
If the latter, fly now, Smith wants you not;
Much rather he’d have a soul gilded bold.
So into your life cast Gambler’s lot
A chance you should take, on true Yorkshire gold.
But also weigh Eros, mission love born,
And weigh too, ones headache come morrow, come morn.

Grammarian’s note: I went with sonnets over a play for brevity’s sake, and because I prefer rhymed iambic pentameter to blank verse. I started with CLV (155) as Shakespeare’s final sonnet was CLIV (154). The structure for a sonnet is 12 rhyming quatrains (ABAB CDCD EFEF) with a single rhyming (GG) couplet as the closing. For more information, check out the basics of his style: http://www.shakespeare-online.com/faq/writingstyle.html

Beer Review: Southern Tier Warlock

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

Does a Beer by any Other Name Smell as Hoppy?

My mother (who is the single greatest host in the history of humanity) always makes sure her house is stocked with the proper foodstuffs to meet the dietary restrictions of any incoming guests. Cognizant of my strictly Beeratarian diet, she often asks me what to buy so that her fridge is full of the proper bottles to sustain me over a long weekend.

While she encourages my hobbies, she is not a craft beer person. I’m pretty sure her favorite beer is Woodbridge Chardonnay.

Our latest beer-buying phone call went like this (read my mom’s lines with a northern British accent):

Mom: “OK, I’m at the beer store.”
Oliver: “OK.”
Mom: “What do you want? They have so many.”
Oliver: “Something new. What looks good?”
Mom: “Hmmm, here’s one with a Union Jack. Eye, pea, aye. Want that one?”
Oliver: “Is it Yards? That one is good, but I’ve had it.”
Mom: “Yea! Yards! OK. How about…Raging Bitch? ::laughs:: Belgian?”
Oliver: “Yep, Flying Dog, that’s good, but I’ve had it. What else?”
Mom: “Hmmm…Pearl…Pearl Necklace? Oh my. ::laughs:: Oysters? Ew.”
Oliver: ::laughs:: “Yep, had that one too.”
Mom: “You’ve had all of them. OK, what about this one. Arrogant Bastard?”

She turns to apologize to someone in the store, which I hear through the phone, slightly muffled: “Oh no, sorry. I’m telling my son about the different beers.”

Mom: “It says oak. Oaked. Is that good?”
Oliver: “Yea, that means they age it in wood.”
Mom: “Wood? Like from trees? Ugh. So you want that one? The Arrogant Bastards? Not the Raging Bitches or the Pearl Necklaces?”
Oliver: “Yea, the Arrogant Bastard, thanks!”
Mom: “Fits you well.”

That my mom was basically NSFW and a verbal menace to nearby children while listing off beer names made me wonder how and why we name beers the way we do.

Some names are clearly the result of marketing so ham-fisted that it would be illegal in a Kosher butcher (I’m looking at you, Bud Light Lime Straw-Ber-Rita). Others are clever plays on larger themes that span an entire brewery’s line-up, like the Flying Dog brews (posthumously approved by Hunter S. Thompson): In-Heat, Doggie Style, and Horn-Dog.

Some (a lot) are deliciously bad puns using the word “hop”, others a brewery specific piece of history. Some are overstated to the point of punching you in the face with descriptors, others barely catching a wandering drunken eye with their simplicity. Many don’t have anything to do with beer at all. Most don’t reflect the quality of the beer trapped behind a thin layer of glass and even thinner piece of paper.

So, beyond introducing taster to tastee and putting on display style and flavor, what purpose does a name serve? Is it just a way for a brewery to identify themselves as a company? To pop, with alarm and surprise, into the eyes of a potential drinker like a mean-drunk jack-in-the-box who really enjoys scaring people because he got beat up a lot as a kid?

Or is it something more? Is it a cultural IV tapped into the vein of society, pumping in charm and whimsy and wit where such things have clearly become deficient? Are breweries, with nothing but an enthusiastic marketing team and a label printer, reviving the drollery of Shakespeare and Donne that used to roll so delightfully from ours tongues?

Recent legal spats over logos and branding suggest, at least to me, that there is some serious pride attached to a brewery’s image; some deep, emotional connection of man to beer that is woven into artistic and omnastic design. I think it sinks deeper into craft beer culture than a widget into a can of Boddingtons. Without a name, the beer has no identity. Without an identity, the beer has no soul.

If you woke up tomorrow, head brewmaster of a national craft beer company, what would you name your beer? Would it be something eye-ball-burning or embarrassing to say out loud, or would it be something simple and timeless, like an homage to the Olympian gods? Would you aim to entertain, or offend, or extoll?

Because really, what’s in a name? That which we call a beer by any other name would taste as great.

So oaked, you can taste the wood grain (in a good way).