What's In a Damn Label?

Another Canucks victory, another King Heffy purchase. Coincidence?

No.

But I digress.

This weekend was quite busy for Mrs. Damnbeerblogger and me. Right after work on Saturday we headed out for a spot of camping in Goldstream which involved a little Begbie Nasty Habit, a smoky campfire and the discovery that my sleeping bag was as useful at retaining warmth as damp single-ply Kirkland toilet paper. It. Was. Cold.

In the morning, with my testicles retracted up to somewhere in the region of my pancreas, we had a big feed of fish-tomato-curry (better than it sounds) and went for a long run.

Two things happened on this run which were surprising. Firstly, I was slightly faster than the Missus (which is like Notorious B.I.G.'s corpse outrunning Hussein Bolt) and, secondly, I experienced my first "runner's high". Basically, this phenomenon is caused by a release of endorphins when the body undergoes muscular distress. Alternatively, you could just have a nice beer, and your legs don't hurt the next day.

Post-run, I always feel like I've earned a beer or two. Or, like, lots. My first selection was based off a recent review over at left4beer.

It provides me with endless mirth to think that Ian and I are lumped into the same category as "beer reviewers". The difference, as I see it, is akin to that between the theatre critic who's seen every major broadway production and is friends with all the great directors, and the guy who shouts, "Look behind you Mr. Caesar!" while spilling his large popcorn in all directions. Which one do you think I am?

Anyway, Ian took on a porter from Wolf brewing up in Nanaimo and he liked it, and when he likes something, it's like Mikey from the Life cereal commercials liking something. As such, I thought I'd give another brew from Wolf the oul' going-over: their Red Brick IPA.

First off, this is not a new beer. As you may or may not be aware, Fat Cat Brewing has been bought out and the new owners are re-branding their beers, while keeping the recipes largely the same.

As you can see, it's the difference between Snagglepuss and the one of hearaldic crests from HBO's Game of Thrones. So we go from Chester Cheetah to mechanized infantry flag, and I'm of two minds about it.

On the one hand, the Fat Cat labelling was dangerously cheezy, but at least it was light-hearted and semi-interesting. Wolf seems pretty generic: oh look, the bottles come in different colours. But it's a bit too serius bizness for me. So how's the beer?

Pretty good actually. No surprises here: it's a pretty solid West-Coast IPA without being overly floral. Think apricot and coppery malts. Certainly worth a try.

For dessert though, I'm going to need something bigger. After all, we haven't advanced to the third round since the Winnipeg Jets were still around. Time for something from my favourite 'Murican brewery: Southern Tier.

But first, a word. If you don't already follow the Penny Farthing Liquor Store on twitter, I highly suggest you do so.

This is a great little store, with a nice selection of beers. Seeing as it's in Oak Bay, fully 7/8ths of the store is dedicated to sherry and Blue Nun, but the beer section is great: lots of Rogue, full Howe Sound lineup, Choklat, Baird, you name it. There were even two fairly forlorn-looking bottles of Anchor Brewing's Christmas Ale.

I got this.

Yum.

Girls Who Drink Beer Rule. The End.

There are a number of reasons that I fell in love with and married my wife. Chief among them, she'd have me.

But there's more than just this bizarre blind spot to an otherwise entirely intelligent person. Wifelet is funny, brilliant, musical, highly-organized, sensitive, sweet-natured, cute, athletic, environmentally-conscious and smart. I'm just ginger. She smells good, she learned to drive stick so we wouldn't have to buy a boring automatic-transmission when we downsized to one vehicle, and guess what? She drinks beer.

One evening last week, I was sitting here surfing the internet randomly and looked up when she said, "Oh wow, this is really interesting!"

"What's that?"

"This Singularity I bought."

*Swoon*

There are many things that make a woman attractive to me. Firstly, yoga pants. Sweet baby Jeebus, Chip Wilson may have turned out to be a heartless business-person who sold out as fast as he could, but that man single-handedly accomplished the greatest leg-related service to mankind since that one guy cured polio.

More important than that though, is a woman who's real. Women who drink craft beer aren't your high-maintenance, gold-diggin', big-lipped white-wine-spritzer-sippin' botoxers. They're also not your bubble-headed Smirnoff cooler types. The ladies of craft beer aren't chicks, broads, or dames: they're women, and they're sexy as Hell.

So what do you bring home when your lady is more about stouts than fur stoles? Why, chocolate of course.

This is Southern Tier's Choklat Imperial Stout, and it's immense. It's also not just for me, it's for the Wifelet too. She likes beers a little different from my usual hop-heavy Super-IPAs. This one's no wimp though: 11% ABV and pure chocolate. The pairing? A Marks&Sparks almond shortbread biscuit. Unbelievable.

Oh, and if you're wondering, this brew is only available at The Strath. Follow Lon on twitter, he's got great selection.

It's my opinion that the success of CAMRA-YVR is due in no small part to the number of double-X chromosomes on the executive. Clive's boasts an all-female-brewer collaborative brew, Smokin' Cherry Bomb Saison, coming up on the 28th of this month. Hit up any craft-beer location and you'll see just as many women as bearded hipsters. It's just more proof that it's a great time to be a craft beer enthusiast in BC.

Bad Day, Good Beer

What a crap day.

Miserable damp weather, dragged into work early where there's nothing but a litany of complaints to sort-out, car dropped off to be fixed and returned slightly more broken, and when I went to get my lunch I got stuck behind some addled twit who insisted on arguing with the clerk for twenty-five minutes about the fact that the cherry pound-cake he was trying to buy wasn't on sale when the regular kind was (a savings of $0.79, I might add), and when I tried to switch lanes 400,000,000 people appeared at both other tills, all with carts brimming as though they were shopping for the Apocalypse.

But during the whole rotten day (slightly mitigated by the catharsis of beating a man to death with his own pound-cake), there was one shining beacon waiting for me at home. What kept me going? I knew I had beer in the fridge, and what's more, not just any beer.


This is Southern Tier's Unearthly Imperial IPA, and it tastes like a backrub feels. If life has handed you a great big drawing of a raised middle finger all day, coming home to crack one of these babies is like giving the ethereal etch-a-sketch a big ol' shake. Suddenly, All Is Well Again, and you can relax in a golden cloud of hops and lysed brain cells.

If you have not tasted this beer, then please download an iPhone app so that I can reach out over the Interwebs and slap you in the face. Then, go to your local private store (as you won't find it at the BCLDB) and buy one. Buy several, in case of emergency (shout-out to Cook St Liquor for carrying it).

Somehow, Southern Tier has created a beer that's packed with more hops than a rabbit smoothie but carries none of the bitterness you'd expect. It's a citrusy, chewy, stewy juggernaut that packs a wallop but never stings or bites, like being round-house kicked in the face by Chuck Norris while he's wearing cotton-candy slippers.

Unearthly indeed: with every sip, I can feel the accumulated slings and arrows of this earthly plane washing away, leaving only the transcendent carbonation of a well-made beer.


"Setting at eye-level with Snorri Sturluson
Who has come to bathe in a hot spring
And sit through the stillness after milking time
Laved and ensconced in the throne-room of his mind."
-Seamus Heaney