10 Reasons Victoria is a Kick-Ass Beer Town: #6 Phillips Brewing

Note: This is the start of a new series on YADBB, listing the best beery things about the place I live. It's not in any order, which is why I'm starting at #6 with Phillips. Doing things out of order like this virtually ensures that I'm going to get muddled and end up with two #3 spots. So be it.

Today is the third week since I started this blog, and we're sitting at 1500 pageviews. Not bad! Pass the link around, as always. I'm also happy to announce that a version of these meandering and beer-soaked writings will soon be appearing in the North Shore News periodically, right up until they start getting too many letters of complaint. Which shouldn't take too long.

But enough self-congratulatory fiddle-faddle, let's talk beer.


Possibly the greatest thing that happened as a result of my wife Katie and I moving from Vancouver to Victoria is that we increased our proximity to Phillips brewing. Not that we couldn't find their excellent beers in the big Smoke; in fact, I fondly remember the days when you could still get Phoenix Lager in stubbies and the cases were stamped "Imported From Esquimalt".

But now, the Phillips brewery is a scant 10 minutes away, and we can pop in and have a 2L growler filled with fresh-drawn, draft-style beer for all of ten bucks. Bargain.

So, thinking to celebrate the steady flow of traffic to YADBB (what, are you people all brain-damaged or something? Oh, that's right, you're probably all just drunk) I selected and rinsed a likely pair out of our growler collection, chucked 'em in the Soob and booted it.

Empty growlers. Sad panda. Yes, that is a growler cozy. What, you don't have one? *tsk*

Matt Phillips is basically the Kevin Smith of brewing. Both couldn't get financing to follow their dreams, so both maxed-out credit cards and cut corners to create masterworks. Matt slept in his brewery and made deliveries in an old Subaru, and to be honest I don't see what all the fuss is about because I'd be perfectly happy to sleep in a brewery and I drive an old Subaru now, and it's not in any pursuit of some damn dream.

Anyway, thus was born Clerks and the original Phillips beer lineup including Phoenix and some other ones which I'm too lazy to look up right now. However, then Kevin Smith went on to make Jersey Girl, and up until Phillips releases a Hobo-Urine seasonal, I'm going to say their careers have diverged somewhat.

Roll into the parking lot at the Government Street brewery, and your nostrils are immediately tantalized by the smell of the mash tuns. It's twice as good as the smell of baking bread, and quite frankly, I'm not sure why real-estate agents don't set up homebrew equipment when they're having an open-house.

Step in the door and again you'll find something special. The front retail part of the brewery is set up as a kind of art studio, and functions from time to time as a space where you can rub elbows with artists and brewers and beery guys like me. They're launching some new beers tomorrow, don't miss it.

You'll also notice a coupla taps and a chalkboard showing what's growling today. Talk to Bill, a guy who's as nice as he is hirsute (which is a lot, fyi), and he'll be happy to fill yer bucket with some of Victoria's finest suds.



I picked myself out a Hop-Circle and a coffee stout for those late night deadlines, and bumped into Deebs, the brewer. He was absconding with an interesting-looking 12-pack, and when I checked the fridge, I found even more booty.

Check out this haul:
What noise? Oh, that's just my liver, screaming. Quiet, you!

Any road, for a hop-head like me, this beery cornucopia was akin to checking your phone and unexpectedly getting naked texts from Jessica Alba. Or from Brett Farve, if you're into elderly micro-peen. Either way, score!

Here's the bombers, a triumvirate of Hoppy Tripel, Malty Imperial Red and Ginger Beer (the replacement for Gentleman Jim):
But what about the contents of that inscrutable cube? Not since the Borg has a square object been more filled with dangerous mystery....

What a lineup! It's the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition for hops. We've got the ever-popular Hop-circle and Skookum, the fresh hop ale Grow-Hop (which Deeb says will be rotating with whatever is the current seasonal hop, so centennial right now) and the "guest" beer, a rye IPA called Krypton, which I'm currently drinking. It's as tasty as Lex Luthor is villainous (not the lame Gene Hackman version). My house now has more hops than a Texan rabbit sanctuary.

So let me just recap: local, fresh beer readily available and basically the same price as the corporation's swill; a strong community presence and sponsorship of local events; friendly, hairy staff; a dedication to brewing great beer; and last but not least, a plethora of seasonals, experimental beers and a general willingness to try new things. Plus, they like My Little Pony.

Phillips, we salute thee. Bottoms up!

Friday Night's Alright For (beer) Fighting: Taking Suggestions For Battle Royale 4

EDIT: @sticklebract has come up with the "S'Macro Smackdown", a slugfest for the small macro-breweries like Okanagan Springs, etc. Now to select a champion for each: coming Friday!

The countdown has already started to the next Battle Royale but, sadly, my beer fridge appears to have been stocked by the Mother Hubbard Delivery Company Ltd.. As in, there's nothin' interesting in there. I therefore turn to you, erstwhile reader, to give this poor dog a bone: help me out with a pair o' brews I can throw down for an epic show-down.

So what would you like to see? U.S. vs. Canada in a gold medal beer action? A pair of Belgian blondes mudwrestling? (hey, get yer mind outta the gutter) Something silly like Lucky Lager vs Dogfish Head 90min? What about some draft-beer dodgeball?

Please leave a suggestion in the comments section, send me an e-mail, or fire something over to me on Twitter.

The winning suggestion will receive whatever Keith's IPA I still have in my fridge. Or, I dunno, what else have I got around here... uh, a Red Racer toque, maybe? Or a firm handshake. Anyways, something, I promise.

Watch Friday to see who enters the ring.

Super Bowl First Down: Dead Frog Citra IPA

I have to say, I like American football. It's brash and noisy and fast-paced and is probably what cavemen played before they discovered ice hockey. But I don't follow it regularly, so I have a hard time picking a team when it comes to Super Bowl time.

Picking a beer to quaff during the commercials, though, comes easier. Yes, it's another damn IPA (sorry Sports Andy).

I first had a glimpse of what Dead Frog brewing could put out after attending a CAMRA event at the now-defunct Dix's in Yaletown. There were something like six IPAs available that evening -the memory is hazy, and no wonder- but a standout for me was a heavily-hopped version of Dead Frog's Nut Brown Ale.

Since then, though, it's been pretty tame stuff: the most interesting thing about the Aldergrove-based Brewery was their silly name and the catchphrase, "Nothing goes down like a cold dead frog." That might be true if you're a Frenchman with a busted microwave, but for me, I'm picking a beer that's still capable of leaping off the lily-pad and onto my taste-buds.

However, here comes another big-beer series from a brewery not previously known for experimental stylings. It's Dead Frog's Citra IPA and it has a label that's about as subtle as T-Pain's dental work:
I mean, honestly. Liberace could wear that as a belt buckle.

But who cares? The last beer I drank with a silly label was Lighthouse's Deckhand, and it was agreed by all involved to be excellent, despite the cartoonish lady lumps. Speaking of lady lumps, that half-time show was the biggest outrage visited on music since Simon Cowell was spawned. I very nearly pulled a double Van Gogh with a butter-knife.

There are now more types of IPAs out there than there are versions of Wiz Khalif's "Black and Yellow"; so many that it's hard to remember what the original was like. This one is crammed with Citra hops: a hybrid variety consisting of 50% German Hallertauer Mittelfrüh, 25% U.S. Tettnanger and 25% East Kent Golding, German, Brewers Gold, and other unknown hops. If that sounds book-smart, I just copied-and-pasted it off of Left4Beer. Imitation, flattery, etc.

Anyways, this beer has a nose like Cyrano de Bergerac and an aftertaste as astringent as chewing partially cured leather (or as bitter as a Steelers fan, as it turns out). It's fantastic!

Dead Frog Citra IPA
Recommended if:
-you want a Dead Frog that still Hops
-you own a cubic zirconium tie pin
-you enjoy chewing black tea leaves

Not Recommended if:
-you like your beer to be like lager leftover from St. Patrick's day: flat, green and flavourless
-all your pimp chalices are in the dishwasher
-you're still a Black Eyed Peas Fan, because then you don't have any taste

New, But Any Damn Good? VIB Double-Decker IPA

If you were to ask any of my friends to describe me, they'd say, "Brendan? Total car nut." Then, if pressed for more details, they might add, "Oh, he's got red hair too." So it shouldn't surprise you to hear that I spent my entire day today running over to the mainland to get progressive-rate lowering springs and Koni inserts installed in my jalopy by a specialist. Result? It's like a new car, but most importantly, it was able to use its enhanced cornering abilities to get me back in time to grab a six of Vancouver Island's new beer: Double-Decker IPA.


I wasn't quite in time to hit VIB's store, but after bleating out a call for assistance, I was reminded of the little gem that is the Penny Farthing liquor store, which I always forget about, and never fails to stock at least one beer I couldn't find anywhere else. Yes, you do have to navigate Oak Street Village and its suicidal octogenarians that dart out in front of you (dart is perhaps too strong a word), but hey, at least brittle bones don't mark up the paintwork much. It's like worrying about colliding with meringue.

I'm a bit confused about how to feel about Vancouver Island Brewing. On one hand, I have fond memories of scouring Vancouver for the few cases of Hermannator Icebock that ever made it over, at one point forcing a dejected BCLDB store employee to hand over the flat he'd hidden in the back for himself (I felt bad and left him one case). But on the other hand, I've got a friend who insists on using another term for their Sea Dog when ordering, which is a bit off-putting. And, I don't mean sailor.

So pints of Seaman aside, I consider VIB to be Victoria's Granville Island Brewing. Both were (weirdly) founded in 1984, both have a full and varied lineup, and both have paved the way for upstarts like Driftwood and Phillips to come bounding on the scene with crazy beers like Singularity and Hop Circle. So can Vancouver Island Brewing put out a beer that competes with the whippersnappers? Well, as it turns out, yes.

Oh bugger, I've spoiled the rest of the review.

Well, for those of you still reading, there are two things you need to know. First, be prepared for the inevitable endless onslaught of babbling about the brewery mixing Victoria's English roots with westcoast brashness to produce a blend of old and new. Those red double-decker buses are now chiefly used by tour companies to ferry about ancient and foamy-boned tourists, while anybody actually going anywhere takes a bus that's more Star Trek shuttle than Coronation Street. Never mind twee references to tradition and heritage and all that claptrap. This beer needs to stand on its merits alone.

Second, if you're looking for a beer that's hoppier than a crack-addled Bugs Bunny, look elsewhere. This is not an IPA version of an extreme sport, where the volume knob goes up to eleven and you can't come first unless you fracture something. Rather, this beer is a gentleman's sporting event. Like cricket. Or philandering.

As it says in the sidebar, there are many great beer-blogs out there that will deal with a beer review by assigning a rating, drawing comparisons and listing tasting notes. So make sure you wait for Ian's take on it at Left4Beer, or check out what Dan will have to say over at the Small Beer Blog. You really should be reading these guys anyway.


All I can tell you, without reference to mouthfeel or anything like that, is that I liked it. It was not dissimilar to the Propeller IPA I had last week in that it tasted nearly like something Fuller's or another English brewer would make. As you can tell from the colour, there's a lot of malt in there, but the crispness that rests on the palate isn't of the same everything-else-now-tastes-like-styrofoam intensity of a Dogfish Head 90min, just a nice dry finish like the tannins in a cup of strong black tea. It's also insanely drinkable and smooth, and there's something just out of reach, like a hint of Teutonic brewing influence. There might be a German spy in the O.A.S.

Vancouver Island Brewing Double Decker IPA
Recommended if:
-you're taking public transit home from the pub
-you favour smoothness over intensity
-you were weaned on Islander Lager

Not recommended if:
-you're Kevin Falcon
-you're looking for hop salad in a bottle
-you're Kriss or Kross

A Brief Mathematical Explanation of the Theory of Delta-B

What contemptible scoundrel has stolen the cork to my lunch?
---W.C. Fields



Two summers ago, I took some courses in SFU's publishing program. I say "courses", they were actually immersives, and the difference is akin to that between taking a quick shower and, say, drowning. For two weeks, I was thrown together from 8a.m. til the wee hours o' the morning with a group of book-world miscreants in an ever-increasing Lord Of The Flies scenario until Piggy finally got hit in the head with a styrofoam rock and fell off the cliff. I was Piggy.

Actually, I'm just joking: we all got along famously and are now all connected on facebook, whatever that's worth. It was a crucible out of which we all emerged like spectral beings and beautiful butterflies and soaring eagles and.... shit. [/Emily Howard].

I also made an important discovery.

During the lunch break, we would often pop across the street to Steamworks in the old railway station, there to sooth our battered intellects and nosh on burgers and fries. And, inevitably, we'd all have a pint, and once or twice two.

It was about this time I noticed something curious. While before lunch we were as collectively productive as a hive of bees that've just attended a Tony Robbins seminar, our post-lunch output was both greatly reduced and frequently filled with gibberish. In a fit of genius, the idea of Delta-B leapt into my hazy brain. Thus:
Where delta-b is the not the point at which beer is consumed, but where it starts to take effect.
The original graph, drawn on a corner of the classroom chalkboard was so universally admired that it made its way into the following year's course catalogue (without any explanatory caption). I count it among my greatest achievements.

Penance.

Note: Just rolled over 1000 page-views on the counter! Many thanks to all who read and comment, and special thanks to the nice folks who brew me my delicious fizzy Medicine. No beer today, but a post to mark the occasion nonetheless.


The woman gazing pensively out into the misty beyond in this picture is my lovely wife, and ninety-nine percent of the time, she is kind and loving and wonderful beyond words. I am perfectly aware that I have many faults, chief among them the inability to organize my way out of a wet paper bag even when provided with a giant pair of pruning shears, a headlamp, and a large-print edition of the book "Organizing Your Way Out Of Wet Paper Bags For Useless, Bumbling, Incompetent, Pea-Brained, Blithering Idiots: A Pop-up Book".

If she ever leaves me, it will be about ten minutes before I'll be found dead, curled up in the fetal position in a pool of my own drool, vomit and urine.

So ninety-nine percent of the time, she's great, and my heart leaps about in my chest like a gaffed salmon just thinking about how much I love her. However. HOWEVER. One percent of the time I go running with her, and then the bubbly sweet-natured girl I married turns into something that makes Pol Pot look like a recess lady. Forced death march doesn't even come close. You can see from the picture that the rock surface we are descending is as slippery and dangerous as Charlie Sheen. She made me run down it, and then run back up it again, even after I'd already climbed up the other side of the mountain (it's Mt. Finlayson, local peeps).

But even here I appreciate her for the prodding, while she leaps up the hillside like a deranged mountain goat and I labour on behind, tomato-faced and apoplectic, because without it, I wouldn't really get any exercise. And with apologies to Left4Beer and his studies around the health effects of drinking beer, and taking the general view that a beer now and then lowers my stress levels back down to a more-manageable DEFCON 3, there is only one thing I absolutely know about the physical effects of drinking beer: it makes you fat.

It has been clinically proven, without shadow of a doubt, that if you drink enough beer regularly, you will turn into Zach Galifianakis. After he's just eaten John Goodman. Deep-fried. Except you won't be funny.

And given that I have the build of a teenage Laotian ladyboy, I can't really carry any extra poundage unless I want to resemble a burlap sack full of suet that somebody's stuck four pipe-cleaners into. So today is a beer-free day, and tomorrow I have to go for a run, and Friday I should probably do a long bike ride, and maybe by Saturday I can think about cracking open something delicious (suggestions? Howe Sound, perchance?).

However, I'm happy to do Penance for my beery sins since the good craft brewers of B.C. continue to tempt with lascivious hoppiness. Ooh, that reminds me! Naughty Hildegaard soon?

Hot Damn of the Week: Red Racer ESB Falconer's Blend Cask

There is a certain element of scavenger hunt in any beer enthusiast, and I'm no exception. While we're pretty much spoilt for choice in Victoria with five or six local craft breweries all producing little brown bottles full of deliciousness, I read Red Racer's twitter about an upcoming cask at the Beagle with the same trembling anticipation as a methamphetamine addict unexpectedly finding a fifty dollar bill. Then I found out they were tapping it two hours before I got off work and I had a spaz-attack like that same meth-head realizing the fifty was actually monopoly money. I may have punched out an old lady.

Still, a man who can craft a sou'wester out of Post-Its is not about to be fettled by the constraints of space and time. Acting in secret, I first re-tweeted to the effect that the Beagle doesn't open until 9 p.m. on Tuesdays. Having stalled for time, I then sent forth nefarious agents to secure the precious like I lived in New Zealand and my name was Sauron.

Success (clearly)! The last pint in the place was waiting for me in a hidden fridge behind the bar, which should tell you two things:
1) It pays to have friends at your local pub.
and
2) The only way to gain access to good beer is lots and lots of drinking. Liver transplant, please!

So what about the beer? Well, Cask Ales are the holy grail of the brewing world: mention an upcoming cask to a member of the Campaign For Real Ale, and they'll immediately have to sit down or hold a cushion in front of them to hide a sudden concupiscence. As such, I was on that isht like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible IV (the one where he brainwashes ex-cast-members of Dawson's Creek before harvesting their souls).

And my wire-assisted gymnastics were worth it: Central City does not disappoint. The smooth, dry-hopped tweaking of their excellent ESB was an Extra Special Bitter indeed. Apparently, the cask sold out in just over an hour, which is pretty good for a town where everybody has to be in bed with a Barbara Cartwright novel by seven.

The Central boys are hitting the bars with tactical casks regularly. Add 'em to your twitter-feed and check off that box on your scavenger hunt list. Getting your picture taken with a policeman optional.