A Kilt Made of Grass Leaves

I'd wager this is the only bottle of Innis & Gunn on the whole island of Oahu. Well, was the only bottle.

This libation is a little treat I promised myself weeks ago as a reward for hitting the magic 2000 page hits and 100 twitter followers. Unfortunately the following happened:

Teh Interwebs: "You have 100 Followers!"

Self: "Hooray!"

*runs to fridge*

Self (reaching for bottle opener): "Well, I'd really like to thank my Mom, and Jeebus, and.. uh..."

Teh Interwebs: "You have 99 Followers!"

Self: "What!?!?"

Teh Interwebs: "You have 100 Followers!"

Self: "Yes, well. Yeah. That's right. 100, baby! Wooo! Wooo...."

Teh Interwebs: "You have 98 Followers!"

Self: "What!?!? No no no, I didn't mean that vegan thingy!"

Teh Interwebs: "You have 97 Followers!"

Self: "Brrraaaaaaaaaaaghgghghhghhgh!"

After a little Crying Game style shower-sobbing, I returned to the keyboard, determined not to be over-eager again, but to instead maintain a solid lead before claiming victory. It was worth it.

If you'd like to hear a fair-n'-balanced review of Innis & Gunn's Highland Cask, head over to Ian's place for a nice assessment of its honeyed character. For me, I must confess that the delicious oaky overtones so familiar in an I&G offering were also tinged with the tincture of victory. Additionally, I'm on holiday and having just visited the Arizona memorial, I was greeted by a Navy band playing the Hawaii 5-0 theme. As Jim Ribble says, "You can't make this stuff up!"

Truly though, it's not so much a personal accomplishment as a tip o' the hat to thee, noble reader. As a sometime journalist, I'm ever-cognizant that a writer is nothing without an audience. In fact, emblazoned above my keyboard is the motto, "Nobody has to read this crap," a lesson well-learned from Tim Radford.

So to you, who lends legitimacy to my drunken ramblings by actually reading them, a bend of the elbow, and a hearty Sláinte! My original 100th follower, @hilaryipes will be getting a special beery-type present from me.

For those of you numbering between 101-150, I've got good news. Using the hallowed tradition of eenie-meenie-minie, one of you is getting a present too. Stay tuned.

Now, here are a bunch of ducks. One of them looks like the Hamburglar.

The Best Little Beerhouse in Hawai'i

Look what a pathetic haole I am, trying to spell Hawaii with an apostrophe and everything, like I was a local. I may be the whitest person in creation.

Anyway, if there's one complaint about living in a tropical paradise (and I turned pro at Complaining a long time ago), it's that the micro-beer culture here is pretty invisible. Let's be polite and call it nascent. However, I've remarked before on the scavenger hunt nature of your average beerthusiast, and just because my brain is on holiday doesn't mean my liver is. Far from it.

A bit of careful googling resulted in a path being beaten to the Liquor Collection, a shoebox-sized store that has a heart of pure beer. And they have fine wines and stuff. Who cares.

Admittedly, it did require a little navigation to get there (Honolulu was apparently laid out be a guy with a spirograph), the traffic was terrible, and the music on the only reasonably-good radio station kept getting interrupted by DJ Tokesalot trying to string his four remaining tar-coated synapses in line long enough to read the surf report. "Hey, so... there's- what? Oh yeah."

Thirty seconds of silence.

"Dude?"

Anyway, here's the haul:

I know dan has laid out a field guide to beer bloggers already, and this falls firmly in the reprehensible Trophy-Hunter category, but just look! Pick of the litter? Probably the Basha, or maybe the Idiot IPA. You are what you drink. I left more on the shelf too: Delerium Tremens, Infinium, Abyss and some more crazy Beerdog stuff. I gave the proprietor my best Arnie impersonation. He thought I was asking for a bock.

Also, how cool is this: they give you a buck off for buying "real" beer, and they don't carry Coors. Rad.

Penance. Volume 2

There are 244 steps here. I know. I counted them.

So here's the painful truth about beer: it's probably the quickest way to make yourself fat. Given the carb content, the (my) inability to stop at just one, and the nature of alcohol metabolism (primarily converted to acetate immediately), beer is definitely an important part of the Dr. Nick Riviera diet for dangerously underweight individuals.

However, seeing as I haven't brought my mumu with me, there's still a way to have your cake-in-a-can and drink it too. See, there's no such thing as a beer belly. While excessive beer consumption may result in swapping your six-pack for a keg, you can simply balance it out with a little light exercise. Based on how much I consume, "light" exercise won't cut the dijonnaise.

Today's excursion was a 5 km hike in air of such high humidity, we were practically breathing water. In fact, I'm pretty sure I just saw Kevin Costner swim past the window. The reward was not a spectacular view, nor a rippling physique (although bits of me do ripple in the breeze), but the satisfaction that I earned my libation this eve.

Bit of a slog, though.

Aloha, You Poor Frozen Sods.

The first thing that hits you in Hawaii is the humidity. After leaving behind crisp air and snow-capped North Shore mountain vistas at YVR, the sweaty, hibiscus-scented Honolulu night instantly lets you know that there's a chilled bottle of lager out there, oozing fat beads of condensation like a corpulent secret agent undergoing interrogation.

But first things first. Minor mystery solved.

Q: when does a Molson Canadian actually taste good?

A: when served at 29000 feet. For free.

Remember when they fired all those people, and instead of benefits, Air Canada hired Celine Dion to come and ululate hypersonically to boost morale? Yes, well. Never failing to disappoint, Air Canada Flight whatever-it-was left the terminal an hour late with no hot water on board. As a sop to the hundreds crammed into a tube-shaped sardine can that was about to take to the air and spit in God's eye, we all got one free drink. Beer choices were Molson Canadian, which is pretty weak, or Heineiken, which is a Dutch word meaning "urine".

I went with the Molson.

You'll notice that I've paired "The Best Canada Has To Offer" with a roast beef sandwich. Air Canada has seen fit to interpret "roast beef sandwich" as "a loaf of bread cut in half and filled with an entire head of lettuce, some gristly meat from a cow that probably died before British Columbia entered the Dominion, and a slice of cheese so thin you could read the newspaper through it".

On the other hand, surrounded by squalling toddlers, breathing desiccating, recirculated air crammed with the flatulence of innumerable butts and drifting clouds of avian influenza, with the guy behind me kicking my seat like he was a retired Russian folk dancer and the lady on the left coughing like a tubercular Victorian, that beer tasted like dew from the Garden of Eden.

Anyway, I'm ensconced in Ohau now, and good news everyone! I've just been to the beer store.

Admittedly, there's not much in the way of Hawaiian beer out there. Here's a mixer six I just grabbed.

Nothing particularly special here except the coconut porter. It's delicious, and if you're stuck in an office reading this, why not drop by Swan's on your way home and knock back a pint of Victoria's own tropical mix on a wet-coast favourite?

Currently, I'm drinking a Torpedo from Sierra Nevada, and yes, I know, why bother with a Californian beer when in the tropics? But while I may be surrounded by lizards and birds of paradise and street signs with more vowels than consonants, Hawaii is America, and it gets all the good stuff from the mainland. This was a regular 9-buck sixpack.

I also have some Longboard Lager.

That ought to cover me for Sunday.

Stay tuned, I brought something special from a very cold place.

-Aloha

Damn Good: Moon Under Water

Note: This is not a stock picture. Katie took this shot just outside our door after we came home from the pub. Eerie.

It's not often that I can come home after a few pints and feel clear-headed enough to attempt a posting. My usual routine is to stagger up to the keyboard, full of muzzy ideas and high-test IPA and then collapse into darkness, waking to find my laptop coated with viscous drool, as if recently rescued from the lower intestine of a whale, and its screen filled with strings of gibberish like I've been typing with my elbows.

Not so tonight, as I've just returned from an excellent meal and a couple of session bevvies at Moon Under Water, the newest brewpub in Victoria.

I love the idea of a lower-alcohol session ale (in this case, a rich-tasting English Bitter). Don't get me wrong, I'm as much about monster IPAs as the next individual with a failing liver, but it's kind of hard to root for the 'Nucks in the third when you're lying on the floor, comatose. Not a problem at Moon Under Water though, where you can get a proper pint, brimmed expertly to a bulging meniscus (I hate being cheated out of beer by getting served three inches of foam), and the beer is as comforting as an episode of your favourite TV show, rather than akin to being round-house kicked in the face by Chuck Norris wearing cowboy boots doused in hop resin.

Also, there's proper pub food.

Now, admittedly, Moon Under Water's proprietors have been unable to resist the temptation to put something on the menu that involves aioli (it's mayonnaise, people) but the rest of the bill of fare is simple and hearty.

The above-pictured Toad-In-the-Hole was just the right pairing for the Bitter, being that it contained a full day's recommended serving of Brown, and was chock-full of warm mushy gooey gravyish deliciousness. If you listen carefully, you can hear the faint sounds of a vitamin crying softly to itself because it is all alone and has no friends. Dave says the burger is pretty good too.

I'm miffed to be missing the Sunday night roast and the launch of their Tranquility IPA. Don't you miss it too.

On the other hand, I was pleased to see a stack of labels behind the bar: bottles are on their way!

Hot Damn of the Week: Howe Sound Brewing's Megadestroyer

Note: I have tried to keep the blog relatively free from swears so that it would be safe to read with your children before you tuck them in bed with a nice milk-stout. It was very hard to do so with this one.

N'other Note: It has come to my attention that some vegans may become offended by a comment in this post. In response to such, may I just point out that this a blog where at one point I'm wearing a hat made of Post-Its?


I have a big soft spot in my heart for Howe Sound Brewing as it was there, a pint of Diamond Head stout on the table, that I witnessed Sidney Crosby's Golden Goal. It's in all the papers these days, the so-called unifying moment that galvanized the country and etc. Personally, my Oly games highlight was Jon Montgomery pwning a pitcher of beer. Still, there I was, wearing the decade-old t-shirt pictured above, leaping around like a deranged orangutan, slapping people on the back, hootin' and (I'm sorry to say) hollerin' and generally carrying-on. It was Epic.

Small wonder then, that a beer of such epic-ness would be put forth from the same place that saw us unified as a nation (i.e. as defined by victorious comparison to the Yanks). I'm making a new word up: Epic-centre. HSB is an epic-center.
Exhibit A: The Megadestroyer.

HSB puts a little swing-cap on their beer so that if you don't finish it all at once, then you can re-seal it for another day. Aw. Isn't that cute?

Obviously, they've never met me. If I have a soft spot in my heart for the brewery, then I have an extra lobe in my liver for Imperial Stouts, and I'm extra-excited to be trying this one with its licorice over-tones and big star anise nose. But there's a problem.

Megadestroyer doesn't just have a cool name, it comes with its own leather coaster. Want to see what happened to a regular coaster when I tried to set my beer down on it?
I haven't seen anything blister like that since the last time Mel Gibson accidentally trod on sacred ground.

I know I've said that this isn't going to be a beer-pairing blog, and that there are plenty of places to go if you'd like to use beer in some sort of fruity wine-guy thing where you have triple-creme brie and thin slices of granny smith apple and a gewurtztraminer (actually, that sounds pretty good), but there is something that can handle the epic-ness of the Megadestroyer.

Today is Valentine's day, and I've already launched one missive to the world about my amazing wife and her inexplicable amour for her fat lazy ginger husband, but here's a little glimpse as to what I'm talking about when I say she's an incredible woman. It was one of my Christmas presents:
Yes, that does say, "Bacon Jam".

On a relationship scale, this is not like John Cusack standing in the rain, holding a boom box over his head that's blasting Peter Gabriel's "In your Eyes". No, this is like Simon Pegg and Nick Frost doing the same sort of thing IN A TANK.

Being that I've now taken to calling anything good, "Baconjam", I'm happy to report that the Megadestroyer is indeed baconjam.

But wait, how do I pair the most Epic beer on the market with the most epic spreadable product on the market? I mean, you can't just smear pork on liquid, and believe me, I've tried. Wait, what if...
Oh yeah. Yeah I did.

So what does the combination taste like? Well, basically, It's dinosaur-flying-a-jet-plane awesome!

The Megadestroyer is as thick and rich as a rapper's widow, and the baconx2 pairs with it like Thor fighting demons with a hammer made of pig. Truly, it is the most epic pairing since Page and Plant, Morello and de la Rocha, John Mayer and John Mayer's Ego.

One thing: why do I have shooting pains up my left arm?

Howe Sound Brewing Megadestroyer Imperial Licorice Stout
Recommended if:
-you think Mastadon is appropriate dinner-party music
-you're Dutch. Ishn't that weird?
-you've watched an Olympic hockey game with Nigel's (of the Alibi Room) mother-in-law. I have.

Not recommended if:
-you own a Kenny G cd
-you think twizzlers only come in red
-you're a vegan. Because your feeble bones will melt.

Battle Royale No. 4: S'Macro Smackdown

One of the great joys about being a beer snob is finding yourself in line at the liquor store behind somebody carrying a cube of Labbatt Blue or similar and thinking to yourself, "I'm better than that person." Thus, you hoist your three bombers of dry-hopped, stone-fired, barrel-aged, lambic, trappist tripel on to the counter with a thump like that of a silverback gorilla beating its chest, fix their supermarket suds with a baleful look and exchange meaningful glances with the knowledgeable private-store clerk (what, shop at a BCLDB store? With the rest of the proletariat? I think Not.).

Then, when the huddled mass has shuffled off with their lump of corporate swill, you can bask in the glory of being asked, "Oh I didn't know we had this in yet, is it any good?" and respond with a three-part treatise on the sub-atomic nuances of bottle-conditioning. It's like heading out to a foreign film festival and seeing all the dullards lined up for the latest Twilight dreck. Endlessly satisfying.

The only problem with this state of affairs is that, at some point, you will be tempted to Offer A Suggestion to random bystanders. I have done so twice, and both times were spectacular failures. You know the setup: you're striding towards the beer-wall with purpose, seeking out the latest hop-filled delight that the local brewery's just tweeted about; they're standing there, slack-jawed and glazen of eye, overwhelmed by sheer variety. All quite innocent, up until you're seized by the impulse to swoop in and rescue the gape-mouthed peasantry with a brilliant display of Expertise.

The first time this happened to me, I accosted a pleasant-looking young couple who were filling a basket with a variety of singles, just as the girl was reaching for a bottle of Czechvar. "Oh, you'll find that a bit boring," I opined, "It's basically like Budweiser."

*GLARE* (uh-oh)

The young lady rounded on me like she was a Gorgon and I just had suggested she might have a snake or two in her hair. "I know!" she huffed, "That's my country's national beer, and it's my very favourite!" Whoopsie. mumble-mumble-mumble exit-stage-left

After a while I forgot that little incident and, naturally, the same sort of thing happened again. This time I overheard another couple looking for Lighthouse Keeper's Stout, which wasn't available. I bumbled in with "You could try the Okanagan Springs Porter," and received a frosty look and an "I don't like porters." Like a fly repeatedly smacking its head against a window, I persevered. "Well, what about [Nelson Brewing's] Blackheart Oatmeal Stout?" Response: "I don't like oatmeal." Um, ohhh-kay. After a while, they wandered off with some Guinness.

So here's a valuable lesson to all my fellow beer snobs. Just like I now do, keep your fat, stupid, self-important gob firmly shut.

Here's the second lesson: while it's lovely to drink Winkle's Very Old Peculier with silt and twigs and white-tail-deer turds floating in it, not everybody else likes crazy beers, which is why you can't always find them outside specialty stores and pubs. So what do you do when you find yourself rubbing shoulders with the riff-raff, with NASCAR on the telly and Nickelback on the stereo? Why, you seek refuge in an offering from a micro that's nearly a macro: the small macro-brewery. Or the big micro-brewery. Whatever.


So I headed down to the BCLDB (ewww) like the rest of you anarcho-syndicalist-commune types and spent a good half hour wandering around trying to select two challengers, finally settling on Okanagan Springs 1516 Lager and Granville Island's Island Lager. Island's Island? I mean GIB's Island Lager. Moving on.

I know there will be much tooth-gnashing about my selections and definitions of micro/macro, but blame @sticklebract for the suggestion. Dean actually also suggested something from Pacific Western, but I found myself physically incapable of reaching for a six-pack of Cariboo. I still have that damned Keith's IPA cluttering up the fridge, and I don't need to add five cans of crappy seven-dollar beer to the crisper.


Granville Island Brewing Island Lager vs. Okanagan Springs 1516 Lager

Round One: Fight!

First problem: I don't really drink lager. I mean, I'm aware there's a type of beer called lager and it's supposedly the pinnacle of the brewer's art and requires a great deal of precision and technical know-how and wearing of black turtlenecks and listening to Kraftwerk to make it, but I prefer my beer to be a bit simple and a bit heavy. Like me.

Yes, I know anyone with a sack of grain and a moderately dirty bathtub can make an ale, but I really get tired of all the lager commercials that repeat the words "crisp" and "clean" so many times, you'd think they were advertising an iceberg-lettuce-based furniture polish.

However, before I turn into even more of wretched snob: it's yellow, it's got bubbles in it, ergo it's beer. Let's have a peek and a sniff.


The 1516 smells like nothing. I mean, it's a bit beery, but there's very little there. The Island Lager is very very slightly more malty, like if a mashtun just off-gassed 400 miles away. It's also slightly more yellow, but it's like choosing between beige and taupe, or deciding who's more orange, Siegfried or Roy.

Round Two: Fight!

I kind of feel that since the Post-It sou'wester, there's a general expectation that I'll always wear entertaining headgear. Not sure what would be appropriate here. Probably a flat-billed baseball hat. Either way, sorry to disappoint.

The Okanagan 1516 is clean and crisp. God damn it.

Well, it is. There's really no other better descriptor. A quick malty fizz, a little bitterness on the palate, and then it's gone, leaving nothing but a general refreshed feeling. If I came inside on a summer's day after mowing the lawn or working on the car or just reading a book in the hammock to find one of these little beauties in the fridge, well, I'd have little to complain about. Not that I wouldn't try.

Now the Granville Island.
What the hell? They're completely different!

The Granville Island tastes bizarre with the 1516 still fresh on the palate. It's almost like a pale ale, or if not a pale ale, then what a really mainstream brewery would produce and slap a label on saying "pale ale". That's not a shot at GIB, you understand, it's just noticeably sweeter, fuller and maltier than the 1516. Is that a good thing? I'm not sure...

Round Three: Fight!

This is a toughie.

On one hand, we've got the Sapporo-owned Okanagan Springs, and much like the bitterly cold karaoke juice that their Nipponese parent company are best known for, their brew is somehow crisper in finish, and if you're a lager-head, isn't that what you'd go for?

But on the other hand, shouldn't a craft-brew have a bit more body than the commercial guys? Or is it less about a fuller body than about the package as a whole? Certainly, both these beers are as smooth as a Grover Washington Jr. track.

Ummmm.... I pick..... that one.

Result!

Okanagan Springs wins by eenie-meenie-minie-moe.

Post-Battle Review

I gotta say, what a great province we live in when this is what passes for mainstream. To think some people call these beers bland. Smooth like butta, as drinkable as prosecco in a heat wave, cheap as Molson, available everywhere: quite frankly, I'm stoked for a summertime bbq with either one of these beers floating around these ice chest.

Two left, I'm picking the 1516, but you'll be happy with either.

Okanagan Springs 1516 Lager
Recommended if:
-it's hot outside
-you can spell "reinheitsgebot" without googling it
-you've just invented Crispy Pledge

Not Recommended if:
-you've never been to the BCLDB
-you only drink beers with twigs in it
-you're afraid of Ogopogo

GIB's Island Lager
Recommended if:
-you've just picked up some finocchiona at Oyama
-you prefer a slightly sweeter finish
-it's hot outside

Not recommended if:
-you're that Kokanee ranger
-you're looking for the beer equivalent of barley soup
-you've only got seven bucks in your pocket