Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

Far more subdued than its name would suggest.

​Shiner Bock used to be one of my go-to beers. This was early in my drinking life, and I think the perceived cachet of a Texas Beer was part of the allure. Though my tastes have changed significantly, largely leaving Shiner behind, the brewery still holds a special place in my mind. Near the end of an all-day barbecue tour around central Texas a year or so back, a frosty mason jar of Shiner at Louie Mueller's in Taylor was exactly what I needed to shake off the dust of the road, reminding me that beer is about more than the nerdiness of these columns. It was cold, crisp, and refreshing, and I didn't care one bit about whether or not it was a "true bock," or any of the other typical quibbles.

Of course, there are lots of times when I do care about those things, or I wouldn't be doing this. When I saw Shiner Wild Hare sitting on the shelf at Disco Kroger, I decided to put it through the Brew Blog ringer. The last time I tried a new Shiner beer, it just reinforced my general disregard for the brand. This was a bit different, but in some odd ways.

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Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

My delicious nemesis. . .

​With a flair and a flourish, and a bit of a mess, Real Ale Brew Master Erik Ogershok pounded a tap into a cask of beer. A cheer went up from the crowd as he was hit with a brief spray. He wiped his face, licked his lips, and declared it "delicious." The Real Ale/Down House Cask Beer Dinner had begun.

According to Ogershok and Down House owner Chris Cusack, my gracious host (whatup, disclosure?), this was a first-of-its-kind event. Nobody, Chris and Eric maintained, had done one quite like this, exclusively pairing cask beer with food.

As we awaited the first pairing, Eric launched into an explanation of cask beer, its living nature, and the importance of keeping the real ale tradition alive. At one point, he even advocated for cask beer keggers, pointing out that anyone who can operate a portable tap can work a gravity tap. I think a world in which Abercrombie-clad brohams are doing cask-stands with firkins of dry-hopped Russian Imperial Stout might cause some sort of temporal/spatial singularity, destroying all of reality in the process, but it would still be kind of cool.

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Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

​I love it when I have a beer so gripping, so immediately compelling, that I have to go out and buy more of it immediately. When I took the family out for a DEFCON dinner at the Queen Vic recently, that's exactly what happened. I don't think it was a full hour after we left the restaurant that I had a couple of bottles of 11.11.11 in hand.

The funny thing is, though, it took me a while to get around to drinking it. I brought some over to a friend's house on New Year's Eve, and had a small pour from one of a few shared bottles. It didn't really strike me as all that terrific. Perhaps, I thought at the time, the beer just doesn't show that well out of a bottle. Perhaps, I'm thinking now, it was just the fact that I'd already had several drinks, fatiguing my palate and dulling my senses slightly. Besides, there were more interesting things going on that evening; a dude was opening champagne with a sword. That's not him.

Whatever the cause, my enthusiasm waned slightly. I think that was a premature reaction. When I opened a bottle the other night, I remembered what I'd been so excited about in the fist place.

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Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

That's a photo of the beer, not my mother-in-law. Love you, Marie.

​I'm turning my mother-in-law into a beer nerd. It started by accident. Whenever my wife decided we were going to take the kids to see Grandma, I would pick up a little something for myself. It's not that I don't like my mother-in-law; I actually lucked out in the in-law department, but my kids in her tiny place create an ungodly amount of noise from which I cannot escape, and her evil cat Lucifer (actual name) tries to kill me every time I walk past. I need a little bit of liquid fortitude.

Turns out, so does she. Over time, I got accustomed to the fact that I would be splitting my selections with her, and began a slow education. At first, she swore up and down that she couldn't actually tell the difference between one beer and another, and didn't care what I brought over. I started staging tasting sessions, pitting wildly different beers against each other and daring her to tell me that all beer tastes the same. She grudgingly admitted that the Saison didn't taste like the Imperial Stout.

Mostly, I think it was an attitude. There seems to be a sort of reverse-elitism at play in the world of beer, splitting craft drinkers from the rest of the beer-drinking population. Finding the seriousness with which craft drinkers take their tippling to be troublingly effete, some beer drinkers look down their noses at those who find flavor important. Beer is beer, they say, and anyone who says otherwise is a snob, and probably a sissy. While I don't think my mother-in-law thought me a sissy, I have little doubt she thought me a snob.

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Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

Yes, that's Taco Bell. Cue righteous indignation.

​In my brief tenure here on Brew Blog, I've had to reconsider a number of opinions. Mostly, it's the simple nature of a shifting palate, slowly changing to accommodate a broader and deeper range of beer in its many expressive forms. Flavors I once actively disliked, I've grown to love. Beers that, a year ago, would have found me ignorantly exclaiming "that's not beer," are now some of my favorites. It's been humbling and exciting in equal measure, showing me how little I knew, and how much there is to learn.

Most recently, I've had to rethink a certain taxidermist-cum-brewery, on the basis of a couple of stellar beers. Granted, these have both been collaborative brews, and I've had my share of less pleasant experiences in the past. That's the key, though. In the past, I didn't really care for heavily hopped beers. In the past, my initial reaction to a Sour was the assumption that it was some kind of joke. I'm trying to learn from my mistakes.

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Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

What do zombie brewers eat? Graaaaaiiiiinnnnns, GRAAAAAIIIIINNNNNS!

​We have a grand Christmas tradition in my house, one that's gone on for as long as we've had kids. Every Christmas Eve, after the kids are in bed, my wife and I wrap presents. It's a tradition forged out of a combination of laziness and pragmatism. Sure, we could have wrapped a few here and there for the weeks leading up to Christmas Day, but we find few times when the kids are not underfoot, liable to surprise us in the middle of putting a bow on a cabbage patch doll or some such. Besides, it feels a bit more efficient to do all the wrapping at once; you kind of get in a groove about five presents in, and it just seems to go more quickly.

We make the best of it by drinking. We chat about the year past, and the one impending; we place bets over which presents each kid will like best and which relative is going to start the fight this year; we get quietly, pleasantly intoxicated. You can probably chart a time-line of our wrapping by the decreased attention to detail, the last few presents of the night bound in crumpled tissue, a mile of tangled, ungainly tape wrapped haphazardly about it, like a hobo-sack. Over the years, we've learned the importance of having two pairs of scissors. I'll let you interpret that as you will.

This year, I deviated from tradition just a bit. Usually, we uncork a bottle of something French and sparkly. Earlier that day, I'd stumbled upon a tower of Le Mort Vivant at Whole Foods, and that stood in nicely as our traditional tipple.

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Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

​When I snagged this (at least at the time) somewhat rare (in Houston) bottle over at D&Q, the friendly proprietress talked my ear off about how important it is to support locals, even when they're 162 miles away. She waxed poetic about the contents, too, saying "this isn't like other ciders." The way she described it sounded a lot like my first, slightly unsuspecting taste of Isastegi Basque Cider, but I knew better.

You see, I'd had the chance to sample this particular cider once before, at a Justin Vann pairing at Money Cat Brunch. It went quite well with buttery fish and pungent pepper sauce. It's not quite as arresting as Isastegi, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Isastegi can be a bit polarizing. When poured at my parents' house, for a tasting involving five people, two didn't like it. Too strong, too tart, too funky, too much. All those toos are what I love about the stuff, but I can see how it can be a difficult beverage. Gold Top, on the other hand, splits the difference between Isastegi and more familiar commercial ciders quite nicely. It's like the gateway drug of ciders.

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Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

It's a Christmas Miracle!

​We here over at Brew Blog (just me, really) thought it might be nice to spread a little bit of holiday cheer this week. Sure, I could just review another winter-themed beer, but I thought our time would be better served with a little story about the Spirit of Christmas. I'm talking peace on Earth, good will toward men, a spirit of generosity and giving. And, of course, beer.

About a week ago, I was strolling through one of my local groceries (name omitted to protect the generous), trailing behind my wife and teenage niece as they dumped half of the Christmas candy aisle in our cart. "Stocking stuffers!" my wife explained, catching my (possibly more than) slight scowl as she added another box of Queen Anne Cherries to the growing pile. I was not happy about this situation.

For those of you who don't know me, I suppose it would be fair to say that I can be occasionally Grinch-like. Not full-blown, Who-hating-caliber Grinch, mind you, just a mild sort of cantankerousness that hinges around the desire not to go into debt each December. I recognize that I get too uptight about it, but that's just the way I'm put together. And that's where the beer comes in.

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Photo by Nicholas L. Hall

Divine Rebel, or Divine Providence?

​You know that feeling you get when you find money in your pants while doing laundry? It doesn't even matter if it's five dollars or a hundred, it gives me a little thrill. I know full well that it's not really found money. I haven't actually gained anything, just rediscovered what I already had. Still, it feels like a small present, given to me, by me, from the past, like a time-traveling St. Nick.

I've found that same phenomenon happening more and frequently for me, lately, though with a little twist. Instead of finding a five-spot in my pants while folding towels, I've been finding great beer in the back of my fridge, while tossing leftovers and re-organizing condiments. Every few weeks I'll have one of those "Oh, man; I forgot I had that!" surprises, thrilled at the prospect of delicious beer, made all the more special by its unexpectedness. Drinkable serendipity.

It's almost to the point where I'm seeding these moments - buying nice bottles and stashing them at the back of the fridge, willfully forgotten, awaiting their opportunity. Most recently, there was an added element of delight upon the discovery of a forgotten bottle of Mikkeler Divine Rebel 2010. It was shortly after Night After Monsters, where Mikkel Borg Bjergsø had made an appearance, and many of the so-called Gypsy Brewer's beers had been poured. It was one event smack in the middle of a bunch of missed events, including the entirety of Houston Beer Week and all its festivities. I'd been a little bummed, and more than a little jealous. (Re)discovering this bottle in the back of my fridge was a bit of salve on the beer-envy-burn.

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​First Houston, then Conroe, then Katy. Now Sugar Land is getting a craft brewery of its own -- Fort Bend Brewing -- and the momentum created by the rash of brewery openings in 2011 seems determined to continue into 2012.

Fort Bend Brewing plans to open early next year, starting small with a 30-barrel brewhouse under the watchful eye of head brewer Jeff King (formally of Kreuz Creek) and with the assistance of Jamie Fulton, a well-known brewmaster and winner of several World Beer Cup and Great American Beer Festival awards.

Late last year, Fulton unexpectedly closed his popular Fort Worth brewpub, Covey. It came mere weeks after Fulton took home six awards at the 2010 Los Angeles International Commercial Beer Competition: two gold, two silver and two bronze medals. His planned move to Washington, D.C. to open a brewpub called Farmers & Brewers apparently didn't pan out, but Texas is ready to welcome Fulton back with open arms.

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