Uneasy Rhetoric

Reading the book about Grant’s beer (see previous post) got me to thinking a bit about beer. I like a variety of beers, but I’ve never really been able to describe what I like about various beers; often I find that I am inconsistent.

For example, over the last four to six months, I have had several occasions to drink some Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. I’ve taken to telling people that there’s something wrong with it because it tastes over-the-top yeasty. When I drink it I get vivid visions of baking bread. The taste recalls almost exactly the smell of the dough as I’m kneading it. I don’t remember Sierra Nevada tasting that strong, but I suppose I could be wrong.

And yet, my favorite craft brewery in Portland is the Lucky Labrador, and their beers can also taste strongly of bread (although not quite as strong as the Sierra Nevada). Perhaps their beers are sweeter or just mild enough not to offend me.

It could all come down to this: I may be losing my taste for craft brews. I tend to drink only what the BonnLair has on tap, and 90 percent of the time, I chose Guinness (the other 10 percent goes to Newcastle or Stella Artois, the Budweiser of Belgium). Recently, they started serving Deschutes‘ Mirror Pond Pale Ale, of which I’ve never been overly fond. Perhaps they’ll also bring in Obsidian Stout (which I do enjoy, or did).

I used to enjoy sampling different beers and at one point thought I might have been developing a fairly complex palate for beer tasting, but no more (and in reality, I could never express what, exactly, I was tasting). I really should get back in touch with my Pacific Northwest self and try again.

Maybe I should start visiting the Sacramento area breweries and see how they stack up to Bridgeport, Mactarnahans, or even the Lab.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that I lived six blocks from the Lucky Lab for a number of years - in fact from when they opened in October 1994 until we moved to a new neighborhood exactly six years later. My enjoyment of their beer might have come from the fact that, even on the coldest of winter nights, stumbling home was possible after a pint or three of Scottish Holiday Ale).