National Bitterness

Amidst the telling signs of economic collapse, the craft beer world has been suffering similar ravages. Aside from the “F” word, those that head the frontlines of the small batch brewery face the rising costs of the few elements of their mana: grain and hops. For the macro world, meaning the producers that barely put any of these holy leaves and seeds in their bottles, these costs are just as astronomical, prompting more advertising and gimmicks for the mildest of beers. For the breweries we like, the strain shows itself on the bottle price; these are companies that can’t absorb cost like McDonalds where (bafflingly enough) a Big Mac still costs less than three dollars.
Of course, we’re happy to spend the extra dollar on a bottle we like from a brewery we love. Allagash Brewing Co., from the other Portland, has aptly named the recent edition of their buck per bottle campaign after an old time Rogue who’s response to today’s economic crisis would have either been a persistent and clandestine beer black market, or conversely, the violent overthrow of the government by persistent and clandestine beer fiends.
No Shit: Hugh Malone was an Irish hops farmer who basically pioneered the American style of over hopping ales back in the early twenties. Brewers and their minions used to refer to hops as “Hugh Malone’s” because his name was stamped on the fragrant gunnysacks of smelly heaven they dumped into vats. Hops was so ingrained into the old Man’s persona that mythic rumors surfaced, claiming “all those hops” were making Malone more bitter by the pint.
When prohibition hit Malone penned a book titled: “This Would Never Happen In Ireland.”
The ale graced by the old brute is a similarly no-nonsense concept. The on-the-darker-side-of-amber ale, is hopped at almost every stage of the brewing process, which makes for an evolution of tart flavors that runs the gamut of the American bitterness palette. A sturdy soapy head maintains itself to the last drop, slowly succumbing to the bottom of your glass. A quick and painlessly sweet mouthful gives way to long lines of medicinal sour, wrinkles on a timeline of the face of a long dead hard-ass.
Squinting in the sun, silently contemplating our own IBUs, we realized the importance of heavy handedness during questionable times…Even though this beer would never have happed in Ireland.

Dairy Pairy: Stinking Bishop: a runny, stinky masterpiece
Soundtrack: The Clash, “Police On My Back”