Hip Hops: May 2008 Archives

Meyer lemons, orange zest, grapefruit flesh. Naw, those aren't the fruit slices we recommend dangling on the rim of this Belgian wit bier - they're already deep down in there. That triumverate citrus haze of Blanche de Bruxelles makes it a perfect spr-ummer beer, for those confounding weeks where spring starts acting like summer, and all you want to do is porch-it with a beverage. But if you feel the absolute urge to add fruit, just rub a sliced kumquat around the rim and let it sink to the bottom, it's small and subtle enough.

This cute Belgian bottle pours with a 2-inch head of wispy wit latte foam atop an opaque yellow beer the color of emulsified orange juice and oil. On the first whiff, it's all Parisian preserved lemon tarte tatin straight out of the oven, with a little steam rising off the buttered crust giving off a kiss of coriander and cinnamon. Hefewiezen fans will recognize everything they love in Franziskaner, but without the heavy plantain-clove kick. It's a small thing, but makes all the difference, akin to drinking a pint of fresh hefe at a countryside monastery poured by a German monk as opposed to in a plastic cup on a crowded goth club patio that reeks of clove cig smoke. Though it lacks the kind of hard-ass carbonation that makes a beer look like it is reaching a boil in the bottom of the mug, this brew bubbles in a way that kicks up a mist on the tongue. Like well water. Like an eternal spring. Like a brie, butter and banana egg cream soda.. Better yet, like the picture that adorns its bottle: the pure, golden piss of a giggling baby-god.

Dairy Pairy: Sbrinz, a 36-month aged cows milk from Switzerland.
Soundtrack: The Heptone's "Cool Rasta"

The most pious among us believe that if you pray long enough for something, you're bound to get it. Well, if that's the case, some sour-tongued beer geek in our neck of the woods has been prostrating up a storm, because last week we got word of three cases of Russian River's 'Supplication' hitting a couple select L.A. stores. The limited release, 14-month barrel-aged, self-described "American wild ale" has churned up impressive praise from the webby scrutinizers. It helps that its name references the nondenominational past-time of groveling before God. Not being huge fans of Russian River, but also not wanting to miss tasting the hype, we grabbed two bottles: one to slurp now, and one to save for later.

To be frank, the tasting scenario was less seriously critical than normal. The bottle got popped around 4 pm on a 90-degree Friday afternoon -- when just about any drivel will taste like the nectar of a bejeweled duke. But discerning or not, this beer has a pair of wine legs.

Russian River's Supplication

Poured haphazardly into a glimmering German pilsner glass, the stuff came out amber and hazy with a huge, watery head of the kind of froth you wanna flick on someone's nose like bubble bath suds. The glassware choice ruled, because all of the crazy carbonation traveled from the base of the glass to the surface in little unpredictable patterns, like shooting stars. That bubbly turbulence is thanks to a refermentation process allowed in the bottle, champagne styles. Despite being a brown ale, the nose was all watermelon Sour Patch kids, puckery smelling. The first hit to the tongue is sour cherries, not sweet like some, but dry -- drier than fossilized wood. Then comes an even woodsier forest taste, like biting into oak bark, followed by what we can only describe as what would happen if you madly shook Angostura cocktail bitters into a lambic. Right at the end, the sour brew actually smooths out into a buttery, vanilla tannin-sy, roll-around-on-your-tongue sensation. Consider us converted, just don't expect us to talk to a god about it.

Dairy Pairy: Petite Basque, bloomy sheep's milk
Soundtrack: Comet's On Fire's "Pussy Foot the Duke"