Connections

Two beer styles, poles apart, one is a saison blended with a gueuze, the other a double IPA — I drink one after the other, not fast, not slow, just drink, no notes, few thoughts, just pleasure. But, when I finish the double IPA I wonder about a connection between the two beers and I think about how that for many beer drinkers these two beer styles are not pleasing, not pleasure, prodding the palate a bit too much, not beer even. Gueuze, for instance, took me some time to get used to; back in the 1990s, when I first met the beer, I used to add a sugar lump or two to a glass, sweetened it, befriended it, spoilt it you might say. This practice, this sweet-toothed, tub-thumping destruction of a beer, this perceived failure of mine, came to an end as I persevered and the beer became a friend minus the sugar lump. No such doubts came along with the double IPA, though I’m not too sure when I first had one, was it Moor’s JJJ, or was it Sierra Nevada’s Torpedo or was it someone else? My palate was already poised to resinous noise through the bright bustle of IPA, but does that mean to enjoy a double IPA you have to have gone through the world of IPA first? And still I’m trying to make a connection between these two beer styles, which on first and second glance (and probably third) is a hopeless quest, but I’m still trying. Maybe it’s the beers’ expressions on the palate, the complexities I picked up without really trying (because don’t forget I was drinking not thinking), the contrapuntal motion between various flavour notes and moods in the mouth feel, the sprightly chime of light grapefruit brightness against an appetising tartness in the saison/gueuze blend, the buzzsaw of hop character, resin, deep, deep ripe orange skin against a bracing, bittersweet malt-influenced backbone of the double IPA, maybe that is the connection. To me (now) they are not difficult beers, but to others they could be, which then leads me onto another thought, what on earth is a difficult beer, is there such a thing? That is a thought for another day.

The two beers were Partizan’s Cuvee, which brewer Andy gave me the other week, and Bristol Beer Factory’s Double IPA, which they sent me last week (both exemplary beers).

Dark Star/Bristol Beer Factory Southern Conspiracy

Pale and pure Helles gold in colour, New Zealand hops leap out of the glass with the grace of a gazelle filled with the joy of life unaware that the same skill will be called on to escape a lion the next day; a joyful crushing of white grapes in the hand, the imagined fragrance of the scented, sage-like brush of the Corsican marquis. Hey it’s 7% but in the mouth the feel is elegant, full without being coarse (a greatcoat as designed by Paul Smith perhaps), grape must sweetness, gooseberry jelly delicacy with a nod towards sourness and earthiness, grapefruit, adult parma violets even, all trifled with by the hard-backed dryness of the desert, white pepper bitterness, both contributing to a finish that thunders at the back of the throat, the echoes of the hooves of herd of wild horses long after they’ve passed. I was sent this from Dark Star’s brewmeister Mark Tranter, who was very proud of what he did with Simon at BBF. The use of the white wine casks in which the beer has aged is a bit of a change from the usual whisky/rum/brandy cask finish and it does give the beer a lighter touch than its abv would suggest. Its beers like this that remind me of unorthodox bands I would hear on John Peel late at night, fusing this and that and making sense of the mix. If there’s ever a moment when I feel a bit bored with what’s going on in beer then something like Southern Conspiracy beats me up and throws me on the floor and suggests I go outside to carry on the discussion, a suggestion I willingly comply with. 

And so to Bristol Beer Factory

And so to Bristol and its Beer Factory and I do like the beers these guys produce in the old fermenting room where once the ales of Ashton Gate slept the sleep of the just. Southville Hop, Milk Stout, Sunrise, the 12 Stouts of Christmas and now this gleeful little bottle of Vintage 2011, that I was given on a recent visit. What do you want to know? There are five malts and four hops; it’s aged on oak and has the mark of the beast on its alcoholic strength, 6.6%. In the glass it’s reddish mahogany brown, the colour of rum and coke perhaps? The nose has a fragrant floral character, but before you can get all lovey-dovey and hand a bunch of chrysanthemums to your beloved, there’s also a hint of fresh graphite pencil and mixed spice, plus a woody, tannic wisp from the oak (and is that a hint of berry fruit?). This is complexity that should increase with age. It’s big and fat and alcoholic on the palate, the scumptiousness and adulthoodness of bitterness, plus a sweetness that is like the saltiness in a good Stilton — it doesn’t mean that it’s sweet anymore than Stilton is salty, but it all works. More from the glass and I get a luscious lubricity, a sensual feel that contrasts benignly with the grainy dry crisp malted barley character; it’s a beer that is both delicate and strong. Fiery hop pepperiness towards the end of the palate enlivens things up before a firm dryness with hints of cracker-like rye notes and more bitterness leaves the beer to finish with a bow before it’s time to start the whole glorious cycle again until the glass is empty — and when the glass is empty my song has ended.