Recent Blog Posts

Adventures in Victorian Drinking II: Kentucky Derby Edition

Sara Joyce Robinson — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 16:08:00 GMT

Every spring, as the first Saturday in May approaches, my thoughts turn to the ponies. To the great lady of American horseracing, the Kentucky Derby. I can almost hear the roar of the stands, and smell the freshly-raked turf. I can see the well-heeled crowd in Millionaire's Row, making bets on which horse will wear the roses in the winner's circle this year.

While I know this has a lot to do with the (many) "Black Stallion" books I read as a child, I think it's really about the hats. Wide-brimmed, swooping curves, all those colors. The hatbands. The architecture. The bows! Oh, those feathers!

Sadly, I was born a continent away from this spectacle of Southern charm, so I have to resign myself with watching the race on television, and wearing the floppy sunhat I take to the beach. But this year, there is one thing I can do to capture an authentic Derby experience.

Enjoy a Mint Julep.

While I do make my home below the Mason-Dixon Line, I believe living in California qualifies me as a Yankee. So I had to research the correct way to make one. Recipes for Mint Juleps stretch back deep into American history, but the first record of one appears just after 1800. Apparently, there are as many formulas for Mint Juleps, as there are beloved grandmothers in Kentucky. (For a truly entertaining recipe, search the internet for "Mint Julep ritual Lt. Gen. Simon Bolivar Buckner Jr." Go ahead, I'll wait!) After exploring my options, several main tenants became clear. In order to make a true Mint Julep (and not a candy-sweet, florescent green, alcoholic milkshake that might be served at a theme park), there are four important ingredients:

Fine sugar, fresh mint leaves, smooth Kentucky bourbon, and finely-crushed ice.

The main variations seem to be how much sugar to add (depending on the desired level of sweetness), and how to garnish with mint (layered throughout the crushed ice, a sprig on top, one leaf rubbed around the rim of the cup). Another element many agree on is that the proper way to serve a Mint Julep is in a footed silver cup. Because I do not have a great-uncle to pass down a heavy antique heirloom, I contented myself with a (reasonably priced) stainless steel version.

I began with a dash of water in the bottom of the cup, and two dashes of confectioner's sugar. I added several fresh mint leaves, and muddled them, until the sugar melted into the water and the leaves released their crisp scent. Then I packed the cup with finely crushed ice (as dry as possible), and added a generous pour of bourbon on top. Finally I stirred all the ingredients together, and swirled and swirled the mixture, until the metal sides of the cup were coated in white frost.

Then it was time for drinking. I put on my floppy sunhat, and held the metal cup (as instructed) by the footed rim at the bottom. I raised a toast to the ponies, and sipped.

The bite of the bourbon was softened by the touch of sweetness from the sugar, while the freshness of the mint lifted up the other flavors. The crushed ice was cold, but not freezing, and made the drink a delicious adult slushy. By not overdoing the sugar, I could still enjoy the tang of bourbon, whereas the mint and ice transformed the dark liquor into a lighter refreshment. Although the frosty side of the metal cup gave me flashbacks to that Christmas movie where the kid gets his tongue stuck to the light pole, I enjoyed the chill of the cup in my hand and against my lips.

Mint Juleps are going to find a frequent place on my summertime beverage rotation. For a large group, I can see the expediency of mint simple syrup, rather than the slow muddling of each cup (equal parts water and sugar, as well as mint leaves, simmered over low heat until the sugar dissolves). I also want to try adding a drop of lemon juice to brighten the flavors, as another recipe suggested. While the metal cup is fun, Mint Juleps are often served in Collins or highball glasses (I hear at the race itself, the official Derby drink is served in commemorative glass tumblers with straws).

While the actual race lasts barely two minutes, I sipped my Mint Julep all afternoon, and looked forward to the next two races in the Triple Crown, as well as the long summer ahead.

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Sara Joyce Robinson is a native of Southern California, where she was raised, educated, and still lives. She received her MFA in Fiction from the University of California, Irvine, and you can see what she's up to at SaraJoyceRobinson.com.

Irreconcilable Differences

Sara Joyce Robinson — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 22:16:00 GMT

I've known my husband for fifteen years (married for almost six), and in that time we have (of course) disagreed often. Our first argument happened over a game of Monopoly. We had differing financial philosophies. I did not buy a second railroad because the price would cut too close to my safety margin of money. He argued that since I could technically afford the purchase, I needed to buy it. I pointed out the rent was high on his properties, and I might not be able to pay the fees if I landed in his neighborhood. He said risks were the point of Monopoly.

We resolved the issue by never playing Monopoly again.

Over the years, we have learned the balance of compromise. I see what he says about the direction of toilet paper on the roll, and when it comes to our actual money, he agrees with my careful savings plan.

There is one area that still troubles us: whiskey.

I prefer my whiskey-or whisky-smoky. I like to feel like I've been licking the ashes in the fireplace after each sip. I love the burn lingering on my tongue. An aftertaste of forest fires, barbecue coals or cigars enriches the flavor and the experience for me. Perhaps it's my inheritance from my Scottish grandmother, but when I take a sip, I like to taste the charred remains of peat grown on the Highlands.

My husband could not disagree more. He dislikes any kind of smokiness in what he eats and drinks. A slice of smoked sausage makes him green. Once at a wedding cocktail hour, I saw him spit a cube of smoked gouda into his palm after he took it from a tray by accident. In whiskies, he likes mellow, he likes smooth. He can go for strong flavors (right now his current obsession is with a whiskey aged partially in rum casks). But not smoke. Not even the faintest wisp of an extinguished candle.

When we've posed this question of smokiness to others who enjoy whiskey, we've found similarly divided opinions. Some of our friends can't stand the flavor. One gagged just thinking about it. While others (the more sophisticated ones, of course) joined me in raptures about the added complexity. Once the discussion grew a little heated, and we had to agree to disagree, and move on to the next topic.

So at home, how do we resolve this whiskey war? As my husband and I both enjoy whiskey too much to not have it in the house (we still do not own a Monopoly board, even fifteen years later), we have had to come to a détente.

We buy his kind of whiskey. Because I like it too (the round richness of the flavors, the sweetness), and smokiness genuinely makes him ill. So in this case, I give in, and he gets his way, and even some whiskey stones in his stocking at Christmas.

Every once in a while, I threaten him with the Monopoly board. I maintain that the reason he got so heated in that first game was because I was winning. When I point this out, he always looks like he wants to argue, but then he smiles and lets it go. Because on this issue, I get to be right.

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Wednesdays Call for Whiskey

Megan Wieczorek — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 19:52:00 GMT

Whiskey has long been hailed as the quintessential man's drink, so imagine my surprise and delight when I arrived at the Next Door Lounge's "Whiskey Wednesdays" to find a table dominated by women. As my eyes feasted upon the four elite whiskies at the table's center - Bulleit, Bushmills, Crown Royal and Oban - I knew this night was going to be a good one.

Next Door Lounge in Hollywood, CA.
PHOTO: CARL LARSEN

Whiskey Wednesdays, the limited-time series that Hollywood hotspot Next Door Lounge launched last month, features a guided tasting of four whiskey selections revolving around one of four themes: whiskies of the world, North American whiskies, blended scotches and single malt scotches.

The weekly event has already been a smashing success, attracting consumers and whisk(e)y aficionados alike. And it's no mystery why: Next Door Lounge's cool speakeasy-inspired ambiance provides the perfect backdrop for this fun event, while the diverse selections and informative sessions are well-suited to the growing demand for whisk(e)y education.

The whisk(e)y selection.
PHOTO: MEGAN WIECZOREK

"Whiskeys of the World" was the name of the game for my tasting experience, offering a unique opportunity to globetrot with each new pour. Our world tour, led by whiskey ambassador Sandra Bowing, began in our very own U.S. of A with Bulleit Rye. We hopped continents to sip the 10-Year expression from Bushmills, Ireland's oldest distillery, followed by Canada's Crown Royal Special Reserve, and concluding with Oban's 14-Year-Old single malt scotch. The diversity in flavor profiles reflected the vast range of styles and climates present. From spicy to citrusy, briny to toasty, there was something for every palate and each sip could be appreciated for its unique, charming characteristics.

Every whiskey was first enjoyed straight, and then enhanced by a few drops of water from an eyedropper. The difference in the before and after was monumental. "Water does to whiskey what air does for wine," explained Bowing. "It opens up the flavors and nuances with every sip."

Informational classes like this one are steadily gaining momentum with whiskey's meteoric rise in popularity, due in part to such shows as Mad Men and Boardwalk Empire. And judging by the demographic at my tasting, Don Draper's drinking preferences have inspired both males and females alike to appreciate this iconic spirit. And with that, I'll take my scotch now-straight, on the rocks. In fact, make that a double.

Next Door Lounge is at 1154 N. Highland Ave, Hollywood, CA. "Whiskey Wednesdays" are $30/person, which includes a whiskey flight of four pours and small bites. The series continues until April 11.

For reservations, go to reserve@nextdoorhollywood.com and reference "Whiskey Wednesdays" or call 323-465-5505.

Adventures in Victorian Drinking

Sara Joyce Robinson — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 21:32:00 GMT

It happens every time I watch Masterpiece Theater. I develop a craving for some archaic food or drink. Like Turkish delight, claret, or mead. Something I have never actually tasted, but sounds so delicious in theory.

Unfortunately, most of these items do not live up to my imaginings, and I find myself disappointed by the vast difference between the palates of Victorian England and modern America. For example, traditional plum pudding. Dickens never explained that there are no plums, or what I consider to be "pudding," in the original recipe. Nope, old Charles failed to mention that the base ingredient is animal fat. Seriously, pure suet.

So when, after a recent binge of BBC dramas, I could not get the idea of Hot Buttered Rum out of my mind, I approached the idea of this beverage with caution. It sounds soothing, bracing. Something Ebenezer Scrooge enjoyed after the three ghosts taught him the true meaning of Christmas. Or something taken after a day of skiing in the Alps, as a warm-up, before it's time to dress for dinner.

But I've become wary over the years, and know some things are better left in memory, than experienced in reality. Rum has never been among my favorite liquors (after an incident with the coconut-flavored variety in college ... don't ask), and I just couldn't wrap my mind around the idea of butter in my cocktail. It could be slimy, could coat my throat and leave a gummy residue on my teeth.

However, there were three more episodes of Masterpiece Theater on my DVR, so I sucked it up and took the plunge. After consulting my big book of cocktail recipes, I decided to start with the most straight-forward one. I put a teaspoon of dark brown sugar in a highball glass, and then filled it halfway with hot water. After stirring to melt the sugar, I added two ounces of dark rum. On top of all this, I dropped in a float of butter, cut straight from the stick in my fridge. The pat of butter began to soften and melt at the edges, but remained an identifiable square.

Then, the moment of truth. I sipped cautiously. Warm, pleasantly so. A molasses-y sweetness, not overpowering. The rum rich, not too spicy. And then the melted butter reached my tongue. It was slightly cool, just a faint presence, and as soon as it touched my taste buds, it transformed the other flavors. Somehow the thin dab of butter fused the various ingredients into the distinct taste of hard caramel candies. The kind my grandfather used to keep in his pocket when I was a child. I drank again, this time trying to avoid the butter, and tasted only sweet rum. When I drank a third time, making sure to get some butter, I tasted that distinctive hard candy flavor.

Only then did I realize an important fact-I liked it!

Hot buttered rum is a beverage for sipping, not chugging. It is rich, and the flavor quite intense. I was satisfied with my first my cup, and did not need another. But I will definitely make hot buttered rum again. Next time, I might take the suggestion of replacing the hot water with hot milk, or perhaps adding extra spice. The internet revealed a vast array of options, including one that suggested "caramelizing" the drink by mixing the ingredients, and then inserting a red hot poker (!) into the glass for thirty seconds. As I am not a blacksmith, that option is a bit beyond my abilities, so for now, I'll be content with adding a tasty beverage to my repertoire.

So friends, what should I try next? I hear they are making a new movie version of "The Great Gatsby." Champagne cocktails, anyone? Gimlets?

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Lighten Up

Paul Beilstein — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 22:12:00 GMT

In my twenties, after a few years of Barleywines, Old Ales, and countless Double IPAs, I was feeling like a wine drinker in mid-March: I was ready for the beer world's equivalent of a crisp Muscadet. My expanding mid-section was ready, too.

In many ways, craft beer has already caught up to wine. Excellent restaurants are hosting dinners pairing their cuisine with local brews; hosts are popping the corks of reserve ales; drinkers are using proper glassware, swirling, sniffing, then sipping before looking off into the distance as they ponder that faint glimmer of something on the mid-palate. However, craft beer still does not quite have an adequate selection of offerings for those times when the drinker needs something lower in alcohol, but not in flavor or complexity.

In early Spring last year, I was lucky enough to find The Bruery's unbelievably tasty Humulus XPA on tap at my local beer bar (Belmont Station, Portland OR). The beautiful hop aroma, grapefruit flavor, and crisp lightness were exactly what I had been wanting for so many months. Overstimulated by this surprise, I wanted a sippy cup of this nearly perfect liquid with me at all times. Unfortunately, this beer rarely makes it to Oregon, so I started to think a little harder about what else could satisfy me, weary as I was.

In Portland, Upright Brewing and Logsdon Organic Farmhouse Ales (among others) are producing wonderfully satisfying Farmhouse Ales (aka Saisons). Upright, in particular, is well-known around here for its experimentation with ingredients (fatali chilies, calendula flowers, and spring yarrow, to name a few). Upright and many other experimental breweries are adding ingredients in order to keep the flavor and complexity high, and the alcohol low. Upright's repertoire includes a number of ales at or below 6% ABV. One particularly interesting brew, its Belmont Station 14th Anniversary Ale (an American Wild Ale), hit the perfect mark at 4.75%. I was able to sip my way through the entire 750 ml without a shred of guilt or lightheadedness.

Many breweries already have undertaken the challenge of producing lower-alcohol beers worthy of a few moments thought, and I hope this trend grows. As craft beer grows, the palates (and, perhaps, diet plans) of craft beer drinkers will continue to get more demanding. No longer will it be sufficient for the larger craft breweries to pump out a half-hearted Summer Ale that tastes alarmingly similar to those adjunct lagers we all left behind in favor of craft. Thankfully, there are plenty of Belgian options widely available already (try Brasserie Dupont's Avril, a biere du table at 3.5% ABV), and your local brewery is almost assuredly testing its mettle in this growingly popular genre.

In the meantime, I'll be in Northeast Portland at Breakside Brewery, enjoying a glass of their highly satisfying Dry Stout (4.5% ABV). If I'm lucky, maybe their next experimental Grisette or Gose will be on tap, as well.

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Paul Beilstein was born and raised in Illinois. He earned a BA in rhetoric from the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign and an MFA in writing from the University of California, Irvine. He lives with his wife Shereen in Portland, Oregon.

The Naming Game, From Hop Whore To Nut Sack

Lisa P. Sutton — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 17:51:00 GMT

I'm a beer girl. I like an easy amber ale over lunch, a sharp IPA to sip while watching the Laker game. On a hastily-poured stout, I've been known to drink up the foamy head with a spoon. Though I can't wait 15 minutes for delivery pizza, I will stand in line when a local place is tapping a new cask.

Unfortunately, the craft brew market still doesn't seem ready for women. The majority of beers are clearly marketed with men in mind, their very names nodding to masculine senses of humor and sexuality. American craft breweries are naming their beers Hop Whore or Polygamy Porter or Nut Sack Ale. Stone's bread and butter brew continues to be the Arrogant Bastard Ale. There is an entire line of ales bottled in San Jose named Ass Kisser. For a while, Deschutes produced the Streaking The Quad, inspiring nostalgia in every frathouse alum. Flying Dog makes a Raging Bitch IPA, Dogfish Head makes a Bitches Brew, and while both monickers are purported references to their canine-inspired mastheads, the joke is not lost on any guy who walks up to a bar to order his Bitch.

As a female beer drinker, I'm not likely to order a Raging Bitch. Not aloud anyway. I don't really want to order a Fat Tire either. There's nothing sexy about a girl holding a bottle with the word "fat" emblazoned in capital letters. Thank god the worst offender, Furthermore's Fatty Boombalatty, is practically impossible to find outside of the midwest.

Why is the craft brew industry still ignoring female consumers? I'm certainly not the only woman drinking beer these days. Can't we get a few decent beers without names that are meant to embarrass us? I'm not asking for anything overtly flowery or ornamental. I'm happy to order beers like the Downtown Brown, Lost Coast's simply and elegantly named standout, or Bear Republic's playfully and aptly named Hop Rod Rye.

I'm certainly not looking for a women's-only beer. No one wants to relive the Zima debacle--we've learned that a wine-cooler alternative wasn't easily redressed as a man's drink, and I'll never go looking for its inverse in say, some kind of pink-bottled lady Zima IPA. I just want a good beer named something smart and not gender-specific. Shouldn't a craft beer's quality be the central focus of its marketing? And is anyone sure that the guys who have a good junior-high inspired laugh over the Nut Sack Ale are actually buying anything other than 18-packs of PBR or Coors Light?
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Lisa P. Sutton earned an MFA in writing from University of California, Irvine and a JD from Boston University School of Law. She lives and drinks in Los Angeles.
Her most recent short story, Patina, can be read here: www.bluelakereview.weebly.com/patina.html

Barrel-Aged Ales: A Gateway to Top-Shelf Spirits?

Paul Beilstein — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 19:46:00 GMT

Since moving to Portland, Oregon in 2010, I have met quite a few people whose drinking histories begin with craft beer. Unlike myself and most of my prior acquaintances, these drinkers did not begin by trying to play cool while they choked down a bottom-rung macro lager or by diluting the most available or affordable spirit with cola. They were not in attendance at the $3-a-cup keg parties I attended on Friday nights in college (in my defense, those parties did help the hosts pay their rent, so I was contributing to the local economy, no?).

These are not drinkers who somehow found their way into craft beer; they are craft beer enthusiasts. And now, at least partly due to the rise in popularity of barrel-aged ales, their enthusiasm is beginning to spread into the wide world of spirits. It seems that whenever I find myself among a group of self-identified "beer geeks," the subject of bourbon is raised. Some of the geeks already have begun drinking bourbon, while others claim they have been "thinking about getting into [it]."

When beer geeks talk bourbon, they talk expensive bourbon. Keep in mind that these are people who are willing to stand outside in the rain at 5 am on a Saturday morning in the dead of winter to score a few bottles of a limited release ale, simply because it has been aged in bourbon barrels. They are hobbyists, collectors; they are not afraid to spend time, energy, and money on this enjoyment. They talk about Pappy Van Winkle's, and when they do, they talk age and rarity.

Beer geek culture is a social culture, but not a let's-get-together-and-talk-about-our-lives-over-a-pint culture. Instead, it is a let's-get-together-and-talk-about-rare-beers-over-a-sampler-tray culture. When those rare beers have been aged in barrels, the talk inevitably shifts to the spirits that once occupied the barrels.

In 2011, Fifty Fifty Brewing Co. released four barrel-aged versions of their Imperial Stout, Eclipse (vintage 2010). People sought out these beers in spite of their price tags, and those people routinely referred to the beers as "Four Roses Eclipse," "Evan Williams Eclipse," and the slightly enigmatic "Brandy Eclipse" (that one stayed on shelves a bit longer than the others). Currently, if you visit Fifty Fifty's website, you can find information on "Eclipse futures." As with wine futures, Eclipse futures allow the consumer to claim a certain quantity of this coveted beverage before its official release. The 2011 vintage includes seven different versions of the stout, and this year, one was aged in Rittenhouse Rye barrels (don't think craft beer drinkers haven't noticed all those new-old rye cocktails a few lines up from the tap list on the drinks menu).

As the trend of barrel-aging gains popularity, brewers are experimenting with gin barrels, tequila barrels, and cognac barrels. I can say firsthand that a local gin-barrel-aged ale's aromatic characteristics encouraged me to drive down to Distillery Row for a bottle of Aviation Gin, and I know soon my slightly geekier compatriots soon will be schooling me on spirits, as they already do with beer.

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Paul Beilstein was born and raised in Illinois. He earned a BA in rhetoric from the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign and an MFA in writing from the University of California, Irvine. He lives with his wife Shereen in Portland, Oregon.

Party In Aisle 4

Lisa P. Sutton — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:34:00 GMT

I hadn't planned to be drinking at noon. My ten-minute errand at BevMo turned into a three-hour detour. I had gone in only to replenish a few favorites, the Napa Smith Lost Dog Red Ale, a couple of different Allegash Belgians, and a bottle of what I call my working girl's cognac, the Pierre Ferrand Amber. A friendly pair of employees--one manning a cheese and cracker cart, another a lineup of California reds--invited me into the tasting area. I took a small plastic glass of the first wine in the lineup, a Gnarly Head Zinfandel that pleasantly surprised me. For only $12 ($9 with a ClubBev card!), it was an absolutely drinkable wine--the kind I might serve to either my friends or my father without embarrassment. I put two bottles into my shopping cart, and followed the growing crowd to the next wine in the tasting.

The crowd was anything but predictable. In Los Angeles, where folks tend to bemoan the difficulty of meeting new people in a sprawling landscape dominated by cars, people were stopping simply to hang out. A woman in her fifties or sixties, a regular that the BevMo employees called by name, had come with her own stemmed glass and was telling us all about past tasting highlights. A pair of gay men in their late twenties stood around comparing acidity levels and teaching us how to do spitting tests. A French expat and her boyfriend passed out cheese in between tastings for those of us who couldn't get close enough to the cart.

Though we all focused on the task at hand, following our host's instructions to sniff and swirl and drink slowly, we were really having an improptu party in the middle of BevMo. We were chatting and lingering, exchanging email addresses and phone numbers. We shared recommendations for the best tacos in the city, the best Korean BBQ. We made plans to meet for happy hour across town the following week.

But was BevMo caught holding the losing end of the bargain? Were we wrong to take advantage of the store's hospitality? Surely we'd each gone beyond whatever the store budgets per taster. Our host was pouring us seconds and thirds of our favorites in the lineup.

My guess is that BevMo actually made money on us. We were tipsy and delighted with everything the store had to offer. We were recommending wines to passing customers, and we each bought multiple bottles of the wines we preferred in the tasting. Some of us doubled back and added a few more items we hadn't considered before when we were merely rushing through the store on a direct errand. I took a chance on half a case of an amber ale out of San Francisco that I'd never seen. My new French expat friend grabbed the Bear Republic IPA I suggested. At the end of the tasting, I left BevMo having spent twice more than I intended. I was a satisfied drinker, and I'm pretty sure BevMo was a satisfied retailer.

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Lisa P. Sutton earned an MFA in writing from University of California, Irvine and a JD from Boston University School of Law. She lives and drinks in Los Angeles.

Calimocho

Lisa P. Sutton — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 18:25:00 GMT

This is how it happens. You have a dinner party. It goes well. It goes so well that you and your guests plow through all of your bottles of decent wine. When you come home from work the following Monday, your eyes bloodshot from too many hours in front of a computer screen and your nerves frayed, you're desperate for a drink but the pickings are slim.

You pass over the abandoned Midori in the back of your pantry. (How the hell did that get there anyway?) There's some tequila that you haven't been able to go near since that last trip to Puerta Vallarta. You've got a six-pack of beer that looks good but you took it out of the fridge to make room for the roast you cooked up for the dinner guests, and you can't wait the hour it will take for the beer to get cold. You spot on your kitchen counter the one bottle of wine you purposely didn't serve. It was a host gift from your cheap friend (there's always one in every crowd), and it is entirely unidentifiable except for the inscription claiming it to be "Quality Red Table Wine."

You uncork the bottle, trying not to smell it. Smelling it will only make drinking it more difficult. You dump a few mouthfuls into a glass and take the plunge. You swallow once. You cannot take another sip. It's as bad as you expected.

What's a stressed out but enterprising young professional to do? Grab soda. Lots of it. Mix one part "Quality Red Table Wine" with one part cola and serve in a tall glass over ice. Call it a Calimocho because only in Spanish does your bastard of an emergency drink sound hip and intentional. Pour the rest of the "Quality Red Table Wine" into a pitcher with the rest of the cola, and take it outside to share with your neighbors on the front stoop. (If you don't have a stoop, because stoops never made it this far west, gather around on the sidewalk and pray that the police don't drive by.) Call this sharing part a botellon because again, everything sounds classier if it's foreign. Get your neighbors to bring out their own collection of undrinkable reds re-gifted by their own cheap friends. Send someone's kid to the corner store for more cola. Drink, share, repeat.

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Lisa P. Sutton earned an MFA in writing from University of California, Irvine and a JD from Boston University School of Law. She lives and drinks in Los Angeles.

And Then There Was Shandy

Lisa P. Sutton — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 19:22:00 GMT

Like most women, I wasn't born a beer fan. I came of age drinking whatever tasted least like alcohol: fruit-flavored wine coolers, mimosas, forgotten bottles of coffee liquors my parents received each year as Christmas gifts. Drinking then was frequently an excuse to eat whatever salty snacks could be paired with the drinking, and I thought of beer only as a man's drink. Its bitterness was something that manhood required getting used to but from which I was pleasantly excused.

Sometime in my early twenties though, my attitude toward beer began to change. It was a matter of simple economics. As a student, I could splurge on a Tecate or two but a Veuve Clicquot with fresh squeezed orange juice was clearly beyond my budget. I started slowly, on the gateway drink: the Shandy.

Equal parts beer and lemon-lime or ginger soda, the Shandy is a summer drink. In Los Angeles, that meant I could drink a Shandy year round. I found a dive bar with a sense of humor that served 32 ounce "mini" Shandies for $3, and I learned that a light lager or pilsner wasn't just men's territory. In time, I cut back on the soda and ordered my Shandies with just a splash of diet-7Up. Once I got to grad school, I left behind the soda entirely, ratcheted up my quotient for hops, and joined the boys for IPAs after classes.

Though I've outgrown Shandies, bars throughout Los Angeles seem to be bringing them back. The beer cocktail resurgence has every third hipster in skinny jeans sipping a Shandy or Michelada (beer, lime juice, tomato juice, and hot sauce) over eggs benedict at brunch. Gastropubs are dressing up classic beer cocktails with everything from anejo tequilas and small batch bourbons to hibiscus juice and agave syrup. One of my favorite new Westside bars is gaining traction on the Stag Hag, basically a cousin to the Tijuana Manhattan, if only said cousin arrived dressed in a cherry beer reduction instead of sweet vermouth.

Will Shandies and Micheledas one day steal the spotlight from worn out trends like Cosmos and Appletinis or even something like the time-tested Gin & Tonic? Probably not. But the beer cocktail buzz throughout the city tells me Shandies are well on their way to indoctrinating the next generation of female beer drinkers.

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Lisa P. Sutton earned an MFA in writing from University of California, Irvine and a JD from Boston University School of Law. She lives and drinks in Los Angeles.

Make up Your Freakin' Minds, Researchers!

Zack Jenkins — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 00:05:00 GMT

Is wine good for me or not?!

A recent study by Harvard University and Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston found that women who drink just two glasses of wine a day are 50% more likely to get breast cancer than those that don't drink at all. And even if they have one glass, they're still 15% more likely to develop breast cancer. The study also indicates one in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. But wait, wasn't wine supposed to be good for your heart?!

Literally hundreds of studies have been done on red wine and resveratrol, and the general presumption is that the alcohol and antioxidants help increase the levels of "good" cholesterol in the heart and brain and prevent artery damage.

So wait a minute, let's get this straight. If you drink a glass of wine a day (or even a couple times a week) you reduce your risk of heart issues, but you're more likely to develop tumors in your breast. This just seems like a no-win situation and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Let THE TASTING PANEL know your thoughts and feelings about the health issues surrounding moderate alcohol consumption. It's something that doctors on all sides of the argument are reticent to hand out advice on.

But until then, I'm going to keep enjoying my reds. I've got more of a history of heart related issues in my family than of breast cancer. What about you?

Any Excuse to Shoot Lasers, Right, Scotland?

Zack Jenkins — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 00:05:00 GMT

Researchers at Andrews University in Scotland have figured out the best way to test scotch-whisky authenticity-fire a laser at it! It sounds like a perfect Star Wars moment for alcohol lovers, doesn't it? But no, they're serious. It was all developed to prohibit scotch counterfeiting.

By placing a drop of whisky on a thin plastic chip and then illuminating it with a fiber optic laser and analyzing the drop with another, the scientists can observe the fluorescence as the whisky scatters the light. This is known as the Raman signature. (It would be some Star Wars aficionado stuffed with ramen noodles that would name it the Raman signature, don't you think?!)

Anyway, that fragmentation and range of light will be indicative of the age, brand and cask of the whisky. And since all that's needed for the test is a drop, that means the rest of the bottle is going to waste . . . or is it? Can I join the team?

Although great for the eventual compilation of a database of whisky fragmentations, the laser test is geared for stores and distributors who would be purchasing in bulk and want to ensure quality, instead of the average consumer. That being said, it does help ensure quality for consumers by making sure the bottles we're throwing down our piggy-bank savings on are actually quality.

I'm all for a good whisky and laser shooting, especially if they are together. If you happen to see a guy running around with a bottle of Jack and a Clone costume on firing lasers everywhere (even though it's after Halloween already), you know what's up.

Whisky and lasers . . . just too cool!

It's Not Okay, It's ArKay . . . and It's Alcoholic-Free!

Zack Jenkins — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 22:58:00 GMT

It's not just beer and wine that can be non-alcoholic anymore. Whisky has entered the sober game. The $40 billion dollar non-alcoholic beverage market is experiencing a first: ArKay Alcoholic -Free Whisky Flavored Drink. Available for purchase on December 1 this year, ArKay is an artificially flavored drink for those with medical conditions or religious beliefs that prohibit the consumption of alcohol.

It looks "exactly like traditional whisky," according to ArKay Beverages, Inc.. The beverage has also been approved by the FDA and is Halal certified by the Islamic Food and Nutrition Council of North America.

You can drink it straight up from the bottle or can, on the rocks or add any mixers you want. How perfect would that be for the parties or cocktails when you have to drive home later that night, right? You can keep sipping away until you need to leave. Too perfect!

As soon as it hits the shelves you'll have to comment and let THE TASTING PANEL know what you think!

ArKay's 32 oz. non-alcoholic whisky flavored drink is expected to cost $10 per bottle or $4 per 12 oz. can. Designed to be the perfect party drink, the whisky-flavored drink was designed for mass consumption and hits shelves across the country in December.

It's guaranteed to mix up the whisky market a bit, and it's completely ArKay to drink and drive!

ArKay's 32 oz. non-alcoholic whiskey is expected to cost $10 per bottle or $4 per 12 oz. can. Designed to be the perfect party drink, the whiskey-flavored drink was designed for mass consumption and hits shelves across the country in December.

It's guaranteed to mix up the whiskey market a bit, and it's completely ArKay to drink and drive!

Muscadet May in Boston

Becky Sue Epstein — Fri, 06 May 2011 18:35:00 GMT

Actually, I don’t think about Muscadet wine a lot. I’d rather it simply showed up in a glass so I could just drink it. So when I was given a chance to sample several Muscadets with oysters, of course I said yes. The SecondGlass people combined forces with Loire Valley Wines at a lunch in Boston recently, at the Island Creek Oyster Bar.

It’s a medium white wine, ranging from somewhat crisp to a bit fruity — elements in common with Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc, meaning it can have tropical fruit, honey or grassy aromas. It’s not super-crisp, but has a strain of limestone citricity (is that a word?) running through it at the best of times, which makes it lively on the palate.

A classic pairing is Muscadet and oysters – which really works. It was even more fun to have the Island Creek oysters with three choices for the first course, all in the $12-$14 range: 2009 Guy Saget “Les Clissaes d’Or” Muscadet Sèvre et Maine; 2009 Domaine de la Quilla Muscadet Sèvre et Maine; 2010 Domaine de la Louviere Muscadet Sèvre et Maine sur lie.

“Sur lie” means the wine is left on the lees, or the dregs of the yeast cells and other grape particulate matter – which sounds awful but imparts a depth of flavor to the wine. Until now, it was common to leave the wine on the lies for no longer than a few months. Now, there’s a movement to leave the wine there for 17 months, and new regulations have recently been proposed (expect an update in a year or so).

Muscadet, by the way, refers to an appellation, an area of the Loire region. It’s not a grape, but so many more people know the word Muscadet and so few people know the name of this wine’s grape (Melon de Bourgogne) that Muscadet is now a stand-in name for the grape.

Three more wines were served with bright green pea soup with poached oysters. These, all under $18, were Michel Delhommeau “Cuvée Harmonie” Muscadet Sèvre et Maine; 2009 Domaine de l’Ecu “Expression de Granite” Muscadet Sèvre et Maine; and 2009 Domaine les Hautes Noëlles Muscadet Côtes de Grandlieu. The best pairings for me were the first and third wines. The Michel Delhommeau started super-crisp, with the flavor almost disappearing on the palate, then finishing with lingering limestone. The Domaine les Hautes Noëlles had a big body that somehow lightened up with the food. Interesting.

For the final course, we had a few beautiful Scituate scallops with a sprinkling of gnocchi in brown butter sauce. The food was minutes old; the wines were at least a decade old. Most people think of Muscadet as a wine to drink young, but they aren’t all like that. We had three – and all were under $25 – each one a different hue of bright gold: 1995 and 1999 L d’Or de Luneau-Papin “Cuvée Medaillée” Muscadet Sèvre et Maine; and 2000 Domaine du Haut Bourg Muscadet Côtes de Grandlieu.

The 2000 Domaine du Haut Bourg was a combination of youth and evolution with a cantaloupe nose, crispness, chalk and limestone throughout. The 1995 was calm and serene, with butter and vanilla-yeast notes, while the 1999 was hearty, reminiscent of wet beaches on the nose, and a big, long finish. Each one brought out different notes in the food.

I guess that means I need to keep trying more Muscadets. It shouldn’t be too difficult. At least in Boston the whole month is Muscadet May.

Becky Sue Epstein is a Contributing Editor for The Tasting Panel. Find her work at www.beckysueepstein.com .

Amarone from any year? How about 1980!

Becky Sue Epstein — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 23:08:00 GMT

One of my favorite things about Bertani, the Amarone producer, is that they make available their vintage Amarones from just about any year in the last half-century. Anyone can order one through the distributor, and the prices are in the $$ hundreds, not $$$ thousands – great for celebrating special occasions.

Recently, soft-spoken Bertani winemaker Cristian Ridolfi stopped in Boston for lunch, on his way back to Italy. Bertani produces a total 1.5 million bottles (125,000 cases) of about a dozen different wines all from their own vineyards. They don’t buy and they don’t sell fruit, emphasized export manager Stefano Mangiarotti, who was also at this lunch. But they could easily produce more than twice this amount of wine from their vineyards, if they weren’t so highly selective.

Bertani has not made any major changes in their winemaking since they started producing Amarone in the mid-twentieth century. Ridolfi still dries the grapes for 120 days, not just the required 90. He is convinced that this is what accounts for the longevity of the Bertani Amarone wines. Incidentally, he has also found that the anti-ageing compound resveratrol doubles in these grapes in the 120 days.

He is doing one bit of experimentation, this with the large wooden casks the Amarone matures in for six years. The winery is in trials with chestnut, acacia, and possibly more cherry wood, all sourced locally.

Ridolfi brought several Bertani wines, and several vintages of Amarone della Valpolicella DOC: 2003, 1998, 1980 and 1967. His favorite, he admitted was the 1967. Mine was the 1980. Bursting with life, this 30-year-old wine had huge fruit aromas. It actually smelled young. There was some minerality, a hint of bitterness to show that there was some structure here. The wine’s fruit flavors were well developed, continuing with prune and plum into the finish. Later, I found fresh herbs and a bit of eucalyptus coming out. Suggested retail price is $230.

The most astounding thing happened at the end of the meal. We had just finished our espressos when someone called for a toast. After raising a glass, a sip from it is required, so I did. And this wine from 1980 flashed out its flavors, firm with fruit, even after the coffee. I was impressed.

Bertani is imported by Palm Bay International.

Becky Sue Epstein is a Contributing Editor for The Tasting Panel. Find her work at www.beckysueepstein.com .