I was in Castle Rock the other day, making the requisite trip to my old high school to catch up with the teachers who influenced me far more than any professor I've had in the five years of patchwork university education since. Seeing as I was hungry and on an adventure, I decided to to to the Rockyard to get some lunch and wait until 2:35, when I no longer needed a badge and a cavity search to enter the national treasure Douglas County High School.
Sitting at the bar and reading the Rocky Mountain Brewing Newsletter, or whatever that is, I looked over the beer menu and decided to try the saison, the belgian blonde, and the stout, in that order. Given that they're everywhere and that I was thirsty and feeling a bit feisty, I tried the saison first.
I am a fan of a good Saison, almost despite myself. Despite myself because it seems to be difficult to find a good one. This particular specimen was like the science fair plant that you grew with the medium amount of light and the styrofoam-infused soil, without the Mozart. It was indeed short, a little bit wilty and significantly uninspired, but still recognizable as an attempt at a saison. I ordered a full size pint glass before realizing that the beers were offered in 5 oz taster glasses, and I had a hard time finishing it. The desire to move onto other, more interesting tastes was difficult to suppress, but I did it anyway because I don't like to waste beer. This sucker came out of the tap nice and cloudy with a very small head that quickly dispersed to become a ring of foam around the top of the beer. There was some minor, saggy lacing on the side of the glass. The nose existed, but it was more Michael Jackson (yes, the singer) than Jennifer Grey. After a few sips, I realized that the beer tasted like the Starbucks version of a Belgian style pale, if I ordered the venti, no foam, with a pump of honey and three dashes of cardamom. The spices tasted like an afterthought, and the beer was too cloying and nowhere close to sharp, tart or anywhere in my face. As it warmed, the flavor spread more throughout my mouth, but it never reached a point where I would want another one. At that point, I was too busy just trying to make it to the end and wash it down with the most powerfully delicious green chile I've thrown at my digestive system in a long time.
My second adventure at the Rockyard involved a 5 oz taster glass full of the No Brainer belgian blonde, a clear, rich golden beer with a nice 7.0% abv. The beer poured clear with a nice, moderate, churney head and, after the first few sips, the lacing that came down the sides of the glass chunked together and reminded me of the type of cave paintings done in blood on limestone of hunters attacking lepoards (and possibly of the opening scene in Watership Down). The flavor was not too heavily syrupy like some belgians and, like the 1000 Enemies, dangerously light on its feet. The scent rose up as a bell curve, hitting every part of my nose and mouth and then fading away, but not enough that I didn't have something to remember it by. This beer tasted like the jolly, free-spirited older brother of the Saison, who the Saison is jealous of so she wears too much eye makeup and ends up in the police station with Charlie Sheen. I couldn't detect any alcohol taste despite the acceptable ABV, and as I was downing this beer I wished I had gotten it in the pint glass instead. This would have been a bad idea, because I would have probably ordered another pint glass afterward and not been able to go home for an hour.
After giving the Bueller kids a try, I moved on to their inestimable friend, Lightning Strike Stout, with whom I am going to drop the Ferris metaphor because it reminds me more of one of those weird 80's movies with the goblins. I got this 6.2% ABV sucker in the 5 oz tasting glass as well, and it showed up boasting a nice high head, which nonetheless dispersed like cotton candy in a rainstorm, leaving a thick, blobby white residue like a ring of clouds on the side of the glass. The scent hid until I opened my mouth to take a sip, at which point it rushed through both my nose and my mouth like the dark little demon it is, possessing me totally, sweetly, filling my entire mouth and nose with a recirculating richness. The taste was not chocolate, and had no hint of bitterness, but reminded me of perhaps what I would get if I carmelized one of those jars of whipped cinnamon honey and stored it in an earthenware jug under my cloak. It complemented the spicy, complex chile fantastically, and left me trailing a little bit of gold fairy dust and with an insatiable desire to come back for more.
And then I went back to my high school. That was slightly less exciting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)