Alas! Damn-Good Down-Under Beers

Okay, okay. I lied. I lied last-last time, in my post about Australian Ales, that the very next post would be about better ales--no, about Aussie porters. Instead, I spent a fortnight in the beautiful aquamarine mist of the Blue Mountains. But if it's any consolation, I spent every evening on a seductively silent porch, losing myself in the view of pristine landscape and taste of finely crafted Australian beers.

Hard to believe it, but I did indeed find some amazing beer in Australia. Though, I had to search long and hard for it, and it damn near wiped my wallet clean. But they're out there. Here are two. And these two are heavy hitters the whole craft-beer world over.

Moon Dog Brewery's Love Tap Double Lager

Holy Piss* A Lager I Actually LIKE!

Not just like, but love. Dear friends, it may come as a surprise to you, but I fell head over foam for this lager. For those of you who know me, who know me as the lauder of anti-lagers (i.e. Double IPAs and Imperial Stouts), I apologise if you weren't sitting down. 

I love Love Tap because it looks, smells, tastes, feels, kicks like an IPA. An upfront citrus bouquet accompanies a bold and noticeable aroma of hops--followed by a bold and noticeable taste of hops. Slight but appreciated chocolate malts (yep, chocolate in an IPA-ish lager!) bear recognition to the beer's complexity, which is manifested in the hop-malt-yeast list on the label. From the citrusy taste, thick mouthfeel, and cloudy orange colour, only the finish is remotely like a lager; that is, it's a bit on the weak side. Which is fine; it's characteristic of the style. Still, you'd have a hard time convincing me it wasn't an IPA.

* "Piss" is Australian for beer. No shit.**
** "Shit" is unanimously a derogate word anywhere in the world.

Barossa Valley Brewing's Bee Sting

After a five-hour hike, few things are as nice as cold beer in the afternoon. Bee Sting suduced me with its honey wheat lovin'. It's an excellent, refreshing, superbly balanced Belgian-style wheat ale. The flavours of the yeast are quite noticeable on the palate, which substantiates its refreshing Belgian taste. But it's the distinct aroma and flavour of the orange blossom and honey marriage that stands out best, lightly sweetening the beer. Subsequently the mouthfeel is sweet, but not sticky. A plus in my books, and something Oscar Blues could take note of. Styrian Gold is the hop of choice, though providing a low level of bitterness. Nice, light spices provide a touch of complexity. This was the first Australian beer that actually impressed me. 

Good alternatives to both, you ask?

Both Love Tap (if you can find it) and Bee Sting are going to cost you a pretty penny. 2,000 of them ($20) per four-pack, more precisely. $5 by the bottle. But if--nay, when-- you find yourself in the Land Down Under, keep your eye out for these alternatives. They're easier to find, and a whole $0.50-$1.00 cheaper!

Little Creatures is the brewery behind this solid, standard Imperial Pale Ale. At a only 6.4% ABV, it's not a knock-you-over IPA, but its hops are well balanced and flavourful.


White Rabbit Brewery crafts two easily-found ales: A dark and a white. Its witbier (the white) was a pleasant surprise, with a rich crispness and a slightly fuller body than you'd expect.





Now. To bestow some understanding as to why Australians err on the side of quantity over quality when it comes to beer, and to get you in the Australian-beer drinking mood:

Drinking You (Down)Under the Table

A Comparison of Three Australian Ales

I can't with honesty say it's my search for fine craft beer that's landed me in Australia; but in finding myself in Sydney, it's my love of suds that has me searching for fine Aussie craft brews. As if trying to find a new job and support myself in the most expensive city in the world weren't hard enough, finding Australian pale ales that don't pale in comparison to their American counterparts is dampening my Down Under spirits. Today, I'd like to review three craft pale ales from three emerging breweries here in Australia. Admittedly, these are the more accessible ales, but for any Australian brew-newcomers, let this serve as a welcome guide.

There are a few things to remember about beer in Australia...

New York, New York: An Ode, A Recount, An Excuse

In case you (all four of my devoted readers!) were wondering why I haven't posted anything recently, here's an elaborate, extensive, poetic explanation why:

            We left months ago, when you think about it—not actually, physically departing on a northbound jet, but the fascinating idea was conceived way back then. Then, just a dreamy lovers’ dream, a pretty thought of a flower only half-likely to blossom. Then, a newer then—two Sunday’s past—we were packing our things, calling friends, checking flights, planning a spontaneous trip that all started with my girlfriend’s question: “Do you want to go to New York today?”

            The pilot banks left, we gaze, left and down, down at the Downtown financial district of Manhattan, pulling bad-memories close, banking left around banks of rivers and banks left in the shadows of towering steel scrappers, banking on being down there soon with little left in the bank.

            Bussing through Queens, we pass various scenes we feel we’ve seen before on movies and sitcoms and talk show intros. Bus under the El Train tracks to the subway, Express train to central Greenwich Village. Patronize a few pop-fame pubs; local musicians strummin’, singin’, pluckin’, playin’, hummin’, beatin’, and one dude blowin’ bass notes with an old whisky jug. Local ales and pale ales and artichoke pizza that tastes like a warm east breeze, despite the fact it’s two degrees (C), see. See, not a bad first day and night in New York City.

            An indeterminate amount of time’s worth of clothes are not-neatly packed into two backpacks between the two of us; layers of the rest of our clothes covering us, us snuggled close on a blow-up mattress on a friend’s kitchen/dining/living room floor, snuggled close even though we have closed the window. It’s a small blow-up, but pads are small in that part of the city. Snuggled close, cause how else would you snuggle with someone with whom you’re close and it’s cold.

            We walk. We walk everywhere. First, we walk to a local joint for tea, en route to the Downtown district we flew over fifteen hours ago. At the half point, we have a ham-n-sausage-n-egg-on-everything-bagel breakfast made by a nice guy in a street-side bagel stand, and before we know it we’re down there staring up at behemoth buildings. We walk, we walk.

            Our feet aren’t yet sore as we frequent different streets and bars and bookstores, just casually taking in the city. The city! “Babe, we’re in the city!”

            And the city’s different districts are distinctively cool—the micro districts, too, good like the local micro brews, the ones we’re sipping now at an Irish pub in China town. We’re seeking out a late lunch, or an early dinner, depending on how big the portions are. “Holy shit, that’s a lot of chicken chow mein.” Loaded on hot tea to keep us warm, we wander north through Little Italy before a long nap before a late night out on the town.

            Eugene, (good friend, good director, good on him for making it (this far) in New York) has dragged us out, not by any means kicking and screaming, to show us around. Another good pub. Another good local beer, then a round on the house. “Aren’t New Yorkers supposed to be rude?” The best falafel—for $2.50! Fat Cat for some three-dollar jazz. “C’mon, guys, let’s go.” “A what?” A fairly cool Show Tunes bar with fairies singing in damn good tune to show songs on song cards handed out by some show-stoppin’ big momma behind a piano with a bigger voice and wit no Brit could top. Sing-a-longs (I don’t sing along, cause I don’t know the songs) and no one’s at the bar—they bar-lean on the piano and most everyone is drunk and happy and gay (in both the new and the happy way), save for the burly dude with a girly tone, meanly saying, “Can we please use our inside voices,” just so everyone can hear his part of his and his partners’ duet. Lame-ass. Strange looks. “Hailey, please hold my hand.”

            It’s 4:00. More pizza. Yes, more food. What can I say? We’re here for the food.

                       

 

            Hailey looks hot in her boots. By ‘hot’ I mean pretty, though it’s warm today, walking around Uptown. A MOMA walk-through, then back-to-back plays. Musicals. On and Off Broadway musicals; not that I’m complaining, but after this, I’m good with show tunes for quite a bit. Time Square in the day, Time Square at night. The people. The lights. Conan O’Brian’s big head on a big screen. Coke. Bud Light. Wicked. Micky-D’s. Bank of America. Bank left. Subway. A subway south, back to Euge’s flat. Tonight’s a brief night out. Falafel again; it’s a good thing, I’m not complaining.

            Thursday. Another warm day. Walking. Walking North. A walk in the park. Central Park. The whole park, almost. It’s a lovely park, for the most part. The Met, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Now our feet are hurting. The balls of Hailey’s feet’s bottoms and the large arches on my feet’s peaks, and behind my left knee. Time for a nice lunch and a beer or three (one was free; New Yorkers are actually really nice, save for the old lady who made Hailey and me let go our held hands so she could walk between us: “You have to let go sooner or later!” “No we don’t!” Old hag. Should have Red-Rover blocked her. Bitch.).

            Tonight we’re too tired to go out. We’re beer-ed out. I didn’t think, or know, that was possible. Too tired to do much more than check flights. Most flights are full; we’re flying standby, by the way—both ways. Our only shot is tomorrow, Friday, late morning.

            “Good night, babe.”

            “Goodnight, babe.”

            Early to bed, early to rise. Another tube-ride bagel-shop breakfast. Walking. Walking west. Where the West Side Story was, but we’re here for a walk in the park. High Line Park. A new park built on old El Train tracks, elevated, vegetated, sun seats and rails and some seats move along the rails the landscape architects left by design. It’s certainly a neat place. And what a way to end the trip.

            Subway to the bus stop. Retracing our first few steps. Back through the only part of Queens we got to see. We saw Manhattan inside and out, and now I’ll be more attentive watching sitcoms and talk show intros. We sit on the left side of the plane; the plane banks left. A departing view of the Big Apple. Hailey sleeps and I read almost the whole way back to Florida. South. And jealous friends and family ask: “What did you do? Did you elevate up the Empire State Building? Did you go to Yankee Stadium? Did you ferry to Ellis Island and climb Lady Liberty? Ice skate in Time Square? Stand outside the Today Show and scream?”

            “No.”

I would like to extend a very special thanks to Eugene Ma, a friend I've known since boarding school days, who allowed Hailey and I to crash at his pad, who showed us around the city, and is greatly much responsible for making our amazing, maiden trip to New York possible. Euge, on behalf of Hailey and myself, thanks a million.