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Fresh Hops Are Here Again

Fresh hops! Get your fresh hops! It’s that time of the year, the sun is sinking southward and the bines are heavy with juicy cones. The harvest window is short, and the hops are fragile. But before they are all dried and doled out for another year, a few lucky brewers can get their mitts on those oily little buggers.

Once again, the first beer into cans came from Ex Novo. They must have inside information on the harvest schedules, because I wasn’t even thinking about freshies when Fresh Hop Eliot showed up earlier this month. It was a great reminder how fresh hops are different from the usual dried varieties. This beer reeks of hops. Taking a whiff is like standing behind a long haired dude at a crowded concert. It’s skunky; it’s sweaty; it’s perfumy; it’s actually kind of nice.

That same week, Level Beer -- that newer brewery out by the airport -- combined two seasonal trends in their fresh-hopped Oktoberfest beer. Level combines the malty richness of Oktoberfest with an unexpected fruitiness. It’s got that tingly flavor I only find in fresh hops.

Crux’s first freshy has an odd name and brings out soem odd flavors. I’m not sure it was really fresh. None of that green freshness, lots and lots of fruit. And this is supposed to be made with fresh Centennials? It’s lacking the funky, dank flavors I was expecting. It tastes incredibly clean, with a lager-like finish. Odd.

And the hits kept coming when Baerlic brewing put out fresh green cans of their Punk Rock Time IPA. It’s got that fresh herb melody floating over a dank, oniony bassline. this is more what I expect from Centennial hops. But it was made with fresh Strata, so what do I know.

Little Beast took a different tack with their fresh hops, making a sour ale and added a ton of freshies. It tastes different too. It’s pungent at first, and then it gets funky. It’s intense in too many directions, really. A noble effort, if a little flawed in execution.

Occidental went and added fresh hops to their Pilsner. It’s got a nice balance. The malt flavor has depth and the hops add a little fresh citrus to the herb party.

Reuben’s Fresh Hop Crikey IPA tastes kind of old, and plasticy. Maybe it’s fresh upfront, but the back end is rough and bitter. 

Every year, the folks at Lucky Lab invite the neighbors over for a hop picking party. They take down all the bines climbing their own arbors and those donated by others, and volunteers pick the hops. All those random hops are added a beer called the Mutt. This -- thankfully? sadly? -- is not that beer. If Reuben’s was a little rough, this is sand paper. I’m not into it. 

[demjointz]

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[whatchudrinkin]

And then there were none.

Well, no. We skipped a few freshies this year. There’s only so many fresh hop beers you can try in a month. We found almost twenty different canned and bottled options, and they are still being released. But harvest season is over, and there’s a chill in the air. It’s about time to switch to something darker. In the meantime, here are ten more freshies to hold you over.

Hopicana is Old Town Brewing’s hazy fresh hop hazy. Hopicana is juicy, full of orange and mango. Fresh mosaic hops give it a melony flavor and a zesty tingle. If you want a real good, balanced hazy, Old Town knows what’s up.

Double Mountain were pioneers in fresh hops, but their signature pair, Killer Green and Killer Red, are tasting less bombastic than in past years. KIller Green features fresh Simcoe and Brewer’s Gold hops. It’s really bitter. It’s spicy like arugula, but only only presents a tiny zest of citrus. Killer Red looks almost identical in the glass. Which goes to say the two bases, an IPA and an IRA, are not so different. Killer Red is full of fresh Perle and Centennial hops, but the darker malt dominates. It’s toasty. The bitterness is more aggressive, like dandelion greens. The only fruit note is a raspberry. Both beers are nice, but a little old school.

Machine House Brewery from Seattle specializes in old school beers, session strength English ales served on cask. Their Fresh Hop Simcoe Session -- very creative name -- is only about four percent alcohol, but packs in the hops. You really get the orangy notes of Simcoe with the bite of pith in the finish. The middles is very green, like kaffir lime leaves.

Gigantic Brewing also stuck with Simcoe for their fresh hop pale ale. The Simcoe Awakens is the seventh beer they’ve made with fresh Sodbuster Farms hops. Gigantic draws out more dankness from their Simcoe. It’s got a greener flavor, more pine. The citrus notes are still their, but taste less ripe. Under all the hops, it the bones of a nice pale ale, too.

Stormbreaker Brewing’s Handfuls of Fresh Hops is almost offensive. The scent is overpowering. It’s not sweaty. But it’s not exactly dry. There are oranges in their. There are flowers. But they are rotting or something. Sarah liked it though, so what do I know.

Thundercone was probably the first fresh hop beer I ever tasted. McMenamins gets a lot of flack for being old and ubiquitous, but they can make a real nice beer. This year, Thundercone feature fresh Simcoe hops. It’s got a really fresh, green scent. It’s a little orangey. It’s a little bitter. It’s just like putting your face in a freshly opened ziplock full of hops. Very nice.

Rogue grew their own hops for Coast Haste. It’s got that Mosaic quality everyone seems to love. It’s got a lot of haze. It’s melony. It’s juicy. It’s very on trend. A little too heady for for my taste. They could lose a few points on the ABV. Good for Rogue though, doing something new.

Crux named Dr. Jack for the breeder of America’s favorite hop, Cascade. But for some reason it doesn’t taste at all like its namesake’s creation. Dr. Jack the beer is weirdly juicy. Cascade shouldn’t be juicy, right? It’s odd. It’s sweet. I don’t like it.

Bale Breaker Brewing is located on an actual Yakima Valley hop farm, so they ought to have access to some good fresh hops. As the name implies, Citra Slicker features Citra hops. It’s billed as a collab with Cloudburst Brewing of Seattle-land. Citra Slicker is fresh as hell. Green with absolutely crushing amounts of citrus. It’s the perfect place to end the season.

[whatchudrinkin]

Peak IPA

I went to a new-ish Portland area brewery yesterday where they had not one, not five, but ten different hazy IPAs on tap. Yes half of them were doubles, and one or two had fruit added, but ten different hazy IPAs? Really? Imagine walking into a brewery a third of their menu was variations on Pilsner. No not like a dozen lagers. I mean Pilsner. That’s how specific we’re talking.

There was a taster tray with three hazy IPAs on it. And honestly, I couldn’t tell them apart. Okay. I could tell they were three different beers, but they were so similar it seemed like they could easily be batches of the exact same beer. At a larger brewery, making twelve variations on a theme is how recipes are developed. But usually, you pick the best one and scale it up as a Spring seasonal. Here, they just had twelve hazy IPAs on tap, and a taster tray where three of the four beers on it were hazy IPAs, they were all available in cans to-go. 

The novelty cravings in beer has become so insane that a brewery can make basically the same beer five times, slap a different kooky name on it and send it out. Whether people like it or not is irrelevant because there will be another five of the same beer coming down the pipe next week. 

Yay?!

[whatchudrinkin]

A Different Sort of Farmhouse Beer

Huh! I don’t know if my Kveik brew tastes Norwegian, but damn if this isn’t some good homebrew. 

First of all, the Hornindal stain from Omega Yeast does not throw off phenols. You know, those spicy notes a decade of Saison have tied to the idea farmhouse beer. This is really… clean? The Cascade hops – chosen for that beery baseline – are showing their best, pine and grapefruit and all that. Bright and fresh and delicious, but the fruity citrus esters from the package aren’t coming through. The kveik makes it a little different from your basic pale ale, but it would take an excellent palate to taste it. That’s not a knock on the strain, but as extreme as Kveik may be on paper, it actually makes a very crushable beer. We drank a gallon of the stuff this week. Don’t worry, I’m already planning my next batch. 

Maybe I’ll use some different hops. Citra sounds nice.

[whatchudrinkin]

Black Apple CIder

Apples come in more colors than just red and green. Some are red all the way from skin to seed. Others come in with a orange tinged flesh. And some are just aptly named. Arkansas Black is a dark, dark red. No, not purple. Like red paint mixed with black. No. More black. There you go. It would look perfect in still life. A bowl, some black apples, a single candle, a witches hat, a broom.

Arkansas Black apples originated in the mid nineteenth century in, where else? Arkansas. The apples have recently caught on in the midwest and further afield. Like Hood River, Oregon where Double Mountain made them into cider. 

Don’t worry. It the cider is just as gold and fizzy as ever. The classic apple flavor buoyed here and there by a subtle note of vanilla or a kiss of sweet nectar. And there’s just enough fermentation character, a little yeasty flavor, on the backend to keep it interesting. And it’s dry, just how I like it. 

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Norwegian IPA

This is my second homebrew with kveik. Same recipe, except this time I used Cyitra hops and attempted dry hopping for only the second time ever. Yeesh it made a mess. I tried my best, but that last bottle was so full of floaty hop matter I had to pour it down the drain. The other bottles were less chewy, but full of that Citra scent – you know, oranges and stuff. It tastes incredibly contemporary. 

Aside from the occasional green fleck floating on the foam, I wouldn’t be surprised to find this beer on tap anywhere in town. It’s got that smack you in the face scent, it’s fruity and crisp on the tongue. And I don’t actually like it that much. I get why everyone loves Citra, but I want to try something that let’s the other ingredients shine through more. 

Maybe next time I’ll try something boring, Nugget, Willamette, Fuggles. I can just keep rotating the hops forever. That sounds fun. What should I use next?

[whatchudrinkin]

Apples and Apricots and Some Other Stuff

Nat West isn’t your usual cider maker. He got his start making backyard cider from old crab apples, traditional dry ciders. But being in the beer haven of Portland, West saw that cider flavor didn’t need to come just from apples. In Cider Made Simple, Jeff Alworth writes that Nat West approaches fresh pressed apple juice like a brewer approaches wort. He adds spices, fruit, and chooses his yeast to create a cider that is tastier than any single ingredient alone. 

Reverend Nat’s was also an early pioneer in dry hopped ciders. Hallelujah Hopricot is based on a Belgian Witbier, with additions of coriander, grains of paradise, and bitter orange peel. It’s fermented with a Saison yeast strain and finished with apricot juice and cascade hops. It’s as far from traditional cider as one can get, but should raise the eyebrows of fellow beer geeks. 

Personally, I didn’t taste the add-ins. I didn’t realize there was anything special about the yeast till I looked it up ten minutes ago. Spices? Yeah, maybe a little. Apricots? Sure, it’s juicy. Cascade hops? Hmm. Around the edges? But most of all I taste cider. Just plain old apple juice. I’m a little disappointed, but I can appreciate the vision.

[whatchudrinkin]

Another Norwegian IPA

Apparently I wasn’t the only one that thought kveik would make a good IPA. Matchless Brewing out of Tumwater, Washington -- former home of the dive bar classic Olympia -- already made two hazy IPAs with kveik. What makes it stand out? Almost nothing. Both taste like fruity, hazy IPAs. Hell, it’s hard to tell the difference between the two. I guess no brewery is going to recreate a Norwegian raw ale any time soon. It’s up to me, huh? Anyone know where I can get some juniper branches in Portland?

[whatchudrinkin]

Look at this kveik stater. I just love seeing something fermenting, all those yeasties just doing their job.

[whatchudrinkin]

Turn Undead 

The Corpse Reviver was first mixed as a hangover cure. It was said to be so potent one drink would wake even the dead. Various recipes for the cocktail exist, the most popular being #2, a blend of equal parts gin, vermouth, cointreau, and lemon juice with a splash of absinthe for texture. Gigantic’s Corpse Reviver #2 is a sour beer aged in gin barrels with whole lemons and oranges. It’s delicious.

There seems to be a trend in brewing to perfectly mimic non-beer flavors. The hazy IPA tastes exactly like Sunny Delight. The chocolate and marshmallow stout tastes like s’mores. The inspiration and the beer itself should be indistinguishable. The more you’re strawberry blonde tastes like strawberry, the more successful it is. Gigantic’s team was inspired by a classic combination of citrus and gin, but didn’t try to create a complete facsimile. Gigantic’s Corpse Reviver #2 still tastes like beer. 

I have a feeling the base beer was somewhere between a double IPA and a barleywine. Reviver retains a malty sweetness upfront before transitioning into an interesting melange of juniper tang and a tart citrus finish. It’s over nine percent. You can feel the strength in every sip. It’s not hot, but it’s got body and heft. Gigantic’s version isn’t nearly as powerful as the original. It won’t wake the dead, but it might tickle a zombie.

[whatchudrinkin]

Apple Singles

Traditional English cider making is a hands off affair. The apples are crushed and pressed, and the juice is left alone to ferment. Apple juice is full of tasty nutrients, so yeasts and will eat all the tasty sugars they can get. The finished cider is bone dry and usually near six and half percent alcohol. French cideries purposefully stress the yeast, taking away their nutrients so they leave behind residual sugars. The process, known as keeving, leaves a cider as weak as three percent alcohol and tasting sweet. American cideries combine elements of both traditions with a winemakers focus on single varieties. American ciders feature Cortland, Gala, or Russet right on the label. The goal in these ciders is not to create the perfect balance of tannins, acids, sweetness, but to let the individual flavor of the apple shine.

E.Z. Orchard’s Roman Beauty Cider is French in flavor, both weaker and sweeter than an average cider, and very American. The featured apple, the Roman Beauty, is an heirloom variety first planted in the E.Z. Orchard in the 1920′s. The cider is almost champagne-like in it’s effervescence. The sweetness is evident on the first sip. It tastes like apple juice, but the scent is unique. There’s a note somewhere between a crinkled old rose and a musky perfume. It’s floral and earthy and right in your face with every sip. The finish is clean, low tannins with plenty of scrubbing bubbles. I’ve never heard of a Roman Beauty before, but I suddenly want to taste one, or maybe just smell it.

[whatchudrinkin]

Pears for Your Heirs

Perry is like cider, but with pears. Making perry is as traditional as cider in southern England, but it’s fallen out of favor because pear trees are just hard. According to Cider Made Simple, pear trees take decades to mature and bear consisten fruit, they’re taller and harder to harvest, the fruit is more prone to pests and the juice more susceptible to bacterial infection, and the fermentations take longer. Perry is a huge hassle, but it’s dang tasty. 

Evenfall Farm Fermentations near Eugene, Oregon went through the trouble for Arising, a naturally fermented perry bottled still like wine. The orchard yeasts add a funky aroma, a little cheesy, very lambic-like. The cloudy body is full and smooth. Can we call that a product of pectin? Seems like a pear thing. It’s dry, but not superdry. Arising taste like pears. It’s sweet and tart and a little creamy. But it has a nice complexity from long fermentation and a balance of acids and soft tannins.

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Locally Grown

I find myself more and more interested in ingredients than in beer itself. Making an IPA with the freshest Yakima Valley hops and premium German malts is easy if you have the money. Making good beer with ingredients grown in Maryland? That’s going to take a little more creativity. But the result is a more -- I hate to say it -- authentic product. Arguing about authenticity is not cool. I hear you. No one likes the guy who loudly proclaims the popular brewery as a sellout. But if the goal of craft brewing is to make local beer, you have to start with local ingredients. 

In Oregon, we are spoiled for local ingredients, and always have been. Between the Yakima and Willamette Valleys, the Northwest grows the vast majority of American hops. Grain has been malted right across the river in Vancouver, Washington for nearly a hundred years. It’s hard not to brew beer in Portland. But other parts of the country, especially in the South, no one made beer for a long time, so no one grew the ingredients.

We all know George Washington and his ilk made beer and cider and mead up and down the eastern seaboard back in the day. Books have been written on the subject of brewing in the colonies. But it’s a hundred of years since New York’s hop fields were taken out by downy mildew and the Midwest became the bread basket for the rest of the country. Finding a local source for brewing supplies is hard. 

That’s what makes places like Milkhouse Brewery in Maryland so interesting. They try there damnedest to make beer locally. That means with hops grown on their own farm and grain malted just down the road.

The beer is conservative, leaning toward more approachable, more sessionable styles. Take Local Lager, it’s 3.9% and even your grandpa would recognize it as beer. It tastes like macro beer, malty and sort of corny. But there’s a subtle fruitiness that cuts through, white grapes and nectarines. It’s easy to drink, but has a certain depth you wouldn’t find in a Yuengling.

The most adventurous beer on offer at the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival was probably the golden Biere de Garde. It smells of strawberries and has a hint sort of tart finish. It’s not sour, but it has a sharp something on the backend that cuts through a the agave nectar sweetness. Even a little flat from the crowler, it tasted great.

But the beer I think really captures the rustic spirit of Milkhouse is Goldie’s Best Bitter. It’s a 4.2% ale brewed with honey and Maryland grown Cascade hops. where you might expect a lot of grapefruit and pine, you get a rush of grassy freshness. It tastes dirty, earthy, fecund. It tastes of spring, damp soil, new growth. If they had used Yakima Valley Cascades, I doubt it would have the same flavor. It would probably taste like a lot of the old American Pale Ales you’re used to. But because Milkhouse grows their own hops and keeps their own bees, a simple pale ale can express flavors wholly unique.

That’s what I want when I visit a new brewery. That’s what I want when I open a beer. I want to taste something that could only be made in that place with those ingredients.

[whatchudrinkin]

Staring into the Abyss

I graduated college and landed in the depths of the “Great Recession.” At twenty-two I found myself working a shitty part time job and with plenty of time on my hands. I listened to podcasts, sat around drinking too much coffee in overpriced coffee houses, and looking for something to do. I ended up spending a lot of time in the Central Library looking for something to occupy my anxious brain. Literature was out; I’d had enough of that in school. The news was depressing. And there were only so many Mary Roach books. So I started reading about beer.

At the time, Sarah and I were living in a severely sloping fourth floor, walk up apartment a block off West Burnside. Our living room windows looked down on the parking lot of a sports bar famous for cheap gyros. Sarah was working twelve hour shifts back then, so I’d often not see here till eight or nine at night. I started this blog to fill my time. I started capturing every beer I drank along with a few witty descriptors, and I read some more. I read Michael Jackson. I searched out his “world classics.” I perused the Oxford Companion and tried to use words like diacetyl and acetic acid in my posts.

Before I found Michael Jackson and Stan Hieronymus writing about brewing monks, before poring over the Oxford Companion to Beer and trying use diacetyl and brettanomyces is in casual conversation, I read was The Naked Pint. 

The Naked Pint was written by a pair of knowledgeable ladies, Christina Perozzi and Hallie Beaune. It’s an introduction to beer and brewing and introduced me to the idea of beer styles. They described everything from Pale Ale to Saison and gave a few examples with tasting notes. Most of the beers they described were brewed in exotic locales like Bavaria or Flanders or San Diego. I scoured their recommendations for something closer to home. And there, among the top Imperial Stouts from around the world, was the Abyss from Oregon’s own Deschutes Brewery.

The descriptions sounded so delicious, the adjuncts so unusual. Cherry bark, blackstrap molasses, licorice, vanilla, and some of the beer was even aged in wine and bourbon barrels? Wow. Black Butte Porter may have been Deschutes’ flagship, but The Abyss was their calling card for the hardcore. It was rare; it was critically acclaimed; it was expensive. When I finally saw I bottle at the grocery store, I balked at the price. Seventeen dollars for a single bottle of beer? I could get two six-packs of Black Butte for that price (2011 was a magical time).

Our ramshackle apartment was less than a mile from Deschutes’ Portland brewpub. The brewery’s log cabin aesthetic stood out in the condo-filled restaurant-rich Pearl District. It was big, but cozy. We weren’t exactly regulars, a broke twenty-two year old can only afford so many fifteen dollar burgers, but when parents were in town, or a birthday needed celebrating, it was fun to visit Deschutes and sample some new beers.

It was at the Deschutes Pub that I bought my first bottle of the Abyss. It was spring, well past the official November release, but someone at the pub found a few extra cases in storage. I rushed down and bought a bottle. Every bottle from Deschutes’ Reserve Series is labeled best after, not best before. It’s a subtle way of encouraging people to stock up. That’s exactly what I did,  figuring I could open it and have my own vertical tasting. I didn’t open that first bottle for three years, and it was great. When the 2012 release party rolled around the next fall, I was there. 

While it didn’t necessitate blocks long queues, the Abyss release was always a big event at Deschutes. The pub was packed with nerds taking copious notes. I had my own little notebook, and a vertical flight of five samples. They ranged from bold and boozy, to mellow and fruity, with notes of tobacco and leather. I even picked up a hint of balsamic vinegar in the oldest vintage. I walked home with three more wax dipped bottles.

Last week, I finally opened the last of those bottles. It’s been a solid six years since it was released. After all that time in my closet, the beer has changed. What used to come off as dark roast coffee now tastes like the crust that forms on the bottom of the oven. There’s no barrel character to speak of, but that’s not surprising. It’s incredibly drying on the tongue. There’s none of the richness I’ve come to expect in an imperial stout.

Even more than the beer has changed, the world of beer has transformed in the last six years. The Abyss was one of the original barrel aged imperial stouts, but it’s been eclipsed. In 2012, less than a quarter of the beer was actually aged in barrels. Last year’s release was only fifty percent aged in barrels. These days, a barrel aged beer is a barrel aged beer -- all the beer is literally aged in barrels.

Deschutes have tried to follow the Bourbon County model, releasing variant bottles like holofoil Pokemon cards. Cognac Abyss, Tequila Abyss, Scotch Abyss -- but the novelty doesn’t justify the significant upcharge. There are so many good beers out there, for far less money. But what is a brewery to do? A beer that was edgy ten years ago seems dated now. The only way to keep the brand vibrant is to mix it up.

Personally, I haven’t purchased a bottle of the Abyss in three or four years. I can still walk into the grocery store down the street and find a bottle of the Abyss from 2018, and it will probably be very good, but it won’t have the same effect it did when the options were fewer and the beer was rarer.

So The Abyss remains a relic of an earlier age, a precursor of the beers to come. Then, the addition of cherry bark and vanilla added a new layer of interest. Now, pastry stouts made to taste exactly like the adjuncts used to brew them. Then, aging a beer in whiskey casks was innovative, and dangerous. Now a barrel aged beer is commonplace and have the kiss of bourbon in every sip. The Abyss was unimaginable in 2006; it was a revelation in 2012; But today, it’s just... meh.