The Buttery Beers of New England

Tuesday last, Sally and I caught a six am flight from Portland to Portland. I recommend it to anyone interested in novelty. We were traveling unexpectedly and it wasn't a trip for pleasure. Nevertheless, I did manage to track down a beer here and there, and this is the piece of the trip I wanted to share.

When you breathe the air of beer geekdom, you necessarily end up with a skewed view of the larger world of craft beer appreciation. As craft brewing got started, there were distinctive regional preferences in the places I knew about--the Midwest, the Northwest, and a little later, New England. But reading the blogs and talking to beer geeks has given me an impression of a nationalization of tastes. You hear a lot about imperial beers, hop bombs, sours, and farmhouse ales. But these styles are, of course, not the norm. My trip to Maine confirmed that regional tastes do still exist.

New England has a lot in common with old England--or has had, anyway. You find lots of the traditional styles, including lots of sessionable bitters. (Try to find those in Oregon.) They are minor-key beers made with muted hopping--and very often, with English hops. (They love their Fuggles--or Willamettes in a pinch.) And what was really surprising: they like a dollop of diacetyl. Somewhat early in the trip, I had a Gritty's Pub Style, a 4.5%, 20 IBU bitter. Now, Gritty's has a variable reputation, so when I found the diacetyl in Pub Style, I figured it was unintentional. But then I had two more classic bitters and they both had diacetyl, too.

In each case, the levels were modest. By the time I sampled a Shipyard Export--a strong bitter--I was certain this was intentional. The levels are low enough that the vast majority of people don't notice it (even on BeerAdvocate, only one person among recent reviewers remarked upon it, and favorably at that). Generally speaking, diacetyl, a buttery compound produced during fermentation, is a no-no. On the West Coast, it's always considered bad. I suspect this harkens back to the old days of rapid growth in craft brewing, when it was common to find butter-bomb beers. It's easy enough to eliminate the problem; yeast reabsorbs diacetyl, so as long as you're not trying to rush beer out to the market, it's self-regulating. Historically, though, it's not always frowned upon, and in caramelly bitters, it's far from objectionable.

My ah-ha moment came with that Shipyard. I was at J's Oysters on the waterfront in Portland. (Put that on your list of must-visit restaurants. It's a legendary place that has a slightly gone-to-seed quality but features absolutely perfect, fresh fish at reasonable prices. Plus you can sit outside and soak in the environment.) We ordered the Shipyard and an Allagash White. With our first course of raw oysters, both beers were fantastic, but they did different things. The Allagash played on the briny qualities of the fish, while the Shipyard ensconced it in sweetness. Sally had fish chowder, and here was where the Shipyard sang. It married perfectly with the cream and brought out some of the character of the haddock. The Allagash, by contrast, was too tart and dry--it classed with the cream.

Beer has the versatility to blend in with local culture. It can harmonize with local foods and lifestyles and become a part of regional identity. Although there are some interesting similarities, the two Portlands are really quite different. Stripped of their context, I would have found the three bitters slightly underwhelming. But in Portland, especially when coupled with local food, they were a delight. An example that appreciating a beer may involve more than just the contents of a pint glass.

The Beers of New England -or- Is the US Becoming Less Regional?

Travel posts are always hard. Most of my readership lives on the West Coast, so it matters little what amazing beer I drink when I'm in New England. Anyone who happens to have access to the beer I discuss, however, doesn't need my Johnny-come-lately evaluation. So rather than just going through the beers, let's put it in context: how are the beers of the East Coast evolving with regard to those on the West Coast?

I first started visiting New England in the 90s, and the beer I found there was different from West Coast beer. It was more traditionally English--the beer styles were mostly English and brewed at English strengths and with English-inflected spicy hopping. This may have been because I was influenced by the especially British Maine breweries, Gritty McDuff's, Shipyard, and Geary's. But even in other regional breweries, where Cascade hops were deployed, the overall character was much more toward balance and drinkability. Harpoon IPA, one of my faves, is a modest 5.9% and 42 IBUs (all Cascade). This struck me as totally appropriate--New England has much about it that reminds me of old England, and so I was pleased to see the beer did, too.

This complemented my experience from earlier in the decade, when I lived in Madison, Wisconsin. There, craft breweries produced a whole lot more lager, and their ales were lighter and less fruity than the West Coast examples. Again, appropriate for a region settled in large measure by Germans.

Fast-forward to 2010. This year my brewery sample size was just two: Portsmouth Brewery in New Hampshire and Sunday River Brewpub in beautiful Bethel, Maine. However, my brother-in-law also brought up quite a selection from his area, near DC. That gave me a slightly broader sense of what was happening on the East Coast. What I observed led me to wonder if we weren't beginning to see a nationalization of craft brewing.

Let's start where I did, at Portsmouth Brewing. It's the lesser-known half of a New Hampshire duo that also includes Smuttynose. The latter is a production brewery, the former a brewpub, and both are fairly venerable by craft standards (16 and 19 years). For some reason, I've never stopped in at Portsmouth Brewery, despite passing through the city every visit to New England. That will change. The place is an absolutely perfect pub--lots of character, warmth, and charm. When you think of pub, this is the place that comes to mind. It also boasts a pretty amazing beer list and well above-average food. (I had the mussels, a house specialty. They come in a traditional preparation or a curried version. I went curried and was shocked and delighted when they delivered the plate containing 4-5 dozen.)

The beers vary, but here's what was on tap when we visited: a blonde, IPA, imperial IPA, dunkel gose, smoked dunkelweizen, and oatmeal stout. (They also had some Smuttynose beers.) Oregonians, ask yourselves: doesn't that sound familiar? These beers were perfectly consonant with the varieties being brewed on the West Coast. Moreover, they were very well made.

The gose was less lactic but saltier than Oregon versions--a nice alternative and it seemed pretty authentic (sour mash, no lacto). The smoked dunkel was strange--hand crab apple smoked malt was sharp but clean (no meaty flavors) and melded nicely with the surprising phenols from the weizen yeast. The IPA was vibrantly bitter but one-dimensional, while the double IPA was multilayered and accomplished. (Van Havig would have liked the aroma, which was identical to tinned pineapple.) The huge winner was the oatmeal stout, with 30% oats in the grist. It was served on nitro and the head was mousse-like. And not in the sense that it evoked mousse--it was seriously thick and full of substance. It had a bit of roast and slightly vinous quality. Amazing beer.

So, to recap: two IPAs, two experimental beers, a blonde for the beginners, and a stout. Tres West Coast. (In another national trend, they release an imperial stout in bottles in March called Kate the Great and it produces a scrum before selling out in minutes. The brewer here, Tod Mott, seems to favor stouts.)

Well, fair enough. I suspected I'd just stumbled on one of those rare, exceptional breweries, and they had the qualities that mark all great breweries: broad interests, clever insights, and fun, experimental beer. But then we traveled on to Bethel, Maine, where the local is Sunday River Brewpub. It's located just down the hill from a ski resort and gets lots of business in the early afternoons, as ski bums come in to whet their whistles. A far more common type of pub, it features a regular line-up with just a few rotating specialties, and these seem to recur.

The regular beers include the flagship and my fave, a nicely-balanced, spicy IPA. I nodded sagely--a classic New England IPA. Except they also have a "NW-style" pale and a double IPA. (Also an alt and a porter--and my in-laws all drank the porter, which illustrates what I knew, that they are good and wholesome people.) The pale wasn't great--it was a bit worty and the hops were overstressed and weedy. The DIPA was a monster, though--10%, and hopped such that it would take no crap from anything brewed out here. So, to recap: three hoppy beers, an alt, and a porter. Again, Oregonians, see anything familiar?

One should be cautious about making broad generalizations based on such scant info. But what the hell, let's be incautious. I was dumbstruck to find Portsmouth pouring a gose. This is among the most recent of the Portland trends, and here it is in New Hampshire, too. Imperial IPAs, once scorned and derided by brewers elsewhere, have become standards--even, obviously, in staid New England.

One of the things that had protected regions from outside influence was an insularity both among breweries, but also customers. But twenty years on, customers and breweries both encounter lots of cross-fertilization from other regions of the country. This is probably both a function of the maturation of consumer palates, but also reflects the desire of brewers to experiment. It may just be the way of things, but I lament it a little. Finding a gose is cool, but when you're really looking for, say a cask bitter brewed with Fuggles, it's a little disappointing not to find it. On the other hand, things change. Maybe these are just fads and customers will demand a return to the types of beers New England made when I first started visiting.

Either way, I plan to research the trend.

More East Coast Beers

I am lodged in the hills of western Maine, not more than a few miles from the New Hampshire border. We have just enough elevation to be above the snow line, and I can see white pines and the ghostly white bark of denuded birch trees out the frosted window. (A palatte of many whites, some of them green.) The cabin is one of Sally's brother's, brand new, smelling of the pine beams that support it. Last night, a different brother arrived from Maryland bearing beers from across the east. I alert you to two.

Hook and Ladder Brown is a beer I wish Oregonians brewed. The humble brown, so tasty, so warming, is so often overlooked. In Rochester, they brew it with Cascade hops, resulting in a comforting but lively beer you'd be happy to drink all night (one of Sally's brothers did, in fact). If you're on the East Coast, consider having a bottle.

A more exotic beer comes from Clay Pipe Brewing--Backfin Pale. I cracked open a bottle and took a sniff--pilsner. I looked at the label, where it clearly says "pale ale." In fact, it's a pale hopped with Saaz, apparently late in the boil, because the aroma is pronounced, the flavor a little less so. Other, unidentifiable hops are used to bitter. I've often wondered why breweries don't use Saaz outside a fairly thin band of beers, and I was fascinated by the experiement. Slight cognitive dissonance, but one I enjoyed.

I also had a Dogfish 60-minute IPA and confirmed, again, that I'm just not a fan. The flavors are overly rich while simultaneously indistinct. Give me an Inversion or Terminal Gravity any day of the week.

(I still plan to do a major post on Allagash. No time to do it justice now, though.)

A few sights from New England

I loaded some of the pics I've taken onto the computer. Enjoy.

The "cool ship," or vessel used to spontaneously ferment Maine lambic.

The door into the cool ship room.

Allagash ages much of their beer in barrels, including that huge one at left.

The Eaglebrook Brewpub in Norfolk, MA.

The Eaglebrook.

Shaker Pints Everywhere

One of the things I've been keeping my eyes on is the pervasive use of shaker pints. So far, I'm three for three. I'm not measuring them, so I don't know how many ounces they contain--but recall, that's the problem. You just can't tell.

Incidentally, although it's a little crude and non-informative, honestpintproject.org is live. It's really a placeholder for what will be a fuller site, and I'm calling this the "soft launch" phase. But have a look if you wish.

Beer notes from the road
This afternoon, en route to the other Portland (Sally, born there, accepts "Original Portland" but rejects "Fake Portland" and "Beta Portland"), we stopped off at the Westford Grille in Westford, MA. Lots of non-micros and then Guinness and a pale ale from local Berkshire Brewing. My sense is that it's the flagship, and it was pretty sub-par. A good pale ought to be sharp, crisp, and bright. Berkshire's by contrast was murky--flavors were muddled and there was a suspicious haze that made me think the pond-water quality wasn't just fun house character.

Headed to Allagash tomorrow, where I should be able to do an interview with someone from the brewery. Central focus: the Allagash spontaneous fermentation project. More when it's available.

Candlepin Bowling, Hamburg, and Bad Coffee

Although six states comprise New England, it's just the size of North Dakota and is mostly about as intact culturally. Anyway, the subtleties that distinguish a Vermonter from a Mainer are fine enough that they're below this Oregonian's radar. The Red Sox are loved as dearly by citizens of Bangor and Burlington as Boston. In the wonderful old town centers that dot the countryside, you will find few McDonald's, fewer Starbucks, and generally none of the strip-mally blight that infect so many small towns in America. But you'll find a Dunkin Donuts in every wide spot in the road. New Englanders are mad for their Dunkin Donuts.

Over the years of my visits here to see in-laws, I have begun to catalogue some of the idiosyncracies of the region. (All of this, incidentally, will lead to beer--doesn't everything?--so bear with me.) When you get something from the basement, for example, you're "going down celllar." Hamburger is "hamburg." The best coffee comes from the very rare Starbucks or the occasional independent coffee shop. But mostly people get coffee from the aforementioned Dunkin Donuts, which has inexplicably made coffee a cornerstone of their business. This goes back decades, apparently, though the coffee is akin to the old Farmers Brothers you used to find in Oregon diners.

But in exchange for the bad coffee, New England offers certain delights--candlepin bowling, for example. According to the occasionally-reliable Wikipedia, it was invented in Worcester, Mass in 1880. Similar to regular bowling, but played with a grapefruit-sized ball and pins that are mostly cylindrical. You get three throws per frame, and the pins are not cleared in-between throws. It's substantially harder than regular bowling, even though the "deadwood" of fallen pins helps you clear out remaining pins (the highest score ever recorded was a 245).

The beer, however, is familiar to the traveling Webfoot. When I arrived in Boston friday night, I was offered a Harpoon IPA--a beer that has to make no apologies to the West Coast for its rich, hoppy flavor. Last night we stopped in at the Eaglebrook Saloon in Norfolk, had a couple of quick pints while we waited for three pizzas to go. I'll do a round-up of pubs soon, but it's worth mentioning that Oregon's pub culture shares the same inspiration as New England's--Old England. New England just does it more convincingly. The Eaglebrook is this fantastic wood-paneled pub that feels like the inside of a ship. It may have been built in 1990, but it feels more like 1790 inside (if you ignore the several flat panels showing NESN--the region's ESPN).

I'm about to head north of Boston to see the next in-law (we're trying to make as big a circuit as possible), and maybe there'll be a pub somewhere nearby. I'll keep you posted.

Super Beer

If predictions hold, this afternoon's Super Bowl will draw one of the largest audiences in history. (Had the Packers won, it would have been not only the most-watched in history, but a cultural event as well. Alas.) But since the game is often the least-interesting aspect of the spectacle, it's wise to ensure you've got good beer on hand. For Patriots fans, that's a short order. My lovely and talented spouse, Sally, hails from New England, and I make biennial trips East to visit her fam. Over the years, I've managed to sample a pretty wide selection. Unfortunately, we don't get distribution out here, but you can use the following list as a handy tip-sheet in case you're headed to the region.

First things first. It's the New England Patriots. Fans in Maine and Vermont follow Boston teams as avidly as if they were home-staters, especially the Red Sox. Foxboro Stadium, where the Pats play, is actually far enough out of Boston that it's on the way to Rhode Island. So when you think of appropriate beers, you can look beyond Massachussets. So without further yammering, here's what I'd have in the fridge today if I were watching from Beantown.

Harpoon IPA
Forget Sam Adams, this is the signature beer of Boston. It's on tap everywhere, and locals seem to have a sentimental, emotional connection to it. Sam Adams is, to locals, a national brand trading on the Boston cachet, not a Boston brewery--or so it has seemed from my observation. Harpoon IPA is akin to BridgePort's--it's a lowish-alcohol brew (5.9%) that sings with hoppy goodness. Only 42 IBUs, but it's a saturated hoppiness that offers a whole lot of flavor along with the modest bitterness. It's an extremely likeable beer, and possibly my fave from New England.

Geary's Pale
DL Geary Brewing is the Deschutes of New England--they make traditional English-style ales that are exceptional from top to bottom. The pale is their flagship, and it would fly of the shelves in Beervana. It combines some new world hopping (Cascade) with the classic English hop fuggle to make a mostly-English pint, with a bit of NW character. The London Porter is also exceptional, and if the snow were flying, I might opt for it instead.

Shipyard Blue Fin Stout
Shipyard is another Portland, Maine brewery. While their lineup isn't quite as uniform as Geary's the Blue Fin Stout is amazing. I earlier wrote about it: "The aroma, of rich chocolate, is delightful but misleading--as you discover with the first sip, which has not the hint of sweetness. It's a bit like smelling baker's chocolate. It is a wonderful beer, thick and dense, highlighted by the strongest roasted barley I've tasted in a stout. It produces a earthy, rooty darkness on the palate that is intense like coffee, though more akin to chicory or even beets. (Hard to claim that beets taste good in beer, but here the note is delightful.) It was a beer brewed to cut through the harshest North Atlantic winds (and they are harsh)."

Sam Adams Black Dark Lager
Okay, maybe most Bostonians wouldn't have this in their fridge, but I would. A classic schwarzbier, creamy and light-bodied but full of roasty flavor, it would be a perfect session for a long, potentially boring game.

You may note that I have spurned New York beers, of which there are some good ones. This is intentional. The Giants beat my Packers, so screw 'em. Go Pats!