The first batch of beer I brewed without the convenience of a kit was a brown ale. I measured out all my own ingredients and cracked all the grain (the first appearance of that wretched rolling pin). Everything went well and I tucked it away in a corner of the dining room (the basement was too cold). After a few a few days I realized that we had done something wrong. The recipe called for grain and malt extract but the extract amounts were to be used in place of the grain. We had just concocted an imperial brown ale. Now, if you know beer, that sounds about as silly as a souped up Carola. The beer was too much for most people who tried it. This story has nothing to do with Smuttynose Brewery’s Old Brown Dog Ale, but I thought I’d share anyway.
Whenever you order fried eggs or steak in a restaurant and they ask you how you want it, you can’t be honest. If you say over easy or medium rare, your food will be practically raw. If you want over easy or medium rare, you have to order over hard or medium. The same is true with American beer styles. You can often find the hoppiness of a mild IPA in a pale ale and a craving for a brown ale’s maltiness might require you to go with a bock. This is because Americanizing a style often means simply increasing the hops and/or alcohol content. Kind of like adding cayenne pepper to a dish automatically makes it Cajun, adding extra hops to a beer makes it American. Probably the only difference between “Cajun” food and American beer styles is that micro breweries in the U.S. consistently churn out good products. Today I try one such Americanization of an old English variety.
This beer is a clear example of an “American” brown ale. My initial reaction is, “Why is this so crisp? It should be maltier.” This however is an illusion. The malts are there and they are wonderful. Also, the IBUs come in at a mere 15. Perhaps that crispness has more to do with the relatively high, for brown ale, ABV. The grain bill for Old Brown Dog Ale includes three different specialty malts, imparting a certain level of complexity. The chocolate notes in particular linger in the back of your mouth long after you take a drink. Even if you don’t consciously take note of it, the interplay between the 80L crystal, chocolate and Munich malts intrigue you and pull you in. I wonder what brown ale tasted like before the switch to pale base malts. It must have been boring.
I started the glass thinking I’d have to follow it with a bock to get my sweet fix but by the time it was gone I felt quite satisfied. When your first impression of something is blatantly wrong, you enjoy it even more once you find its true character because it required a tiny act of mind over matter. With mere thoughts you were able to triumph over the base senses. This is why acquired tastes are often the best, or why we get so excited about clever puns. Like the one near the end of Sufjan Steven’s “Decatur.” I bet you can't find it!
Whenever you order fried eggs or steak in a restaurant and they ask you how you want it, you can’t be honest. If you say over easy or medium rare, your food will be practically raw. If you want over easy or medium rare, you have to order over hard or medium. The same is true with American beer styles. You can often find the hoppiness of a mild IPA in a pale ale and a craving for a brown ale’s maltiness might require you to go with a bock. This is because Americanizing a style often means simply increasing the hops and/or alcohol content. Kind of like adding cayenne pepper to a dish automatically makes it Cajun, adding extra hops to a beer makes it American. Probably the only difference between “Cajun” food and American beer styles is that micro breweries in the U.S. consistently churn out good products. Today I try one such Americanization of an old English variety.
This beer is a clear example of an “American” brown ale. My initial reaction is, “Why is this so crisp? It should be maltier.” This however is an illusion. The malts are there and they are wonderful. Also, the IBUs come in at a mere 15. Perhaps that crispness has more to do with the relatively high, for brown ale, ABV. The grain bill for Old Brown Dog Ale includes three different specialty malts, imparting a certain level of complexity. The chocolate notes in particular linger in the back of your mouth long after you take a drink. Even if you don’t consciously take note of it, the interplay between the 80L crystal, chocolate and Munich malts intrigue you and pull you in. I wonder what brown ale tasted like before the switch to pale base malts. It must have been boring.
I started the glass thinking I’d have to follow it with a bock to get my sweet fix but by the time it was gone I felt quite satisfied. When your first impression of something is blatantly wrong, you enjoy it even more once you find its true character because it required a tiny act of mind over matter. With mere thoughts you were able to triumph over the base senses. This is why acquired tastes are often the best, or why we get so excited about clever puns. Like the one near the end of Sufjan Steven’s “Decatur.” I bet you can't find it!
You have all been challenged.
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