Hot Knives

Amidst the telling signs of economic collapse, the craft beer world has been suffering similar ravages. Aside from the "F" word, those that head the frontlines of the small batch brewery face the rising costs of the few elements of their mana: grain and hops. For the macro world, meaning the producers that barely put any of these holy leaves and seeds in their bottles, these costs are just as astronomical, prompting more advertising and gimmicks for the mildest of beers. For the breweries we like, the strain shows itself on the bottle price; these are companies that can't absorb cost like McDonalds where (bafflingly enough) a Big Mac still costs less than three dollars.

Of course, we're happy to spend the extra dollar on a bottle we like from a brewery we love. Allagash Brewing Co., from the other Portland, has aptly named the recent edition of their buck per bottle campaign after an old time Rogue who's response to today's economic crisis would have either been a persistent and clandestine beer black market, or conversely, the violent overthrow of the government by persistent and clandestine beer fiends.

No Shit: Hugh Malone was an Irish hops farmer who basically pioneered the American style of over hopping ales back in the early twenties. Brewers and their minions used to refer to hops as "Hugh Malone's" because his name was stamped on the fragrant gunnysacks of smelly heaven they dumped into vats. Hops was so ingrained into the old Man's persona that mythic rumors surfaced, claiming "all those hops" were making Malone more bitter by the pint.

When prohibition hit Malone penned a book titled: "This Would Never Happen In Ireland."

The ale graced by the old brute is a similarly no-nonsense concept. The on-the-darker-side-of-amber ale, is hopped at almost every stage of the brewing process, which makes for an evolution of tart flavors that runs the gamut of the American bitterness palette. A sturdy soapy head maintains itself to the last drop, slowly succumbing to the bottom of your glass. A quick and painlessly sweet mouthful gives way to long lines of medicinal sour, wrinkles on a timeline of the face of a long dead hard-ass.

Squinting in the sun, silently contemplating our own IBUs, we realized the importance of heavy handedness during questionable times...Even though this beer would never have happed in Ireland.

Dairy Pairy: Stinking Bishop: a runny, stinky masterpiece
Soundtrack: The Clash, "Police On My Back"

The Spencer-Wing wedding... Dang. We can't exactly remember how our involvement came about, whether we were asked or we volunteered our services (come to think of it, hopefully we didn't drunkenly interject ourselves into their happy day). But catering these dudes' May wedding was a brilliant idea. And some of the best cooking we've done this year.

To be clear, Hot Knives is not really a catering company. Or even 'dudes who cater.' But we do live to feed people and flaunt our ideas on food, so on those few occasions where we cook "live" we get supremely siked. In this case it seemed only fitting: We first met Matt and Laura online. We met face-to-face at a summer barbecue party we grilled for last summer, where we realized that they eat and slurp with the same reckless abandon we do! So we were utterly honored to help them party down with a vegan wedding feast of the kind of food they like, believe in, and could feel good about forcing their family friends to eat.

But the operation got off to a bit of a jolt. When their wedding planner asked about our "catering insurance," the closest we could come up with was a sheepish pledge not to poison any old people with bad tofu. (We don't, of course, have any insurance). When the issue got cleared up, we got to work on the menu. Off the bat, we knew we wanted a canape-heavy affair, stuff to eat with one hand (so everyone could slug cocktails, cry, dance, whatever, and still be able to stuff their faces), but also because it allows a playful touch. We quickly settled on a combination of time-tested appetizers and new small-plate thingies we'd been endeavoring to try. Entrees proved a little tougher. Grilled seitan quickly got nixed (10 double boilers for baking, not fun to think about). And salads won out by far. Dishes we'd never attempted got at least one trial run in April. The vegan cupcakes we seized on as a cutie alternative to wedding cake took a handful of run-throughs. Finally, two weeks before the shindig, we summoned the lovebirds for a balls-out tasting.

The results? Each of the 14 courses went off without a hitch one after the next. Fortunately, they liked everything. Unfortunately, well, they liked everything. That's because the desired task of whittling down the menu didn't happen as planned, which would have been helpful to make our shopping list less unwieldy. It didn't matter. We had a menu...

Now, math dunces like us live and die by excel spreadsheets. So, our first step was penning bare-boned recipes in small amounts and multiplying eeeeeeverything. The pinnacle of exactitude. Then we made spread sheets of each dish and master lists for shopping trips divided by store: Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, Food 4 Less, farmers markets, a wholesale produce company, and the gourmet import shop Alex works for. All of this was safely two-dimensional... Until Friday morning before the wedding rolled around.

That's when we woke at the ass of dawn to do inventory on our kitchen weaponry: knives, check; mixers, check; pastry bags, check; baking sheets, check. The oven? Got it. On top of that were the boxes, bags and bottles of food stuffs we were lugging down to San Diego. There was a case of red bell peppers, a 10-pound sack of sugar, 3 jars of veganaise that needed to be kept cold, 4 watermelons, 8 pounds of jicama, and a small forest of mushrooms, the list went on. When we stacked the produce in the front yard, most of the lawn was covered in cardboard. That's when at least one of us had a minor panic attack. With no room for a spare tire, we wedged the doors shut and hit the I-5 South to San Diego.

Ten Things We Learned!

1. 10-pound bags of sugar fit perfectly where your spare tire should go.
2. Caterers charge per person for good reason.
3. Caterers rip people off enormously.
4. One refrigerator is never enough.
5. Tangerine oil is amazing.
6. Bar-Tech rules.
7. Fresh fruit appetizers and 90-degree weather do not mix.
8. Wedding planners are intense.
9. Hip-hop is inevitable.
10. Some old people come to weddings just for the cake.

We were going down a day early to turn our boxes of produce into an orgiastic feast by taking over the groom's parents' kitchen. Once inside their home sweet home, we took up two fridges and most of the garage with our produce. On one table was our kitchen weaponry, on another our pantry goods. The first task our brains and hands could seize on was blending the gazpacho, which needed to sit in its own salmon-colored juices anyway. Bell peppers got beheaded, the first of a case of purple onions lost their skin, and the better part of an industrial tin of olive oil vanished into our new best friend, Bar Tech, the blender. Easy. Next came the rudimentary sauces -- lemongrass-infused soy dressing, roasted mushroom vinegrette, anything that could sit in the cramped fridge. Just before sunset, we poured a beer and took a swim in their pool, which the kitchen window faced, feeling like kings. We slacked and got veggie burritos at a shack next to a supermarket where we saw big crates of seedless watermelon selling for way cheaper than we'd paid for the ones crammed into our laps on the ride down. Bummer.

Back at the cutting board, shit got serious fast. The sun set and the clock started ticking faster. It is bizarre how the breezy easiness of cooking in daylight was quickly replaced by the dark shadows of an unfamiliar kitchen stacked with now menacing boxes of uncooked food. We put pot after pot on the stove to boil, first for 200 "baked potato" cups we carved out of baby tri-colored taters, followed by five pounds of Israeli couscous. And we started moving slower.

The darkest hour came when Alex realized how long peeling 10 pounds of carrots one by one into ribbons would take, and Evan started mandolin-shaving the first of 80 radishes by hand. Each handful of raw cut veggies was made all the more painful because they took up a pitiful 1/50 of the two empty metal pans we had to fill before we could move on. The whole thing took close to an hour. Next up was the real mind fuck: filling 400 dates. Now, this three-step recipe had been easily shrugged-off as the easiest of our prep worries. Grate cheese, open curry paste, fill the dates and set aside for baking later, what could be easier right? Well, when you decide to buy the dates one size smaller than mid-sized Medjools, these fuckers are tiny! And when you fill 400 of the things, it gets old quick. Standing face to face at the kitchen island, we turned into cranky zombies. Cutting open the tiny, gooey morsels, grating Gouda and stuffing hot, sticky curry paste into them, we lost our minds a little bit. Backs withering toward the floor, eyes shutting involuntarily, we gave up halfway through and slunk to our beds upstairs, the groom's childhood bedroom to sleep off the weirdness and try and prepare for a full day of cooking.

We were both up at the crack of dawn, in better moods and ready to pound away at the two-thirds of the tasks we still had left before heading to the gallery where the reception was scheduled for 6 pm, thirty minutes after the couple said some vows and released doves into the Downtown San Diego skyline (yup, doves, dang).

That morning, the To-do list looked something like this: toast crostinis, mix lavendar lemonade, puree hearts of palm, boil soba noodles, cut Persian cucumbers, stamp out fruit shapes, marinate and grill all the entrée veggies, roast seaweed and on and on. We immediately called our friends who were on the way down to attend the wedding and pleaded that they come early to help. Luckily, Lake and Meagan and Aubrey and Molly showed up hours later and dove right in helping us finish everything by 3 pm with just enough time to load all of the half-cooked food into Evan's car and make our way to the reception space to set up. (After having to come back to the house for 3 different items we'd left, we finally made it onto the freeway and to the gallery.)

Our kitchen was a back room wood shop for the art gallery with no air conditioning. We set the room up like a prep kitchen, with our cutting boards and sauces on ice (it melted quick) and the convection oven with a hot plate pan station and plating area. By the time the doves flew the coop and the guests started arriving we were furiously toothpicking the dangerously soft watermelon and pineapple. Fruit stand bites went out. The potatoes got baked into puffy little cups, piped with veganaise cream and toppings. The crostinis went out with their puree, tomato confit and drizzle of balsamic. Empty plates started coming back within minutes of the girls walking out to the dining room. There was a minor melt down over who was bartending and all 7 gallons of our lavendar lemonade was slugged within 30 minutes. By this point our chef's coats -- perfectly pressed whites -- were drenched in sweat but the food was going out and going down perfectly.

Then the well-meaning, but overly pissy wedding planner, dropped a bomb on us. Could we hurry up and serve the dinner entrée in 20 minutes so the couple could have their first dance? How do you say no when the first dance is riding on you, right? Hand-held mixers went blazing, knives akimbo, cupcake frosting all over the place. We held our tongues and busted ass and sent everything out. If anything should drive home the point consider this: we never cook without chronicling it with a camera and yet, none of our own footage of the wedding job exists. We had no time, not even for blogging's sake! Chalk it up to when food bloggers have to put their money where their mouths are. So Awesome. We look forward to our next job... in 2009!

1. Growlers from Stone Brewing.
2. Finding a parking space directly outside the reception at 5:59 when the meters expire at 6.
3. Having the bride's parents demand we make the rounds to greet guests and accept compliments.
4. Traditions like fixing a to-go platter for the bride and groom to eat in their honeymoon suite!
5. Forgetting to eat, but shoving stale crostinis with Pabst in a hotel room afterward.

After laboriously harvesting well over an ounce of fennel pollen we focused on a dish that would highlight the flavor of the famed pixie dust without overpowering its delicate vibe. Fortuitously enough, tomato season really starts to hit at the same time the forests of wild fennel bear their yellow fruit. By using every edible part of the fennel plant (bulb, stem, leaves, seeds, and pollen) and a gloriously ripe Japanese tomato, this dish covers every inch of one of our favorite veggies.

Serves two.

2 Fennel bulbs
1/4 cup Jasmine rice
1/2 cup water

1. Trim the stems off of a Florence (non-wild) fennel bulb, reserving the leaves (the part that looks like dill) for later. Slice them thinly into rounds.

2. Combine the rice, water and sliced fennel stems and bring to a boil. Reduce to medium heat and cook until the rice has absorbed the water, approximately 30 minutes.

2 Fennel bulbs (above)
1 Ripe tomato
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 shallots, minced
1 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. Fennel seeds
3/4 cup rosé, or white zinfandel
2 tsp. sea salt

3. Scrub the fennel bulbs with cold water, then slice off the very bottom of the bulb. Quarter the bulbs standing them upright.

4. In a medium sized pan, sauté the garlic and shallots in olive oil for three minutes. Add the fennel, sliced face downwards, and the fennel seeds. Cover the pan for about three minutes so it regains its heat.

5. Cut your tomato in half. Slice both halves, cut side down, thinly. Reserve one sliced half for plating.

6. Add half of the sliced tomato to the pan and dump in the rosé and the salt. Cover the pan immediately and let cook for fifteen minutes.

4 Tbs. of a flavorful Olive oil
2 tsp. Fennel pollen
2 tsp. fennel leaves, minced

7. Toss the rice with the olive oil, and place two small mounds on each plate. Place one roasted bulb of Fennel on each mound of rice, and then gently top with the reserved slices of fresh tomato. Spoon the reduced wine sludge on each plate, and then liberally dust the tomatoes with fennel pollen, and the minced leaves.

Beverage: St. Feuillian Brune
Soundtrack: Scratch Perry's "White Belly Rat"

Until last week, wild fennel was a great frustration to us. In the early summer months the stuff sprouts all around us; glorious fragrant fennel, but with no bulb worth braising. After much discussion and consternation we realized the answer to our woe was staring us in the nose: Fennel Pollen.

In Tuscan cuisine the pollen of Fennel flowers is referred to as "fairy dust," or "the spice of angels." It imparts a fragrant and flavorful vibe to anything on which you choose to sprinkle. Dose you're evening tea, rub the pollen on greased vegetables before grilling, or if you're really feeling randy: finish your roasted (non-wild) fennel bulbs with a spoonful of their own seed...sick.

1. Find some wild fennel.

2. Check out the flowers. If they're nice and yellow as above, then they're ripe for plunder. Snip a large stalk as far from the flower as you can--the more stem the better, and return home to string em up.

3. After snipping the individual stalks make a little bouquet, tie the stems together at the bottom with twine or string, leaving enough rope to hang em.

4. Hang your bundle of joy inside a paper bag, in a cool dark place. Once a day, shake the bouquet against the bag to encourage the pollen out of the flowers. After about a week you should have shaken out all the pollen you'll get. Carefully dump the contents of the bag onto a sheet of wax paper, collect and store the pollen in a little glass jar.

The Summer of the Can continues. You remember that metal vessel that for most kids' high school years was the definitive method of putting beer in one's body? Whether "shotgunning" in someone's backyard using a car key to punch an air hole to chug in seconds, or lined up in a magnificent row in a party fridge, the can always seemed more palatable to us as young drinkers. The bottle on the other hand somehow seemed too luxurious, adult, and even snobby with its green tinted curves. Well, thanks to Oskar Blues, the Colorado-based brewery we recently praised for canning their brews, we're reverting!

Luckily, the Lyons facility also pipes its Gordon Double India Pale Ale into metal canisters (along with their Chubb's Scotch Ale and Dale's Pale Ale). Now, finding a pale ale in can form is one thing -- but a strong and piney IPA is something different entirely. And don't judge a can by it's cover: At first glance Gordon's looks more like a fancy ginger ale or a sparkling New York seltzer than a legit beer. But we welcome that. It makes for supremely easy outdoor summer boozing, even if you're at a public swimming pool or state beach. We suspect it could be the most appropriate camping beer in America. Three weekends in a row we've touted this brew to pool parties to can-smashing success.

Once popped, the fizzy but headless liquid trapped inside will dribble into the can top where you can detect a rich, red-gold velvet soda. The can says "Big. Red. Sticky." And that's fair. Sniff the top and you get whiffs of pine needles, even Pine-Sol -- clean, bright and slightly metallic. The maple-brown sugar, and to a slighter degree toasted malt sweetness, hints are higher in this IPA than most, nearly cloyingly sweet, which makes for a noticeably less gulpy beer. Eminently sluggable, but not quite chuggable. Drink hard enough and there are tastes of grass and grains. A lotta spritzy bubbles make it a little less food friendly, we recommend it with sunshine and an empty stomach. Gordon's stands among some of the better Double IPAs, though we'd prefer a more complexly hopped concoction given the choice. It's the can that gives it an edge. As some have noted, the aluminum shield keeps this kinda beer from skunking. And makes it easier to stay cool in the sun. And feels icy in your palm. Unlike our friend Dave's more proper advice, however, we can't bring ourselves to pour this stuff into glassware, or drink it on tap. Then it's just any other sticky icky red-ale IPA. In its metal, it shines.

Dairy Pairy: Red Windsor port and brandy English Cheddar
Soundtrack: Animal Collective's Sung Tongs

If you couldn't tell by now we're a little into cutlery. And although we share steel like some people swap spit, we definitely have different preferences in the Cut Department. Here's a rundown of the three most used blades in Alex's kitchen...

Being a huge subscriber to Yuself Islam's previous incarnation, this knife is the first and fondest in my little collection. A 10" Messermister Park Plaza that had survived almost six years of use, this knife was given to me by my sweetheart as a first-serious-birthday present. This knife is a no frills workhorse: it holds an egde and has a thin but super durable blade thats gone through countless celeriac.

The trend of using Japanese style knifes is pretty goddamn valid. And while this Santoku style blade is made by a one of the least hghly regarded blade crafters of Germany, Henckels, it has stood the test of time. The blade itself is hollow, and those little grooves are like speed holes that kick whatever your slicing away from the blade. Excellent for all purpose dicing, trimming melons, and detail work that you dont use a pairing knife for, this Target buy was a no brianer at $30.00 in 2004, and it still is.

A recent lust for breadbaking prompted me finally buckling and getting a serated blade. Just like the garlic press, lots of cooks have some strange chip on their shoulder about serrated knives. But like the nonsensical garlic press denial, the end fo the serrated doldrums is a happy thing. This one is part of the Wustof Cordon Bleu series: knives crafted form a single piece of steel. The recessed blade mades cutting board knuckle blisters a thing of the past and lets you cut bread like you wanna.

In the next installment of our introspective equipment analysis, we're detailing the knives that make both of us tick, because we believe the easiest first step to good cooking is sharp knives. If you're weary of shiny, sharpened steel, believe this: You will cut yourself worse on a dull knife. First we'll take a look at Evan's arsenal. We'll show off Alex's preferred weapons later this week...

Though we rarely do so on the Internet, we have to explain the double entendre of the name 'Hot Knives' all the time (most recently to my boss). Obvious perhaps in its drug vehicle reference, it loosely derives from one unfortunate experience I had with an old roommate misusing my knives.

The first serious blade I was gifted came from a guy I worked the line with in a coffee-shop bistro. Doug was a 30-something ex-marine (with black forefingers from chain smoking in the brig and everything) and a one-time banker who hated his life until he went to culinary school. So it was a sweet gesture when Doug gave me a simple, wood-handle Japanese vegetable and fish knife. One morning, when I woke up to a particularly messy house-party aftermath I found it a charred and stuck in a tree. My roommate had used it to smoke hash, burning the blade into a gasoline-colored mess. Around this time Alex and I pledged to take better care of our cooking instruments. Since then, I've invested in a concise collection of cutters that I feel does the trick without going over board.

Think of the 10-inch as your inevitable 'Holy shit, this squash is huge' kinda knife, something that will cut through enormous things and stay sharp with some minor pamperin'. My 10-inch is a relatively bare bones Wustoff Grand Prix II. A straight shooter with a very negligible angle on it, this monster feels like you could carve a ham hock with it, but has the precision to slice garlic if you're too lazy to reach for a different tool. The textured black plastic handle welcomes athletic chopping and hacking both. As my 'driver,' in golf terminology, I find myself puling it out for two reasons: items that demand a little dominating, or to impress guests.

Technically 26-centimeters, I'm pretty sure this roughly translates to 7 inches. It's the classic Japanese-style sushi blade for slicing, dicing and mincing. So it makes sense that Alex and I both swear by these more manageable, all purpose steels. Consistently ranked in the top of the charts as far as knife geekiness and consumer reports-style testing, Global makes some of the best knives on the market. And this size is where they really shine. Stainless steel, including the dot-perforated handle for grippiness, this Santoku knife is easily the go-to in my kitchen. All purpose and easy to forget you're holding.

There are dozens of knife sizes in between the 10 and the 3-inch, but I see them mostly as window dressing. Besides a serrated knife, which is essential if you're baking at all, I really only use the above instruments. The only time I reach for something else is when I'm dealing with minutia, little tasks, like slicing exceptionally tiny garlic cloves or whittling out walnuts from their shell. That's where the 8-centimeter Wustoff classic comes in handy. It's the only knife in my collection with the standard, black coated handle with the 3-dot design. It's hooked tip is great for wiggling free avocado flesh or burning through the smaller sized shallots. It's also easy on the knife-skills challenged who prefer its appearance of safety.

To be continued...

It's unofficially the doldrums of summer, when things like job performance and precise maneuverings of time and space take back seat to the more important goals of porch sitting and pool seeking. And coming in a close third - cold beer sipping. Traditionally this activity should be done from an icy, sweating can.

Alas, it's been nearly half a decade since either of us drank beer from cans on any regular basis. That was when a beer run for Olympia was the closest thing to a summer vacation we had and we swigged enough Tecate to build a 1-story pyramid out of Tecate cans in the backyard. But a couple years ago when we got deep in good beer, that swill no longer sufficed, so we said 'goodbye aluminum' and 'hello 750 ml bottle.' We didn't look back either. But when one of our local liquor stores started carrying beers from Colorado's Oskar Blues, the only craft beer brewery we know that cans their beers, we realized we deeply missed the experience of closing our lips around the cool, tinny mouth of a beer can. Suddenly it seemed like such a simple summer pleasure we had been missing out on. So we bought a six-pack of the brewery's flagship brew, Dale's Pale Ale, and "porched it."

Now, for drinkers accustomed to pouring bottled beers into proper glassware, the act of simply cracking a can and tilting it in the direction of one's face can be startling, even disturbing or liberating. Thankfully, the beer locked inside immediately registers as bitter, hop-intense and floral. We've seen some pool-goers nearly choke because they were expecting the watery feel of High Life. Dale's Pale is close to an Anchor Steam ale, hoppy but not an IPA; stingy but not quite an ESB. There's very little head, obviously, otherwise it'd foam out the top of your can, and a soda-like spritzing of bubbles that congregate nicely on the rim of the can after a couple sips. When it does, you'll notice a gentle reddish blonde hue in the beer, unimaginable compared to most fizzy yellow cans. But don't get too curious, that's half the can's mystique. And definitely don't make the stubborn mistake of pouring Dale's into a glass; it's not the same. You are paying for the experience of cold metal in your hand.

Dairy Pairy: Fiscalini's raw milk bandage-wrapped cheddar
Soundtrack: Black Sabbath's "Iron Man"

Consistent with our ingredient credo, when it comes to kitchen equipment we have a penchant for the finer things and a love for the thrifty. In our homes we have some pretty upper-middle-top-of-the-line items, as well as some that we found in chain stores, some second-hand. With few exceptions we love our instruments as much as we love salt, booze, fennel and flames.

Due to some consistent requests from you readers out there, we've decided to start posting about our favorite and most used kitchen devices; our 'batteries de cuisine.' We hope you'll get a kick out of our seeing our treasure; maybe we can help you build your own arsenal.

"Bessie" is Alex's Cast Iron skillet. With a 12" diameter and weighing in around 8 pounds, this pan is probably the most structurally sound thing he owns. Bought with gift certificate money at Crate and Barrel (thanks Dad) the Lodge (the best brand) skillet has been involved in many HK recipes, and was the cooking surface that recently aided in our ascent to the pantheon of Grilled Cheese glory. It is ideal for all manner of scrambles, hashes, sauteed greens and fried egg dishes, if one is so inclined.

The blessing of Cast Iron is a life that could span multiple generations. These things could outlive their owners (Alex hopes his will) if you treat them with love and care. But just because the thing weighs as much a human head doesn't mean it's invincible. Follow these tips and you're pan will live to see you making your grandkids' pancakes. If you're into that...

The thing to remember about a cast iron is that for it to really rule you must have a good seasoning; a term reffering to the non-stick glory of a good cast iron surface. Here's some tips:

1. Seasoning the Iron is pretty easy. Barely cover the bottom of the pan with grapeseed or canola oil and bake for half an hour in your oven at 350 degrees.

2. After 30 minutes, turn off the oven and let the pan cool off. Wipe out excess oil with a paper towel.

3. Don't ever soak the pan if it's dirty: gently clean it with hot water and minimal soap. The soap can flavor the pan, the soaking will kill the seasoning.

4. Use gentler scrubbies, never use steel wool; it'll ruin your seasoning.

5. After cleaning, dry with a clean towel and rub in a little oil (we use olive oil) to keep your battle axe greased.

6. Avoid cooking super acidic things like tomatoes or things braised in wine or vinegar as these can also spoil your seasoning. (As noted below, DO cook with lots of oil each time, your seasoning will not on its own form a non-stick surface.)

Happy searing, toasting, frying and sautéing!

Like in other walks of life, the young beer punk can be an insufferably snobby dolt, who swears by the harshest beers and flicks off more moderate brews. We know because that was us - still is, kinda.

As underage beer geeks, we gave Ommegang ales like Hennepin the brush off. Back then the means of production for our livers' stunting was, well, stunted. We would do a fly-by perusal of the beer aisles at known haunts of strong ale, and then spend a good couple of hours lurking in the parking lot chain smoking and hunting for a willing, trustworthy shoulder to tap for help. We had to drink whatever we could get out of stores like Jubilation Spirits, but when our second-hand buyer returned with Saison it felt like a waste of time. We wanted hops, tons of malts, and booze percentages that surpassed ten. We wanted something that tasted like the long wait; we wanted obliterators of our taste buds, dullers of our teenage minds...

A decade later our taste buds have grown sharper and our denial of the delicate and yeasty has faded with our love of drinking in a gutter. Punk rock or not, there's something undeniably wise about exploring the less in-your-face beers to find ones that pass muster. Some with history and soul have already won us over. But American takes on tradition are a harder sell.

In the case of Hennepin - Ommegang Brewery's tribute to Father Louis Hennepin, the Belgian explorer who found Niagara Falls, we respectfully acknowledge that we may have been a little brazen, even brash. The stuff is simple and subtle, yes, but pretty damn tasteful. Impressive foamy head falls out of this 750ml bottle like a steady pummel of white water rapids. As if stuck in an undercurrent, the asterisk-shaped yeast pebbles float suspended in your glass. Hoppier than we remember, this 7.5 % ABV brew also packs a clean, sugar-free dessert bent, like a not-so-spicy ginger snap lemon bar. Less strong than we'd prefer, but perfect for fun, foamy beer mustaches at barbecues, Hennepin falls safely in the 'Suds We Like to Chug' category.
(Beer goggles by Molly)

Dairy Pairy: Banon (de Chalais), a leaf wrapped, brandy dipped, cow's milk.
Soundtrack: The Ramone's Blitzkrieg Bop