August 2009

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Heineken

It’s funny. When I was young, I considered Heineken a premium beer. Now it’s just barely acceptable.

- Live from Wrigley Field
- Posted via iPhone

DSC_0033This beer is called “Delirium Tremens” as opposed to “Delirium Tremors” – which is what I thought it was when I picked it up.  It turns out (and please excuse my ignorance, all you out there who already knew this) is the formal term for the DTs: a physical condition, caused by drinking too much alcohol over a long period, in which someone shakes uncontrollably and sees imaginary things.

This beer came highly recommended by my good friend Dan, and so I promised I’d review it here.

Sadly, this is not going to be a good review.

After popping the top, it doesn’t smell very good; it gives off a sour yeasty scent.  Or maybe a yeasty scent over sour malt.  Either way, it’s not appetizing.

So I take the first sip, and am not impressed.

Highly carbonated.  Muted barley taste over old hops, rye bread notes, and all that fades to a dull bitterness.

It’s rather … yuck.  I guess I’m just not that into Belgian ales anymore.

Also, maybe I got a bad bottle.  I don’t know.  It’s pure stubbornness that forces me to finish the whole bottle – otherwise I’d pour it out.  Sorry Dan, I don’t like it.  If the brewery or distributer would like to send me a fresh sample of it I’ll be more than willing to try again, but until that happens, I have to let this review stand.

Delirium Tremens:  not groovy.

Party on.

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I am pretty sure I saw this Polish beer when I was in Helsinki earlier this year, but I didn’t try it.

Now here I am in Chicagoland and, well, I can’t resist a good Porter.  I just hope this is a good Porter.

Smells good.  Deep, dark, sweet, slightly yeasty.

First sip:  Delicious.

There’s a smooth, umber richness that is hard to pin down.  It’s sweet and malty, not much if any hops, and the carbonation disappeared almost immediately.  There’s a citrus edge that mellows into a walnut taste, riding over that Porter sweetness that is like beer candy.  It’s not really chocolaty as much as it is a kind of roasted caramel.

I love this stuff.  I think I’ve finally decided that Porters, especially a Baltic Porter like this one, is my favorite type of beer.

I’m going to proclaim Okocim a Holy Beer Contender, and give it a extremely high 9.8 on the Holy Grail Scale. I am really, truly close to just calling this the Holy Beer.  But, no.  I have other groovy brews to try.  Best not to be over enthusiastic, and to give it more time.  But at the moment this is definitely my favorite beer.

Life is good.

Drink good brew.

Groovy.

“Aaaaaaaaaaa?” the hard faced, white-haired lady said. “It says ‘Aaaaaaaaaaa.’”

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

“Your name is ‘Aaaaaaaaaaa?’”

“It’s pronounced ‘Bill.’”

“Bill?” She stared at him in outrage. “How do you get ‘Bill’ out of eleven A’s?”

“It’s a foreign spelling.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous!”

“It’s on my birth certificate.” He proffered his wrinkled document.

“I’m not issuing a driver’s license to ‘Aaaaaaaaaaa.’”

“Bill,” he corrected.

“I don’t care how you pronounce it!” Her eyes scanned further down the paperwork. “And what’s this? Your last name is ‘Puffiboomboom?’”

“Yes…”

“Puffy … boom boom?”

“Well, it’s, um—”

“What, do you pronounce it, ‘Smith?’”

“Actually, it’s pronounced, ‘Ledbetter.’”

“Ledbetter?” Her wrinkles flushed crimson. “How do you get ‘Ledbetter’ from ‘Puffiboomboom?’” She held up her wiry hand. “Don’t tell me. Foreign spelling.”

“Yes.”

“How stupid do you think I am?” she said. “This has to be a prank!”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m not buying this, not at all!”

“I have all the paperwork filled out—”

“Aaaaaaaaaaa Puffiboomboom is not getting a driver’s license. Not from me.”

“Ma’am, I didn’t choose this name. It’s something I’ve had to live with all my life.”

“Well, it’s time to choose something else!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? If your name is ‘Bill Ledbetter’ then why don’t you just spell it that way?”

“Can we do that?”

“Well,” she said, “let’s see.” She typed angrily at her keyboard for long minutes, and then a machine whirred. She grabbed a stamp, smacked it down on his paperwork like a judge banging a gavel, and then slid the whole pile at him. “There, Aaaaaaaaaaa Puffiboomboom, it’s done.”

He stared at his brand new driver’s license. The picture was typically horrible, but the name was spelled “Bill Ledbetter.”

“Thank you,” he said to her.

She huffed, then looking past him at the long line, shouted, “Next!”

Bill gathered the papers and his new license and walked quickly outside to where his friends waited. He showed them the license, pointing at the birth date. Magically, he was now over 21 years old.

“Dude!” yelled one of his ecstatic friends. “Let’s go buy beer!”

From Flash Fiction By Jerry J. Davis