Dutch beer: Really?

(obligatory photo of Amsterdam: canal, bicycle, swans)

So, I am never one to condemn things en masse. I usually have good perspective, and understand that there are always exceptions to rules. I don't like asparagus, but it's not so bad with some Dijon mustard. I am not a fan of licorice, but it's a pretty amazing flavor in absinthe. I don't love spiders, but I appreciate that they have a place in breweries.

Dutch beer, though? Really, the Dutch?

I recently traveled to Amsterdam for the first time. I hadn't heard much about Dutch beer, but I knew that I shouldn't judge it by Heineken and Grolsch, my only two experiences with the country's beers. I found out about 't Arendsnest, "The Eagle's Nest," a Dutch-centric beer bar with many tap options and many more bottles. The atmosphere is lovely, the tables brown and the walls and the walls are covered with Dutch beer signs.

('t Arendsnest)

I tried, along with my co-adventurer, many of the tap selections and a few bottles. Ranging from light blondes («Texels Skuumkoppe» - I don't know what I should have expected from a beer called Skuumkoppe - the brewery translates it as "Foam Top" but Google translate seems more accurate by calling it "Parasitic Coupling") to American-style pale ales (SNAB Pale Ale - from "Dutch Alternative Brewery," which prides itself on making the first APA in Europe by displaying a roadsign of Arizona Route 66 on its website) to licorice tripels (Sint Servattumus Zoethouter Tripel - definitely more fun to say than to drink), to stouts as black as the canals at night (Emelisse Espresso Stout - at 10% it was one of the hottest, most alcoholic, most potent beers I've ever had - strong and coffee, but boy it tasted stronger than the De Garre 11.5%!)

One beer, and potentially one brewery, was intriguing - SSS, by De Molen (The Mill, in Dutch - named after the 1697 windmill that houses the brewery) It was a Tripel Stout, with very sturdy chocolate and coffee notes. At 9.99% it was hefty, but not hot. I only had a sample, as it was the end of a long night, but if I were to go back, I'd stick to De Molen. I think there's something going on there.

In the end, I tried 12 of the best-respected microbreweries in The Netherlands. I was impressed by only one of the beers, and it was still a bit unbalanced. I'm certainly not the most discerning of beer judges, but I'd like to think I have a bit of experience under my belt. So, here's what I say: if you're coming to northern Europe for the beer, stick to Belgium. Leave the Dutch to do other things well. I think I'll stick to the jenever:

(mmm, cranberry and raspberry...)

«Stay tuned for another episode of So It Geuze about Dutch beer - this time about a brewery run by psychiatric patients!)

De Garre Tripel: Melodious Malts, Harmonic Hops

Recent notes from Staminée de Garre, a tiny hard-t0-find pub in Bruges that features a house Tripel found n'elsewhere...

The first smell is the orchestra tuning up. The yeasty warmth stacks skyward as the fifths of the string section stretch into perfect tune, violins upon violas upon celli upon basses.

A beautiful head on the beer gives off spices like the plucked notes of a harp.

A sip: warmth. The low strings and bassoons start. A rare smooth creaminess feels like the woody timbre of an oboe, maybe a quintet of French horns playing in unlikely harmony.

There is a surprising staccato bitterness punctuating the beer. Each sip has a sharp bite in perfect complement to the soft texture, the pizzicato violas playing alongside bowed cellos.

Below it all the timpani rumbles: this beer is 11.5%. It doesn't taste like it, but it's there, a low thumping on the skull, undeniable and unstoppable.

The end of the glass. You want more. Encore, please. Just stay seated.

This beer is next to perfect.

Good thing I bought a 1.5L magnum of the stuff and didn't drop it on my way back to Brussels, dreaming on the train ride home of malts and melodies...


(Disclaimer: to be honest, I didn't write that in my notes at the bar. My notes are more like "Mmm!" and "11.5%! WHOA!" and similar nothings. But I swear I was thinking about oboes the whole time.)

Risotto à la Bruxelles

Time for my first Belgian beer recipe. I'd been toying with this idea since I had a delicious Risotto outside of Milano, made with local Barbera wine. Why not a Risotto with beer?

the abovementioned delicious risotto

I immediately thought that a dark, sweet beer - something with absolutely no hops to embitter the risotto (that's right, embitter it) would do. And something easily available and cheap (in Belgium) - wouldn't want to waste a Westvlet 12º on rice. So Chimay Blue: the trappist beer (don't forget, «By monks, for monks» - but to answer a question posed by a reader, the money that is not used for brewery operations, that is, a majority of income, is used for «charitable work.») It's big - 9% - and dark, and caramelly, with dried fruits and some spices. I like nutmeg in my risotto, so I thought it would do nicely.

The hard decision made, I turned my thoughts on the other ingredients. The recipe pretty much wrote itself at that point: It wouldn't be «Risotto à la Bruxelles» without some choux de bruxelles, Brussels sprouts (ha!), and the cheese had to be gouda. And obviously to top it all off I needed some bacon. I'm not of the bacon-makes-everything-taste-better camp, believe me, but I am of the bacon-makes-some-things-usually-including-brussels-sprouts-taste-better camp.

Here's a recipe, but just know that I didn't follow this when I made it. I sautéed some arborio and onion in a stockpot, added some broth and beer, added the sprouts/bacon, added the cheese, added the nutmeg, a splash of cream, and ate it. If the proportions aren't exact, don't say I didn't warn you.

Risotto à la Bruxelles
serves 4ish

1 C broth
1/2 lb Brussels sprouts, chopped in half
1/4 lb lardons, or bacon
1 onion, finely chopped
2 C arborio rice
1 bottle Chimay Blue
1/4 lb gouda, grated
1 t nutmeg
1 splash, cream (mmm, optional)
Salt and pepper

Have broth in a pot on the stove, simmering.

Sauté the bacon until it smells like godlike transcendence, and add the sprouts. Cook until good and caramelized.

Sauté the onion in olive oil in a saucepan . Add the rice and sauté for a few minutes, until slightly translucent. Add broth until you can't see the bottom of the pan while stirring. Stir, stir, stir until you CAN see the bottom of the pan while stirring. Add half the bottle of beer, stir stir stir until you see the bottom. Add the other half and you know the drill. Taste the rice - if it's soft but still has a bit of bite it's perfect. Add the bacon and sprouts, then stir in the cheese, nutmeg, and cream, if you want to gild the lily. Adjust with salt and pepper.

Bon appétit.

Yes We Cantillon

Today I went to the Cantillon Brewery, one of the few breweries still in Brussels (maybe someday I'll get to Brasserie de la Senne...) and one of the only breweries in the world that makes lambic, the mother of all things wonderful and the topic of this here blog. Cantillon is in the Anderlecht neighborhood of Brussels, which is a little ... sketchy. Like when you arrive you don't think you're in the right place and when you leave you're glad you've had a couple of drinks. I'm sorry I don't have a picture, but just imagine a place you don't want to be. Cantillon is there.

Once you've found it, though, you enter a different century. Everything is wooden, there are barrels and bottles and spider webs and spills everywhere (if Snowy were here he'd have some fun...) Some of the barrels are moldy, others look like they've wet themselves.

(sorry, mom)

And no one there cares if you poke around - I don't think anyone would see if you took the stopper out of a barrel, stuck your finger in, tasted the beer, and closed it back up. Maybe it would actually help the yeast along, who knows. I hear it's verboten to kill a spider in the place - spiders kill fruit flies in the summer, and when they lay their eggs around the brewery it gives the beer its certain je ne sais quoi.

I took a tour with a guy who looked like Bilbo Baggins after a bit too much Ent-draught - jolly and red-faced, small and Flemish.

(not so jolly here, but an atypical moment)

It was an actual brewing day, which is pretty rare, so I got to see the process, including the impressive cool ship, the attic room in which the hot wort cools and the natural yeasts from the air can settle (don't forget your Geuze 101) on the beer. Lambic can only be made in the winter for this reason - in the summer the proto-beer can't cool enough for the wild yeasts to be happy and everything would go a little haywire, so wintertime it is. Lucky me!

(steam pours off the hot beer, creating the best-smelling sauna in the world)

Also lucky, I got to taste a couple-three beers while on the tour. The normal Gueuze (different spelling, same deliciousness) is wonderful - tangy, sharp, citrus, hay, tart, and juicy. Mmm. The Lou Pepe Gueuze - not blended, but aged - was more complex but less sour. More in the sides of the tongue (you know that place that salivates a bit when you think of chocolate, or aged gouda, or spider-lambic?) than the other, and a bit woodier, from the barrel. A newer lambic I tried on tap was even less sour, more grassy, less complex, a bit more bitter - actually pretty similar to a beer I once made, my gruit ale (my biggest brewing failure...) - it was a bit bizarre to taste those flavors again - wormwood, mugwort, sweet gale, eye of newt. Not my favorite. But the gueuzes? My favorite.
And the value! A glass of beer there is €2! I bought a few bottles to take away, so in the end for about $30 I got a tour, three glasses of the greatest thing that comes from Brussels (not counting Jean-Claude van Damme), three 750ml bottles of take-away heaven, and some pretty good pictures. Not bad for another Saturday in Brussels.

Oh, and I got to meet Rob Tod and Jason Perkins from Allagash. They had been to Nacht van de Grote Dorst (Night of the Great Thirst) to pour their new spontaneously fermented beer, and were continuing their own tour of Brussels at Cantillon. They generously shared stories, knowledge, and some of that delicious Lou Pepe Gueuze. I can't wait to get to Maine and see their new cool ship. And taste their new beer - what's it called again, Cool Shit?

So, Cantillon, another reason to visit Brussels. Just bring a map - you don't want to be wandering lost around Anderlecht high on the aethers of Ent-draught...

(the house cat, attacking all entrants)

Westvleteren!

Tonight was a special night.

I've only been in Belgium 2 weeks and I already got to sample Westvleteren 8º and 12º.

Some of you know the significance. If not, read on.

Westvleteren is one of seven breweries in Belgium allowed to be called «Trappist»: made by monks, for monks. Well, made for you, but the proceeds go to the monastery. They're like the 501(c)(3) of the monastic beer-brewing world, if you will. You might recognize some of these Trappist beers, like Chimay, Orval, or Westmalle. You might not recognize Westvleteren, since it is the smallest and rarest of the Trappist beers. How rare? Well. I quote from the website (yes, monks use the Internet too):

Our beer is sold in limited quantities and the reservations which we accept are always for a particular type of beer. Since we want to serve as many customers as possible, orders are limited to one order per car per telephone number within any given month.

(Bold in the original) Yup. One order per car per telephone number. Oh, you want to go in the next few weeks? Sorry, no more spots. You're starting to see. Oh, I almost forgot - they'll probably take legal action if you actually get a hold of some and try to resell it.

You yourself must be the consumer. The receipt stipulates that the beer is not to be sold commercially to a third party. We reserve the right to prosecute offences.

Yeah. They're serious. But enough about that: does it matter if the beer isn't good? Does rarity equal excellence?

In this case, yes. It's amazing. It's wonderful. I'm sorry to glow, and I'm sorry that you probably didn't have a 8º tonight, but hopefully you will someday and you'll love it. I was lucky enough to have both the 8º (the Westvleteren Dubbel, 8%) and the 12º (Abt / Tripel, 10.2%), courtesy of my friends Bill and Laura. They went to great lengths to procure this magnificent tipple, and for that I salute and thank them. And owe them. Big time.

First, the 12º. Wow. Big and dark, brown and warm, caramel and brown sugar, with a deep, rich maltiness that I've never tasted before. Yeasty cloves. Nuttiness. Rich. Did I say rich? Yeah, that. And no one would guess 10% ABV. Did I say wow? Yeah, that.

The 8º. Rich, sparkly, creamy, lovely flavors of figs and dates, shared the 12º's rich brown malt body. The yeast came through better, maybe - the lighter body let the esters really shine. Toastiness, chocolate. Bananas with nutella on toasted whole wheat bread topped with raisins.

Maybe I'm drunk on the ABV and the hype of the rarity. Maybe unicorns actually did brew this beer with 24 karat gold figs and hazelnuts they roasted on their horns over a burning bush that is never consumed. Who knows? I might not be blessed enough to visit the brewery and see for myself. But I sure as hell know I love the beer.

«Tintin»

Geuze the First: Moriau Oude Geuze

I stopped in to the world-renowned beer store «Beer Planet» (www.beerplanet.eu) to try my luck at the selection. Geuzehound I am, I immediately went to the soursection. I saw some familiar faces (Cantillon, Hanssen's, St. Louis) but one caught my eye: Moriau Oude Geuze, made by Boon. I'd never seen the bottle, so had to have it for 4€ (375ml bottle). Oh, and its drink-by date is 03/03/2029, which is awesome.

Yes! A good bienvenue to Brussels. I loved it. Sour funk in the nose, some lemon, citrus, farmyard barn. The taste was well balanced, a little savory, a little oaky/woody, definitely had the horsey funkiness of the bacteria brettanomyces (more about our friend B. bruxellensis in a future post) but it was not overwhelming. Citrus-sour, refreshing, crisp, clean, fantastic.

(I know many of these descriptive words aren't so helpful to someone who a) hasn't smelled geuze before or b) been on a farm, and they may come off as obnoxious, but hopefully soon you can try a geuze and see what I'm talking about. Or you'll spit it out, and yell at me for making you taste it.)

A good thing about geuzes is that they're relatively low in alcohol, between 5% - 6,5%. This particular one weighed in on the upper end, but I could still finish the 375ml (my first week in Brussels was lonely, don't laugh) and not burn my dinner.

Welcome to Brussels. Welkom in Brussel. Bienvenue à Bruxelles.

Merci.

«Tintin»

The First Post: So, Geuze?

Welcome to So It Geuze!

I should probably start by talking a bit about geuze, seeing as I devoted the stupid pun in the title to it. It's the beer I'm currently most obsessed with, and one that is not exactly popular or well-known. If you already know about geuze, tell me what I get wrong, or just don't read SIG till I tell you about my first forays into the world of Brussels geuzes (Moriau, Boon, Drei Fonteinen, Hanssen's in my first week...heh).

Don't worry if you don't like geuze, though, I'll talk about other things here too. Fret not. And if this all seems a bit ... dense, beer-nerdly, stop-talking-and-let-me-drink-g.d. ... come to Brussels and join me for a beer. I promise I don't have to be so verbose in real life.

Geuze is, at its most basic, a blend. A blend of lambics. Of what?

A lambic is, at its most basic, sourdough beer. Well, not dough, but kind of the same. You make beer (101: Take sugar out of grains like wheat and barley, add wonderful things like hops, boil to concentrate and sanitize, add yeast, let sit, yeast eats sugar and "farts" carbonation and "pees" alcohol [excuse the imagery, but I kind of like it], then beer. QED), but for lambic, the yeast is allowed to settle from the air, instead of being added by the brewer. Like pain au levain (sourdough), the funky yeasts from the surrounding area are the lucky ones who get to enjoy your proto-beer.

Like sourdough, lambic is funky. People sometimes use words like «horse-blanket», «mustard», «vinegar», «band-aid», «goats», and «sweat». Not exactly appetizing sounding? Well. You have some drinking to do!

Lambics are often blended - the young ones are a bit too funky, and need older, mellower ones to relax them. Thus, the Glorious Geuze. Classic geuzes are a blend of 1-, 2-, and 3- year lambics, though any combination really flies, I believe. You never really know - trust the geuze blender (a hard job - imagine trying to tame those flavors!)

Lambics can also be mellowed with fruit: when blended with fresh cherries, you get kriek. Raspberries give framboise, peaches pêche. Some of these are awesome, mouth-puckering experiences that make you see stars like out of a Tintin comic strip. Others are saccharine-sweet and shameful stand-ins for the real thing. Beware the latter, unless you like Smirnoff Ice or caramel macchiati. I won't judge if you buy one, I promise. I just won't have a sip.

A cool thing about lambic, and therefore geuze, is that it really can only come from the Pajottenland / Senne valley area of Belgium, including Brussels and the area just to the southwest. It is only here that the wild yeasts are right. Sure, you can come to Brussels, take a little wood from Cantillon brewery, then leave it in your basement and see how your homebrew turns out, but it won't really be a lambic. Good luck with that experiment, though - I'm curious to hear how it goes. So, aren't you lucky that your boy reporter just happens to be smack dab in the middle of the Senne Valley?

This is enough for now, probably too much. If you can, find yourself a geuze, or something blended, and take a seat, 'cause you'll need it, and pop the cork (they come in champagne bottles, how elegant!) If you don't like it at first, stop drinking. No need to force it. Try again in a couple months - maybe it'll stay on your mind and you'll have to come back to it. They're wily, they're fun, they're refreshing, they're beguiling. Just try.

Till next time ... Moriau Oude Geuze.

«Tintin»