Beers Eye Drunk

If you're like me, you know Bavaria as the quaint little region which makes those awesome donuts. Thus, I have been skeptical of their beers, because even though Dunkin' Donuts makes good coffee, it's not where I go late at night when I want to get hammered... It's where I go late at night after I'm hammered and want a donut. Well, suppose you're in Bavaria, and you're not really feeling the whole donut thing, but you start to think "when in Rome", right? So, you need to drink something to get you in the mood. If you decided to go with König Ludwig Weiss, you'd be in for an experience far richer than a fresh donut... In fact, you may forgo the donuts altogether an elect to spend a quiet evening of slow contemplation with this classy beer. You could think of important things, like how in the hell to get out of Bavaria. And where the hell is Bavaria, anyway?

König Ludwig boasts a 700 year tradition, starting from Duke Ludwig the Severe, who founded the brewery in 1260, which is about what I paid for this beer if you move the decimal point over a couple times. This beer claims to be a Royal Bavarian Hefe-Weizen, but it must have been brewed by people who only read about hefes or heard about them through some unreliable third party like a crazy uncle Jimmy or Lester, the bow-legged, homeless trumpet player on Ceasar Chavez. It's safe to assume that even in Bavaria, there's a Ceasar Chavez.

Anyhow, this beer taste clean and has a ton of carbonation. I have been writing here for five minutes and this beer still has bubbles trailing up the insides. It's like watching that part of the matrix where that guy is looking at all the code and he says he can actually see people in it, except all it looks like to me is an overhead shot of the H.E.B. parking lot two days before Thanksgiving. And that's only if you squint.

This beer is strangely more in the Pilsner school than anything else. It has that odd, stank you get in beers like Stella and Spatan, but would never expect from the average commercially available Hefe. Yet, it's got that golden hue with a warmth and slipperiness, which hides a nicely understated fruitiness. It may not be what you'd expect, but I do think its brilliant. I would recomend this to anyone who normally finds hefes to be watery and lacking in character. König is more appealing to those who like that strange rank, yet crisp European flavor, but may also want an excuse to put a lemon chunk in it.

So, if you can find this beer and are tired of the same old euro-trash, then give this a try. It's realitively inexpensive, so even if you don't like it, you can drink enough of it to develop a taste for some donuts. Either way, Bavaria retains your business and its people will thrive, thus leading to a cultural revolution leading to more interesting beers and creamy pastries.

A strange side-note: This beer is absolutely awesome with Chile's barbeque burger. It's completely unreal how the beer takes on this sweet and smooth honey quality. Barbeque sauce and Bavarian Hefe-weizen. It could possibly be the reason I was put here on this planet.

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Baltika 4 Dark Lager is a lightly sweet, moderately heavy beer with rich flavors. Strange hints of caramel and malt malinger in the cold delicious abyss. 4 has a unique power, but is perhaps not as brutish and imposing as Baltika 6. It is quiet. Insidiously so, perhaps. You can hear it plotting as the head dies down. Drink it quickly before it has time to make enact its plan for world domination or at least before it gets warm and sluggish.

Baltika 3 Classic Lager tastes like boring. There's really nothing else to say other than the high disappointment actually made me sweaty and miserable. I think that might just be Texas, but I can blame Baltika 3 for amplifying the experience. Anyhow, this beer is somewhat drinkable, but typical. It's a somewhat European style, but it's not really that strong, which puts it more akin to crappy American standards like Miller and Coors. Baltika 3 would probably be a godsend at a keg party, but is nothing short of drab in a $1.19 singles. I might as well get a Colt 45 and get shit-hammered. At least I'd have something more than just a bad taste in mouth to go along with the bad taste in my mouth.

I feel bad about saying such bad things about 3, when 6 was so good, and 4 tastes like its harboring some thinly veiled disdain for us all. Whatever the case, I will take a break from Baltika for the time being. In fact, since I fucked up my time-sheet at work, I'll be taking a break from all beers. Thus, my last beer note for this week is that Live Oak October Fest taste like Mr. Potatohead's gym shorts... and of course, cat pee... or rather, what I imagine those things may taste like... I have never actually tasted both... simultaneously, anyhow.

St. Peter's Organic English Ale has a brilliant blend of murky, herbal flavors. It's like a quality pub ale, mixed with a pureed bag of grass clippings from the Elysium fields. There's something magical and earthy inside, as if it were filled with dark early morning dew or beard trimming from Eric the Gnome. It’s utterly strange and unforgettable.

I've had this beer a couple times now, and I’ve been putting off writing an entry in this blog. You see, I wanted this entry to be a classic, because in my view, St. Peter's English Ale is a milestone in the investigative beer experience. Anyone, flirting with the oddness of strange beers, baring a compulsion for new things, will hit this beer someday and be floored. In fact, it kind of tastes like floor, but in a good way, but that's beside the point.

This beer is captivating and dank at the same time. It looks more like an old-timy whisky bottle than a beer bottle. Yet the murky amber is somehow regal in its apparent quality and freshness, a rare harness of the wild, fecund earth. Since this beer, I don't get mad at nature for all the crap it drops on the hood of my car. If nature weren't alive and kicking so hard, you wouldn't be able to taste its liveliness in anything, like you can in this organic ale.

I'm reminded somewhat of that Yeats poem, The Stolen Child. This beer is calling you away from your worldly weeping. Disappear with the magical faeries of intoxication into the dark and magical land of St. Peter's Organic English Ale.

Being a man, I can't turn down the primal allure of stuff 'n-a-can. A lot of my best memories involve cans, eating out of them or sitting on them, sometimes simultaneously. So, it's no surprise that when I saw Wexford Cream Ale, I didn't stop to ask myself if I like Cream Ales. I simply said, hey, it's in a can! And as if the can wasn't enough, there's a widget inside. Every man loves gadgets. Its hard not be as in enamored with the concept of the widget as with the draft-esque qualities of the beer inside. Perhaps, by the very nature of my being, I was doomed to be deceived. Alas, some fundamental truths can not be cloaked in a shiny can with a plastic doodad in it. I feel as though a little piece of my beer-innocence has died. You see, Wexfords is probably a fine beer... but I didn't like it... In fact, I don't like cream ales.

It's was tough to admit for me. Cream ales sound nice. Sounds creamy. Sounds Alcoholic. What's not to like? So, you go on a few dates, right? Feel each other out. I remember when I took Genny Cream Ale out to a picnic in Spring time, and we didn't really hit it off. I figured, maybe if I go a little further out of my way, spend a little more money on the occasion, maybe things would be different. Nope. Things went flat and lifeless pretty fast. There was no zest. No complexity. No spark. It made me long for a really painfully bitter stint with a pale ale. At least the bitterness would remind me I was having a beer in the first place, good or bad.

And that's kind of how I feel now. It's like I took a great looking girl to Disney Land and all she wanted to do was ride the tram. A sluggish, dull, watered-down, and generally un-appealing experience, but I want to make this clear to Wexford Cream Ale... It's not you, it's me, sincerely. Sure, you're distinct. You're something special. It's just that the two of us are in very different places right now, and you need someone who can appreciate you for who you are, and I need something that tastes less like wet hay.

I may try you again, when I've matured some, sewn my wild oats, or if I just plain get real desperate and feel I can delude myself into thinking we had some chemistry. Until then, I will go on with my life, a wiser, shrewder man, a tad more suspicious of things in cans with cool plastic thing-a-ma-bobs in them.

To understand the dark, depths of St. Petersburg's Baltika 6, we need not look much further past its namesake. Named in honor of the number directly following five, 6 is a Porter, which is divisible by two and will give you a splitting headache if you drink it too fast. Six has seven percent alcohol, which equals yummy in the new math.

St. Petersburg exports many of these delicious numbers, but I count myself fortunate to have tried this one first. Baltika 6 is a flavorful porter with a strong head. It's a beer with true character, with none of the things so easy to dislike about those having too much character. Not bogged down by a heavy chocolate, malt, or burnt flavor, Baltika is surprisingly livingly and drinkable. If it were a friend, it'd be the one that watches the game with you and brings funions, and not that wacky guy who shows up at 3am and pees on your. If you’re looking for that guy, drink tequila. If you’re looking to be that guy, drink more tequila.

Baltika is synonymous with beer in Russia. On this website, it's also synonymous with Russian singles sites boasting beautiful 20-something women looking for love! Trust Mother Russia. They know what you want. Good luck finding this sweet Russian import, though. There's a fairly limited supply imported to the US. I will try to find other Baltika beers in the near the future, but like Russian nuclear arms, it'll be a difficult and rewarding process to track them all down.

For more information on 6, count backwards from nine for a little while.