Beers Eye Drunk

As I mentioned earlier, my beer blog is being adapted for film by Orion Pictures, who for some odd reason wanted us to meet some members of production staff at a Brazilian restaurant. I took this as an opportunity to try a Brazilian beer. This route of discovery very rarely pays off, as I recall. The Moroccan beer at the Marrakesh is not noteworthy. The Italian beer at the Olive Garden is not very memorable. The McFlury at McDonalds didn't seem to have any Bailey's in it whatsoever, despite my thorough demands. I was in a mood to be disappointed anyhow, though, since I knew the film studio was probably shaving more dollars of the pyrotechnics budget for every helping of chicken heart they ate.

To my surprise, though, Xingu really hit the spot. And you couldn't have stacked the deck any heavier against it tasting good. It had to compete with a veritable meat-stravaganza starring lamb, liver, veal, sausage, fried bananas, sushi, and all manner of things I never knew could put on skewers and called Brazilian. Xingu stepped up to the plate with some an elegantly spicy flavor and aroma, which added just enough liveliness to an otherwise warm and comforting dark beer. Xingu is best served a little warm, I think, which prompted us to refuse to exchange our glasses for the ice cold ones the bartender kept giving us.

The evening was almost tolerable thanks to Xingu. I, myself was very depressed when they informed me that Jefferson Airplane refused to do the Progressive Rock style soundtrack I had requested for the film on account some personal animosity leftover from Rick Wakeman's New Year's Eve party at which I vomited. And I nearly slapped the meat juice out of the mouth of the assistant music director for mentioning REO Speedwagon as possible replacement. As if! Xingu, you're unexpected flavor and your dark charms could not be over-whelmed by any manner of foulness, man or meat. Cheers to you Brazil! You may keep you fried banannas, though.

I was in New York City the other day doing field research for the beer blog, which has recently been optioned as major motion picture for Orion Films. After our meeting will the company about what color rubber monster should be fighting with David Caradine in the movie, my executive producer and I were allowed some free time to visit New York's oldest pub.

"Hey, where's New York's oldest pub?" I asked New York.

New Yorker on subway: It is probably on the island somewhere.
New Yorker at Empire State Building: Which oldest pub are you looking for?
Waiter at Friday's in Time Square: Just go to 2nd street. There's lots of bars up there.
Cab Driver: There is no bar here.
Google from Blackberry 7100t: McSorely's. 15 East 7th Street

Thanks, Google.
Eat me, New Yorkers.

McSorely's: Imagine the underbelly of the Mayflower and the attic from The Goonies. Legal documents signed by LaGuardia. Framed newspapers so old they contain announcements of local military promotions. The only phone is a pay phone, which resides at one of the bar tables where drunk patrons are typically trying to give unfortunately slurred and inaccurate directions to callers. The place has a mostly young crowd with a few old fixtures who (and that) haven't been changed out in at least a half century.

To say McSorely's is lacking in sophistication is like saying God's lacking in communication skills. If you agree with the statement, but you're pissed off about it, it probably means you're a tool, and if you otherwise disagree, you're probably a crazy-pants. For me, I could care less if God's listening or if McSorely's doesn't care about putting a full-sized wall between its urinals and its patrons. The only feedback I need to confirm that both God and McSorely love me is two 8-ounch glasses of beer for $6 handed to me by a man wearing a garbage bag as an apron.

My associate and I walked in and asked for Guinness, thinking since it was an Irish pub and we were douche bags, we would order something obviously Irish.

"All we have is McSorely's. Light or Dark?" the grizzly, hunched over crazy-eyed man barked.

We went with the McSorely's Dark, which is a dark lager with a sturdy head. It goes down easy, tastes like beer, and will do a good job of getting you hammered. McSorely's Light, we later discovered, is light when compared to the Dark, but is at least as rich as a Sam Adams, with similar characteristics, though also quite watery. Both were very drinkable, served in two eight ounce glasses at a time or as I like to call it, "fun-size".

Much mirth and merriment were had, as well as about eight beers that some drunken girls abandoned when wrangled by their disapproving boyfriends. At one point, we were tapped to settle a marital dispute. From what I gathered, the man was an alcoholic and drunk. So naturally, his wife took him to McSorely's so he could sit and watch her get smashed, probably so he could observe a helpful example how not to drink responsibly. My colleague remarked that the man didn't seem too drunk for another drink at all. I added that there was hair in my glass. Before our meeting was officially adjourned, the patron had to perform his civic duty by answering the pay phone and giving incoherent directions to some poor putz trying to find the place.

All in all, McSorely's is the quintessential New York pub experience. The beer is simple. The objective is clear: Get drunk on the cheap or get the hell out. As a side-note I've found use for the word McSorely as an adjective used to describe my hangover. Enjoy your beers responsibly or else you'll be feeling awful McSorely in the morning.

I know earlier I said I was done with Baltika for a while, but when the budgetary constraints of the holiday season have me buying on the conservative side, it's hard to turn down Baltika's $1.49 ticket to loopy land. Throw in the fact that Baltika's 8 looks like it should be totally awesome. It's a murky, unfiltered yellow beer, which if my friends in college offered it to me would send off warning flags since it would have to be at least 43% urine. Though properly sealed and the Cold War being long over, I can be reasonably sure that Baltika 8 is not a jovial attempt to make me drink pee-pee, but the smell has me a little less than convinced. I wouldn't say it smells like damp wheat or hay or barnyard... No. I'd have to pick "like fresh tinkle" as the best olfactory description.

Well, at least I said fresh tinkle, the beer isn't entirely flat, although lacks any interesting liveliness or weight. The joy of this beer, which almost over-shadows its smell, is its strangely fruity overtones. For the most part, it has a malty flavor with an almost floral aftertaste. I couldn't really put my finger on it, but all and all, I was disappointed. You'd think an unfiltered wheat beer would have a lot of pizzazz, but really it was girthy, stinky and generally lazy on the mouth. It's a bummer, which I should have expected. I look at Wheat beers as the Romantic Comedy of the beer world; Sweet at times, almost ashamedly so, light and lively, cute and easy-going, but usually adored by total wimps and quasi-sensitive guys trying to sucker in chicks. And while I guess I was thinking that it being unfiltered and Russian I would get some kind of depth and intrigue from it, but instead it was kind of like casting Nikolai Volkoff in a leading role in Love Actually. I think even Roger Ebert would have to use the words fresh tinkle in his review.

Köstriker, though fancied by the German poet Goethe, calls to mind no visions of demons. In fact, the aroma kind of reminds me of my father's socks. A dark and heavy lager, lacking in intensity, Kostriker is smooth and drinkable, despite a mildly unpleasant dank wheat smell and a bitter metallic aftertaste. The head on this beer falls flat in a matter of blinks, succumbing to the impenetrable black water through which you must strain yourself to grasp the flavor.

This beer is definitely for people who like a heavy, black beer, but also want to drink a lot really fast. Perhaps, taken in at a large volume, you may have an experience close to other-worldly. At most, though, I would only expect to have to take a poop which borders on the supernatural sometime around 8:30 AM the next day.

One of the guys who works at the super-market recommended this beer with a little plastic tag on it. I now thank Köstriker for reminding me that there are two kinds of people I can't trust, Germans and people who work at the super-market.