Beer: The Imports
Perhaps you have been called a snob for drinking — ugh — a Heineken. Possibly you have rebuked yourself personally for ordering one of those increasingly bizarre American microbrews, things with names like Cerberus Triple Dog Head Froth Bock, Inglourious McBasterd I.P.A., or Fanatical Aborigine Stout. Or maybe, somehow, you have finally simply tired of living the High Life. If so, read on.
THE IMPORTS
There are essentially three things to look for in an import beer:
(1) An extraordinarily high alcohol content, often advertised on bar menus as “dangerous!”;
(2) Unsurpassed complementarity with local liquors; and/or
(3) A degree of smoothness and flavor that annihilates the American competition.
THE CONTENDERS
(1) Delirium Tremens – Belgium’s famous pink elephant beer. Alc. vol. 8.5%. Drink it with a bucket of steamed mussels and half a baguette. When I first sipped this explosion of fruity, heady, even flowery goodness (yet so manly), back in 1998, this beer was nowhere near as popular in Stateside as it is now. The Delirium Nocturnum isn’t as widely available, but I’m not quite as keen on it. DT scores big points on 1 and 3, but if you’ve tried it with a shot of Belgian liquor, notify me immediately.
(2) Negra Modelo – That squat, dark bottle. That oh-so-peelable gold flake label. It’s perfect for micheladas, which means it’s perfect with tequila (if you’re not sipping yours in tandem with a shot of sangrita). Again, there’s a sister beer — Modelo Especial — that’s pretty good, but the bad Spanish-English puns fall flatter with that one, and the Especial is more commonly found in cans.
(3) Boddington’s – One day the devil will try to drive me mad by asking whether this or Guinness is my favorite beer. Asking this question is my version of trying to work out the square root of 7, a handy trick for anyone who has read A Wrinkle in Time. Like Irish Guinness, Manchester-brewed Boddington’s is superbly smooth and creamy. But it’s a little more thirst-quenching, just a little lighter (though you still get that great pour), and no idiot has greenlit an awful bottled version that tastes like water from a wishing well with too many pennies in it. Also no moronic ads. Pick up a four-pack of pint cans. Bottom line: stand a pint of Guinness next to a pint of Boddington’s, and you’re staging the beer version of Mulholland Drive. Still, it’s difficult to envision sipping this along with a neat glass of Bombay Sapphire, and I’m hesitant to find out why.
(4) Tsingtao – pretty cool in the late ’90s, this is probably the only safe import coming out of China, and the only one you should harbor no moral qualms about purchasing whatsoever. Everybody drinking Heineken would experience a life transformation if this beer were suddenly to replace their old standby. Much crisper, much more flavorful yet subtler (none of that metallic bite), Tsingtao also — finally! — fulfills criterion 2, making an excellent complement to Chinese herb whiskey. Alas, the only place I have found Chinese herb whiskey (in two varieties) is the Good Luck Bar, in LA at the intersection of Sunset and Hillhurst.
(5) Sapporo – three words. Okay, three sentences. Karaoke. Sake. The big bottle. Almost makes me want to fly to that hot and happening Dallas joint Sushi Sapporo. Almost.
THE ALSO-RANS
(1) Kingfisher – because I haven’t come across any good Indian liquor, and because the function of Singha is largely to put out the fire raging in your curried, tandooricized mouth, I find there is really only one good complement to this beer: Reihan.
(2) Cruzcampo – dude! It looks like a can of Coke. Kinda. Enjoy with a bullfight, but for the love of God, stay away from the Shandy.
(3) Grolsch – love that flip top. But would you really drink one without it? Alternative: brew your own brew, put it in flip-top bottles. Suddenly it’s a worldwide phenom. Easy.
(4) Foster’s – Say it with me now: Beeeeeahh. But this giant can from Oz (?) belongs in the category of sentimental favorites only.
(5) Peroni – whenever I drink Italian beer, I feel like I am getting ripped off. Why? I don’t know. All I know is my thoughts keep circling back onto those cool-looking but totally useless airplanes the Italians produced during the Second World War. Do not go to Jack’s and pay $4.50 a bottle for Peroni. Please.
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This should be enough to see you through the DC summer as it enters into perma-sweat phase. Bathtub of fun courtesy Flickrer mikepirnat.