I missed Earth Day, which would have been the perfect time to write on this subject, but recently caught an article about the greenness of clasic style on Off The Cuff.  Chris Hogan argues that quality clothing is environmentally friendly because it can last for decades without going out of style, and usually can be repaired instead of simply discarded.  These are great arguments, and are entirely true.  I would also theorize that custom-made clothing and shoes have a smaller carbon footprint, though I have absolutely no data to back up that idea.

As I mentioned in my recent interview, I'm currently reading Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray.  Vera and I are also planning a long stay in Costa Rica, a country which seems to be woefully short on quality beer.  So when I came across this great passage in the book, it really struck a chord with me, and though I'm not sure if London's 19th century porters would have had the same effect today, the sentiment is still sound.

Once in my early twenties, while taking a break from my taxes, I decided to write up a list of where my precious, measly pay had been spent.  Housing had accounted for $6,000; books and music an estimated $1,300; and I worked in the restaurant industry so food costs were nominal.  To my great surprise, when I had calculated out my beer budget, a whopping $2,100 had gone to---you guessed it---the glorious Pabst Brewing Company.  It was a staple that continually needed to be stocked: a welcoming offered to every visitor and consumed with relish, like Irish soda bread or tea.  Not once do I remember a nose being turned up at it, as I can only imagine my nose would be prone to do today.  I don't know if there were many beer snobs in Richmond, Virginia, at that time, but if there were they certainly weren't running in my circles.

Upon moving to Southern Oregon from Costa Rica, the only libation I craved was the cheap, clean, astringency of guaro (sugar cane rum) and coconut water.  There was none to be had.  I had noticed that the convenient store coolers here in Medford carried more than the average Coors, Miller, and Budweiser trio.  I spotted numerous Ninkasi and Lagunitas branded hoodies on the same scenesters that I once would have assumed were PBR diehards.  It wasn't until boredom brought me into the specialty bottle shop, Bear Creek Beers, that I did begin to comprehend how vast the world of beer truly is.   Confronted with hundreds of glistening bottles, I requested anything with a high alcohol content and the dapper young beer monger directed me to the Celebrator doppelbock from Ayinger.   A relatively high 6.7% was cloaked under a taste that I simply couldn't put a finger on, and to be quite honest, repulsed me.  It seemed to my untrained palate like a Heineken that had been reduced on a slow burner for hours.   At $3.70 a bottle I choked it down, the perplexed salesman trying to puzzle out what caused my face to pucker so.  Upon multiple returns we determined that a rich Black Boss Porter was more to my liking and the most likely offender was Munich malt, used in many German beers.  It was a revelation that such an subtle aftertaste could be pinned down and  attributed to a region and style.  Beer was beginning not to be just beer.

The first day I heard of Hollandaise was the very same day I was attempting to make a half gallon vat of it to the sounds of a moaning and very frustrated souse chef at a job I had chanced my way into.   For two years he patiently introduced me to the basics of the culinary world.  Mirepoix and truffles and duxelles, oh my!   After my stint at The Jefferson  food was never the same.  I wonder at the homogeny of my former diet.  How I could have lived in a world void of the occasional daikon salad or 12-year aged balsamic dressing?   Now, after a season of winter warmers, drinkable session lagers,  rich barley wines, effervescent Belgians, smoky rauchbier, and nectar-like lambics, I am left pondering much the same.  The ever-hoppy IPAs help to define the Northwest in my mind, as ESBs leave me looking forward to trips to London.   Guiness is left by the wayside behind heady coconut porters and Young's Double Chocolate Stout.  Beautiful experimental  beers such as Dogfish Head's World Wide Stout or New Belgium's Lips of Faith series continue to challenge the palate.   Luckily my area also has two fantastic microbreweries, Caldera and S.O.B., to satiate my desire to support local businesses.
  
If you are interested in expanding your beer horizons don't be shy.  Like Guinness?  Try a Murphy's Irish Stout.  Is New Castle your style?  Try a Samuel Smith Nut Brown.  I've found many ladies who gravitate to the more fruity beers also love the over the top IPAs like Russian River's Pliny the Elder or Oscar Blues' Gubna.  But most of all, keep trying, because tastes, like all good things, mature.  To which I owe the illustrious Munich malt an apology, for now I find you absolutely delectable.

I was reading over on "I might have a glass of beer" that BrewDog has made a mackerel stout.  If that sounds too strange for you, then perhaps you should become familiar with oyster stout.

I have never had a very impressive palate for wine.  Most of the time I can tell what I like and what I don't like, and from time to time I can be lucky enough to pick up on one of those elusive aromas wine geeks are always talking about.  "Blackberry," usually.  Sometimes "pepper."  I have never really had the best of luck with tobacco, leather, pit fruits, flowers, duck fat, or any of those other weird things that people pick up in wine flavors.  But I am sure they are there.  I have seen people identify wine regions, grapes, alcohol content, and other impressive things by taste alone, and there is one isolated case where I usually can do a good job, too.

It was a bottle of 2007 RoxyAnn Claret that first made me stop and think about this interesting flavor I was tasting.  I think I would describe it as "peppery," but what I knew for sure was that it was delicious.  It was a flavor I ran into frequently in Claret-style wines, and I just couldn't figure out what it was.  Clarets were delicious, but usually rather expensive.  Why did they taste so good?  Was I just paying for quality?  These questions plagued me, and obviously deserved some investigation.  So I put on my favorite battered fedora, pulled out my magnifying glass, and grabbed some Riedel stemware, and began to work on this puzzle.

We mentioned the Cigar Cinema offerings from Cigar Aficionado last week, so this week I'd like to return to one of their videos from a while back in which Jack Bettridge and Dave Savona pair cigars and beer.  This is something I have written about before, so of course I found the video rather interesting.

Their inclusion of Sierra Nevada Torpedo Extra IPA and the excellent, though mysterious, Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA have led me to mostly forgive their use of a Michelob product.  Their reaction to the monster from Delaware is great, and I completely agree that cigars and beer can be paired with great success.  Mr. Bettridge wisely repeats his theory that the bodies of the cigar and beer should match, which I think is probably the case.  However, I also think that at times, a strong, heavy-bodied cigar can be paired with a lighter, hoppier beer because of the latter's palate-cleansing effect. 

As the warmer weather returns, I hope to be doing a great deal more experimentation with these pairings myself.

I read on Dr. Vino's Wine Blog about a meeting of Italian sommeliers, wine journalists, and wine bloggers who were given blind tastings of a variety of fine Barberas.  It doesn't seem like too much of a surprise that the heavily oaked versions were not as well-received as those without much oak, but the former were supposed to be the premium products.  Tom's Wine Line has more (he was there), including a great quote from Fabrizio Iuli of Monferrato Barbera: "It is a very trivial idea to think that oak makes a wine important."

There has been a lot of oak going into beer these days.  Sometimes it turns out pretty good, but other times it can be harsh and strange.  Frequently one will hear the flavors of oak being described as "vanilla," but that always seems like a stretch to me.  It seems, also, that an oaked beer in a keg will mellow out considerably after a month or two, so if you have a favorite (such as the Deschutes Jubel 2010), try to revisit it a few months after its release, if you can still find it, and notice the differences.