BEER AS BOUTIQUE GOODS + THE AMERICAN IPA APPARATUS + PASTRY STOUT: COMPLAINT(S).

 “By order of the Peaky F——in’ Blinders!”

Whatever happened to that urban fantasy of sitting in the pub’s window, quite forlorn, staring onto the darkening street—the lights, the tipsy hookups, the clamor, the sweet misery of it all—except that the beer costs 10 bucks and it’s served in a thimble-snifter, and everyone in that city is happy enough thinking that their Facebook comments account for true activism. To boot, there is India Pale Ale, like, jumping out of the curtains, EVERYWHERE. This is the beer of the soldiers who hanged “Danny Deever,” am I right? Well, Danny Deever was hanged in 1890, so can we bloody well produce some other styles of beer bloody well already? The Brewer’s Association (and just about everybody else) confirms that American IPA continues to drive the growth of craft beer. Thus, Beer Drinker, your future involves scant pours, skyrocketing tabs, and mega-hoppie (sic) bitterness. But that’s not all. No, there is a tragedy called “pastry stout.” The great, great, great terrain of the dark swills has been compromised by the likes of “gingerbread stout” and “tiramisu stout” and “German chocolate cupcake stout.” Deeee-foooooooook meeeeeeee LIIIIIIFE. 

Yes, there shall be stout and pancakes. Of course there shall be stout and pancakes! You shall pour the stout into the proper vessel, a glassware that permits at least 16 ounces of swill to accumulate. (The froth shall not count toward the total amount of swillage.) Yes, the stout shall be handed to the swiller. Lo, the pancakes shall be placed on a plate, preferably a large plate as they shall be, preferably, large pancakes. The syrup shall be delivered as shall be the pat of butter. It is assumed that silverware will be made available, and by that we mean proper cutlery: fork, knife, rolled within a laundered napkin. Dig it: the pancake shall be beside the stout. Beside the stout, not within the stout! For the love of Jiminy Cricket, do not put the pancake inside the stout, or inside the porter either, for that matter. And don’t start up with me about stout. “Ohhh, the stout is too heavy.” “Ohhh, the stout is for winter.” (Buzzer noise: Wrong again.) But wait a minute. There is no stout, unless you count the likes of barrel-aged maple pecan bacon-butt stout. Where’s the stout? Show me the stout! And I don’t mean on a dessert menu! SHOW ME THE SESSIONABLE STOUT. 

The view from the pub.

According to various scholars, Rudyard Kipling set his poem,“Danny Deever,” in India, during the British occupation, circa 1890. Two characters in the poem, Files-on-Parade and the Colour Sergeant, are remembering the doomed Danny Deever who’s being hung for a murder. Here’s an excerpt of their conversation, from the third stanza: “‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,’ said Files-on-Parade. / ‘’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.” [It’s kind of cold that Files has drunk his beer, a score ‘times, but we digress.] Ah, the bitter beer. True, it could be British Bitter ale, BUT IT’S NOT. It’s IPA, since the poem is set in India, and since the British brewed extra-strength ale so it wouldn’t spoil en route, via barkentines, to its destination, where it would mollify the troops that had been installed to aid in colonial oppression. We at Blood And Gutstein don’t disparage ABV that drifts into the upper register, Nopte, but we do disparage the bitter part, the hops-along Cassidy part. All the hops, all the bitterness, and now, WHATWHAT, the citrus, the ‘hazy’ IPA, the JUICY (“Sweet Lucy!”) IPA, the grapefruit beer, the triple IPA, Cor Blimey, Me Piles Itch Me Soooooooooooooooo.

We now turn to our panel of experts, Fluffy, Sausages, and The Machine, who are advising this blog during Complaint Week 2019.
            “Doot doot,” says Fluffy.

            “My figured goblet for a dish of wood,” says Sausages.

“There’s a national stout emergency,” writes The Machine. “I mean, what happens when all beer becomes specialty beer? Does specialty beer become just beer? And then, one day, when regular stout comes back, will it be specialty stout?”

Roight.

Thank you, gentlemen. I mean, I will always refer to you as gentlemen, no matter they say about you! Right. Roight. When a style such as stout becomes overrun with nonsensical versions of itself, and becomes Boutique Specialty beer, what will a 5 percent regular stout eventually turn into, a couple years from now: Boutique Specialty? Well, it must be, since we’re installing pastry stout as the normative stout, and we’re installing Juicy Sweet Lucy IPA as America’s Beer, never mind the fact that it appears in carefully metered pours, Aye, in “sniftiz.” Would the American IPA Apparatus produce 10 percent fewer IPAs and 10 percent more stouts? Would the American Beer Apparatus establish a Beer Drinker’s Bill of Rights, such as 16 ounce pours into pint glasses or mugs? I mean, you can’t serve a beer in a shot glass. BEER IS NOT WHISKEY. Mostly though, Show me the stout! Where’s the stout? WHATWHAT? And no four-packs of stout, either, for fooooook’s saaaaake. If you must vend stout in a quantity other than a six-pack, then GIVE ME AN EIGHT PACK OF SESSIONABLE STOUT. (Complaint!)

blood and gutstein complaint week 2019: no solutions—just gripes

monday: democrats

tuesday: education

wednesday: poetry

thursday: beer

friday: sports