There is little the average beer aficionado enjoys more than a barbecue. My mouth is watering just typing about it. The light, intoxicating weissbeers as a warm-up, the cool, clean pilsners whiling away the summer afternoon, the fruity, hoppy IPAs cutting through whatever caramelised stodge comes off the flames, the luscious imperial stout complementing the delicate carbon flavours of burnt anything… Truly the peak of civilisation.
But there is a special kind of hangover that comes with a barbecue. The kind where one opens the fridge the next morning to be confronted with what can only be described as a visit from the Shit Beer Fairy. What had been, the previous lunchtime, a glistening, cooled temple to the art of brewing, has become overnight a pungent chilly-bin of corner-shop detritus.
Such a thing happened to me a couple of weeks back. (Well, I lie, it happened about two months ago and I’ve been meaning to write this blog ever since but haven’t got round to it. But if I admit that, the piece somewhat loses its immediacy). Admittedly it was actually me that drank the 8 litres of Brewer’s Reserve, four Twisted Hop IPAs, two Nokabolokov Stouts and the Duvel that were laid down for the event, but all the same, I do feel a little used and dirty. How has this happened? My house is a temple to the goddess Hoppus, and then this. Who replaced my fine cellar with this rubbish? (Ok, I know, it was me that drank all the good stuff and my guests kindly left me their spares. Stop puncturing the bubble).
Anyway, I may have mentioned that I was interested in reviewing… um… interesting beers, so this is all grist to the mill, really. I can make a start with Corona. Apparently this is the most popular beer in the world or something equally daft, so one could be forgiven for assuming that it can’t possibly be that bad. Allegedly it's the top-selling export beer in the US, although my perfunctory internet research has found it described by some honest soul as a ‘light, flavourless American Lager’. The Corona website itself played some horrible music over my brand new Electric Wire Hustle CD, so that got turned off pretty quickly. So much for research.
Actually, do you mind if I digress to an anecdote? Ha. Too bad. You’re getting one.
A couple of years ago at BrewNZ, the one on Chaffer’s Dock, the Trouble and I were attending a beer and food matching thing with Martin Bosley and Neil Miller. Apparently Martin Bosley’s famous or something, so we were pretty interested (overseas readers – he’s a chef. And BrewNZ is a beer festival). La Boz was telling us all about how he’d thought beer was pretty much beer until the affable, cheerful, all-round good egg Neil had introduced him to something drinkable. Scales fell from eyes, Road to Damascus travelled, he’d started stocking Tuatara in his restaurant, &c &c. But then he said something despicable. Unforgivable, one might say. ‘But of course, we still have to stock Corona for the punters…’
WHAT? WHY? Yes, mate, like you keep a couple of bottles of Blue Nun on the wine list and some Mad Dog 20:20 on the spirits list for all the winos that drop in. What are you running, one of Wellington’s best restaurants or a polytechnic Friday night bar? I am pleased, nay proud, to say that the Trouble let out a highly audible gasp of horror. ‘I’ve trained you well, my young padawan’, I thought, my breast swelling with the honour of the moment. Let’s hope it stuck in his mind. I should go back to Bosley’s to check at some point. Actually, if anyone wants to offer me a discount, the odds will increase considerably.
Right, so back to the business in hand. The bottle makes no particular claims other than ‘la Cerveza Mas Fina’, whatever that is, so let’s dive in.
This is apparently some sort of lager, and is a very bright yellow. The colour of yellow apple juice, maybe? Sorta funny-looking. Maybe it’s my imagination. Anyway, time for the pour, and we’re off. On the nose. Well, one could charitably refer to it as ‘hay’ or ‘straw’ or something, but I’m getting a very faint whiff of swimming pools. Not chlorine, exactly, but the whole deal – chemicals, damp towels, industrial shower gel, that kind of thing. Maybe a bit of horse. But a really faint smell. Far fainter than one hopes for from a beer. Almost not there. If I was a dog, I’d bark at this beer due to its lack of smell.
And now the taste. I have to say, having seen this referred to in several places as one of the world’s worst beers, I was pretty nervous. The shaking glass approached my lips… I stared down at the deep yellow abyss… wondered vaguely if the wind was blowing in my direction from a swimming pool several miles away… and…
Nothing. Not a sausage. Actual total absence of flavour. Water. I took another swig. And another. And then it started to creep up on me. It started as a sensation sort of like ‘hang on, did I just eat a dry taco in between those sips… no… don’t think the memory’s that bad yet…’. Eventually I realised it’s all in the aftertaste. Something dusty… dry… stale-bread-like… Icky. Not repugnant (unlike that glass of Speight’s Old Dark I was forced into the other night), but just… icky. Like drinking brackish water. Not pleasant.
And so to the inevitable question. Why on earth do people drink this stuff? It’s just not very nice. But not horrible enough to warrant a challenge. It’s just not nice. Sort of like the tea your spinster aunt brews. Why would you choose to drink it? Then it hit me like a lightening bolt. Of course! What a fule I have been! They put lime in it!
One quick sprint to the shops, bottle two uncorked, and away we go. Right! Now we’re talking! On the nose – mmm. Plenty of lime. Quite a limey smell. Lime-like. Very definite lime notes. Taste-wise – citrus. Lime, with some hints of lime, and a bit of water. Weak lime cordial, with some tones of lime. Brackish aftertaste replaced with a fruity, limey kind of flavour.
So there’s an answer. It’s not beer at all. It’s alcoholic lime juice. A stealth alco-pop, if you will. Still didn’t like it, but at least it’s less of a mystery. For the less discerning drinking man, who has ongoing issues with things like flavour, it’s a godsend. ‘Don’t call me a weirdo, I’m drinking beer’. But within this mystery lies another, deeper mystery. Why the hell would you brew it in the first place? What on earth inspired anyone to make a beer that is only even on the same planet as drinkable with the addition of pungent, flavour-replacing fruit?
I have a theory. I think it’s the result of a brilliant marketing save to cover up a vast industrial accident of unimaginable proportions. Thusly –
Pedro (Corona Marketing Manager) – Hey, Jesus, you know that new beer you’ve
brewed?
Jesus (Corona Brewer) – Si, compadre.
Pedro – Well, we’ve come up with a marketing tactic.
Jesus – Ole! What’s that?
Pedro – We’re going to advise everybody to stuff a slice of lime in the bottle when
they drink it.
Jesus – Ok… Um… Well… I think it sort of tastes ok as it is, to be honest.
Pedro – Yeeeeeaaaaaaaah… about that…
Jesus – Huh?
Pedro – Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it kinda doesn’t.
Jesus – What do you mean? It’s a fantastic lager, hombre. I brewed it from my
family’s own ancient recipe, handed down from father to son for generations.
Pedro – Uh-huh. What was it a recipe for?
Jesus – Tacos.
Pedro – Right. That explains a lot. Look, you see, the thing is, we did some taste tests,
and not that many people actually liked the taste.
Jesus – It’s a wonderful taste.
Pedro – Amigo, 45% of the people who did the test likened the flavour to ‘wringing
out my grandma’s enormous sweaty underpants’.
Jesus – You offered that as an option?
Pedro – No, they wrote it down independently. Over 5,000 of them. The remainder
simply said ‘piss’.
Jesus – Well, I could alter the recipe slightly… maybe less swimming pool water…
Pedro – Problem, cabron. We’ve brewed over 17 billion gallons in the first batch.
Even if this becomes the best selling beer in the world, we’ll be shipping this batch
until the 25th century. We can’t make it taste better. It’s lime or bust.
Jesus – I knew this would happen (begins to sob). I only ever wanted to be a… a…
lumberjack…!
&c ad nauseam.
So moist I have opened a public swimming bath in my pants.
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