Stewardship is is obtained upon enjoyment of a good smoke. The Sultan of Irie agrees...
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, May 4, 2009
Exceptional Belmont Station Run
I made a visit to Ye Ol' Belmont station for something to drink on poker night. I got started with something I knew I'd like, having taken a long brake since my last kind brew, so I started off with a Westmalle Dubbel. That got my palate all excited with it's complex tastes that didn't overwhelm me, and left me yearning for more. I moved on to Dogfish Head's "Palo Santo Marron", which is aged in fancy wood from South America (there was a ten page article about the quest for this wood in the New Yorker). This one has a RICH taste, that briefly seems to warn of an over-sweetness that never really arrives. It's a dark, oaky sweetness that takes full command of your mouth. This had me moving on to "Old Slug Porter". This is an English porter that's conditioned in the bottle. It was everything I'd expect from an English porter. Like drinking a bar of dark, bitter chocolate. Then the surprise of the night: "De Dolle Extra Export Stout". VERY good, excellent way to cap of the night. It's drak, bittersweet taste seemed to immediately wipe out all other tastes lingering in your mouth, and somehow adding to them at the same time. A very nice stout. I love you Belmont Station!
-Tyson
-Tyson
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Tables Await
Three lone tables, underneath the trees, collecting leaves and rain. They await challengers. Young or old, many or few...who will these potential victims be? How do the tables perform, for they are not Butterfly. Does the stiff net and concrete top affect the play? A paddle (Castle Killer? Raven's Blood?) will need to be purchased.I eagerly anticipate Spring.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The Journey Of Saint Sixtus
Westvleteren. The word was first spoken to me by brother Nick. And from the first time I heard it, it seemed to have magical connotations attached to it. Westvleteren. Brother Nick already spoke the word with reverence. He had discovered the name in his never ending search for kind brews, and it was immediately evident that this was no common brew. References to it were everywhere that kind brews were discussed, most notably on ratebeer.com, a trustworthy sight for those who quaff the nectar of the gods. It seemed to be a legend amongst beers, beerlovers everywhere ranked it as the best they'd ever tasted. The descriptions of the first tastes of this brew were akin to lovers descriptions of the first time they laid eyes on each other, and seemed an on par experience with the first time they'd laid each other. The brew of brews. The beer of beers. The Holy Grail we'd been searching for. But there was one problem. While descriptions of the brew abounded, the brew itself was nowhere to be found.
It's brewed only one place in the world, and only a true handful of men know it's secrets. In all the vastness of the universe, at any one time, only about five men know how to make Westvleteren. And they don't make it for profit. In fact, it appears as if they despise profit. Untold numbers around the world yearn for this beer, lust for it. Yet the men who brew Westvleteren are trappist monks, men of God. They hove no need for worldly pleasures, and only require enough money to keep their monastery running. And so they only sell just enough for that purpose, to sustain them whilst they purify their souls in the middle of the Belgium countryside. They could easily sell masses of the stuff, heaps and heaps of it, they could be a major player in the worldwide beer market, but they have no such designs. They are true to their calling, and are just simple monks. While all this was admirable, the question was clear: how do WE get our hands on a Westvleteren?
The world is not so small anymore, and I suppose we could've found one on ebay, or some other soulless internet site. Looking back, I realize that that thought never even entered our minds. When I first realized that the beer was within our grasp was after I told Nick about a trip I was planning. I was restless, yearning for travel at the time. I was tired of plans getting pushed back, waiting for people to join me on some worldly adventure. So I told my friends I was going to Amsterdam, and that they should come along. I gave them a date, and told them that I wasn't going to wait for anyone to get their act together, that they were either going to come along or not. I was hoping to get a large group to accompany me, but what I got was far better. I got Brother Nick and his divine plan.
Holland lies right next to Belgium, the home of the Trappist Abbey of Saint Sixtus, where the legendary Westvleteren is forged by secretive monks in the countryside. In my mind they hovered over vats of beer, adding a pinch of this, a dash of that, giving a taste, nodding in meditative approval. And this was all a short trip away from my planned destination. The only way you can obtain the brew of brews is to call the monastery, make a reservation, and drive by yourself to pick it up. But only three cases! No more! They don't want anyone getting greedy and redistributing it themselves. Imagine that! Someone telling you that they REFUSE to sell you something even if you wanted a thousand of it! A million of it! These are not men motivated by greed. There are three types of Westvleteren: the Blonde, the "8", and the "12". The "12" is the one that consistently wins out in "best beer in the world" competitions, is the heaviest (10.2% ABV), and is the one Nick and I desired the most. Lucky men that we were, we were planning our trip when the "12" was available (each one is only available at certain times of the year, the "12" being their winter brew).
But you can't just go by and pick this beer up. You must make a phone reservation. And the monastery has only ONE PHONE. A world of people yearning for this beer, and one phone line for all of them to get through on. Once they've sold enough to keep their monastery going, they're through, so there was a very real chance we wouldn't be able to acquire it. First, Nick had to call a sort of "monk hotline" that told him when he could call back again to make his reservation. But the message wasn't in a language he understood. A small obstacle for Brother Nick. Through the use of the internet, he discovered that the message said "for English, press 3", but said that in Dutch! You better at least know enough Dutch to understand "for English, press 3" is what the monks must be thinking. At least if you want the brew of brews, the beer of beers. Nick passed the first test, solved the first riddle, and entered the answer, 3, on his telephone. It gave him the time to call back, some ungodly hour for us in Oregon if I remember correctly, and the stage was set.
The next test was the call. Nick called and called, with busy signal after busy signal answering that call. But finally, his persistence rewarded him and he got through to an actual monk of Saint Sixtus! Nick humbly requested a reservation of 3 cases of Westvleteren, and told him we could be there on April 4'th. The monk told him to be there at 14:15 hours. The mark had been set! We must traverse the land and make it to holy ground at an exact point in time, our quest was now written in stone! But there was doubt. Always, there is doubt. The monks usually take the registration number of your car to recognize you when you show up for the beer, but we had none. We would be renting a car. The monk took Nicks name, and we hoped that it would be enough.
Amsterdam. The beauty of the city gives me pause as I write this. Cobblestone roads that lead down picturesque neighborhoods and always give bicyclists the right of way. Never ending canals, humanistic laws, history, architecture, art. Entering Amsterdam feels like you're exiting a prison that you had no idea you were confined to, and once free, true happiness becomes possible. We were floating through our trip in bliss, but the decisive time came, and our journey was due.
We rented a car. Brother Nick had made the reservations, just as he had covered every other aspect of the trip. But an opportunity for me to save the day presented itself. Nick had forgotten his passport, which he didn't realize he'd need for the car. Being a neurotic man, I always had mine with me while traveling, and rented the car in my name.
Driving in the Netherlands! Even this simple act brought unfortold pleasure! In America, we're all familiar with the concept of passing on the left. That rule, however, along with many other common courtesies, is widely ignored. Not in the Netherlands. The left lane was a long, open road of promise. Nothing ahead of you. People that were driving a hundred miles an hour made sure to move back to the middle lane once they'd passed someone, just in case someone doing a hundred and fifty was behind them. Beautiful respect for fellow man that I so rarely witness in my homeland. And people sure could drive!
Nick, the exalted, unconquerable Nick, navigated the way. We took turns driving, but I never felt more than lost. Nick had prepared maps for us far in advance, and always seemed to know right where we were. He'd plotted a course that took us to La Trappe Monastary in Koeningshoven, a monastery that had brews that no one would scoff at. Only the shining bright prospect of Westvleteren could partially dim the light of this monasteries brew.
We pulled up to the monastery, at it played every bit of the part of a legendary castle in my mind. There was a moat, a drawbridge, a gate, and it was all forged in massive, cold, ancient stone blocks. We made our way up the path, and it seems as if I wouldn't have been surprised if a griffin appeared before us and asked us to answer the riddle of man before we were allowed to progress. We found a gift shop, and that anything so quaint as a gift shop existed in this environment was slightly shocking. But what a treat when we entered it! Fine brews everywhere on the shelves! Even loads of cheese made with beer! And a character behind the counter that Disney himself would've been proud to have drawn. A tall, lean monk with a smile that lit up the morning. There was no sense of judgment in his face, as I'd come to expect from other religious figures I'd known, and he emanated a most profound sense of natural joy and inquisitiveness. He was well over six feet, seemed to be the picture of health, and accustomed to joy. Was this truly a monk?
To put a fine point on it, Nick and I totally geeked out, and the monk could tell. He loved us for it. I really felt love and openness from this man, a credit to his order. We asked to take pictures with him, and he kindly indulged us. He primped up and said with enthusiasm "Wait here, I have something special for true beer lovers such as yourselves." He went into the back and I swear you could hear him digging through piles of stuff, like some wizard looking for a lost spellbook. He soon came back with coasters and posters and beer paraphernalia. How much would it cost? Free of charge, for us beer lovers. He amazingly lowered his voice and mentioned Westvleteren. His voice was lowered because he was telling us that the brew might even be better than the beer of his own order! We proudly informed him we were on our way to get some, and his brow furrowed in worry. You need an appointment, he told us. Ah, but we have one, we responded! His face warmed by several degrees. Ah, but you can only get two cases at a time, you know. We have three reserved, we proudly stated. Ah! They must have upped the limit, he returned. You are lucky men indeed!
Oooh, geeked out after this point puts it mildly. We ordered some quadruple at the cafe, against the advice of the monk who told us to have something lighter that early in the morning (the quad is 11% ABV). We clinked our newly purchased glasses, quaffed some of the finest beer in the world, loaded up on cheese and beer, and were off.
Our road took us deep into the countryside, far from the trappings of busy, everyday life. Cows and horses eyed us, seeming to know what our goal was, seeming to doubt our ability to reach it. But we found it, the Abbey of Saint Sixtus rose up before us out of the grasslands. Nick took a picture of every sign that declared our destinations distance from us. His energy took on a frantic pace, and so did mine. We were so close! We arrived slightly early at the beautiful abbey, and discovered a small line of cars that we joined.
A short wait, and then the line began to move. Here we go! We kept trying to get a peek of what was going on up front, and were able to spy monks loading crates of what could only be our most desired concoction on Earth. We inched up that driveway, and half expected God himself to bar us from reaching the end of it. The minds plays such tricks on you when your as close to we were to something we wanted so much. When we reached the front, a monk immediately looked at our registration, and couldn't find it on his sheet. Disapproval seemed to cross the mans eyes. Did we make a reservation? Under our name! OK, go inside. Nick disappeared, came out, and gave me the thumbs up! The beer had been purchased! Joy of joys!
We quickly loaded the crates into the car before anyone could change their mind, and made our exit. Low and behold, we were accosted at the exit by one more obstacle. People asking to buy our beer off us! They came such a long way to be turned away, they said! They just wanted a couple of beers, they said! We quickly recognized them as agents of darkness, related to them that we'd come all the way from America for these beers, and left them dejected by the side of the road.
This abbey had a cafe as well, where you could try any one of their brews. But when we reached the door, there was a little picture of a hammock strung to a pair of palm trees on some tropical beach. "Closed due to vacation", it read. A reason to return one day. So instead we took our beers to a secluded area of the parking lot, took out our new glassware, and poured ourselves our first Westvleteren. I brought that cup to my lips as if it were the very cup of Christ, and thought "What if it's all crap? What if, after all this, the beer is total shit?" But that thought did not last long. It wound it's way through my mouth and strolled down my throat. What tastes were these? Could I work them all out? Where was the alcohol taste that a strong brew such as this should surely be overwhelmed by? Instead there was a smokeyness, a woodiness, and was that nutmeg? And plum? How many other tastes could I not identify? The complexities of the brew wafted not only over my taste buds but my soul. Our quest completed, I looked over at my companion, and the truth of our trip hit me. The look on his face was that of a child that has just walked into Disneyland for his first time. The kind of joy that is absent from adult life, that you can only find on the rarest of days. The look on Nicks face alone was worth the whole trip. We had completed the Journey of Saint Sixtus, and the only wound we took was a speeding ticket that was mailed to me by the Netherlands. I still owe them 60 Euros.
It's brewed only one place in the world, and only a true handful of men know it's secrets. In all the vastness of the universe, at any one time, only about five men know how to make Westvleteren. And they don't make it for profit. In fact, it appears as if they despise profit. Untold numbers around the world yearn for this beer, lust for it. Yet the men who brew Westvleteren are trappist monks, men of God. They hove no need for worldly pleasures, and only require enough money to keep their monastery running. And so they only sell just enough for that purpose, to sustain them whilst they purify their souls in the middle of the Belgium countryside. They could easily sell masses of the stuff, heaps and heaps of it, they could be a major player in the worldwide beer market, but they have no such designs. They are true to their calling, and are just simple monks. While all this was admirable, the question was clear: how do WE get our hands on a Westvleteren?
The world is not so small anymore, and I suppose we could've found one on ebay, or some other soulless internet site. Looking back, I realize that that thought never even entered our minds. When I first realized that the beer was within our grasp was after I told Nick about a trip I was planning. I was restless, yearning for travel at the time. I was tired of plans getting pushed back, waiting for people to join me on some worldly adventure. So I told my friends I was going to Amsterdam, and that they should come along. I gave them a date, and told them that I wasn't going to wait for anyone to get their act together, that they were either going to come along or not. I was hoping to get a large group to accompany me, but what I got was far better. I got Brother Nick and his divine plan.
Holland lies right next to Belgium, the home of the Trappist Abbey of Saint Sixtus, where the legendary Westvleteren is forged by secretive monks in the countryside. In my mind they hovered over vats of beer, adding a pinch of this, a dash of that, giving a taste, nodding in meditative approval. And this was all a short trip away from my planned destination. The only way you can obtain the brew of brews is to call the monastery, make a reservation, and drive by yourself to pick it up. But only three cases! No more! They don't want anyone getting greedy and redistributing it themselves. Imagine that! Someone telling you that they REFUSE to sell you something even if you wanted a thousand of it! A million of it! These are not men motivated by greed. There are three types of Westvleteren: the Blonde, the "8", and the "12". The "12" is the one that consistently wins out in "best beer in the world" competitions, is the heaviest (10.2% ABV), and is the one Nick and I desired the most. Lucky men that we were, we were planning our trip when the "12" was available (each one is only available at certain times of the year, the "12" being their winter brew).
But you can't just go by and pick this beer up. You must make a phone reservation. And the monastery has only ONE PHONE. A world of people yearning for this beer, and one phone line for all of them to get through on. Once they've sold enough to keep their monastery going, they're through, so there was a very real chance we wouldn't be able to acquire it. First, Nick had to call a sort of "monk hotline" that told him when he could call back again to make his reservation. But the message wasn't in a language he understood. A small obstacle for Brother Nick. Through the use of the internet, he discovered that the message said "for English, press 3", but said that in Dutch! You better at least know enough Dutch to understand "for English, press 3" is what the monks must be thinking. At least if you want the brew of brews, the beer of beers. Nick passed the first test, solved the first riddle, and entered the answer, 3, on his telephone. It gave him the time to call back, some ungodly hour for us in Oregon if I remember correctly, and the stage was set.
The next test was the call. Nick called and called, with busy signal after busy signal answering that call. But finally, his persistence rewarded him and he got through to an actual monk of Saint Sixtus! Nick humbly requested a reservation of 3 cases of Westvleteren, and told him we could be there on April 4'th. The monk told him to be there at 14:15 hours. The mark had been set! We must traverse the land and make it to holy ground at an exact point in time, our quest was now written in stone! But there was doubt. Always, there is doubt. The monks usually take the registration number of your car to recognize you when you show up for the beer, but we had none. We would be renting a car. The monk took Nicks name, and we hoped that it would be enough.
Amsterdam. The beauty of the city gives me pause as I write this. Cobblestone roads that lead down picturesque neighborhoods and always give bicyclists the right of way. Never ending canals, humanistic laws, history, architecture, art. Entering Amsterdam feels like you're exiting a prison that you had no idea you were confined to, and once free, true happiness becomes possible. We were floating through our trip in bliss, but the decisive time came, and our journey was due.
We rented a car. Brother Nick had made the reservations, just as he had covered every other aspect of the trip. But an opportunity for me to save the day presented itself. Nick had forgotten his passport, which he didn't realize he'd need for the car. Being a neurotic man, I always had mine with me while traveling, and rented the car in my name.
Driving in the Netherlands! Even this simple act brought unfortold pleasure! In America, we're all familiar with the concept of passing on the left. That rule, however, along with many other common courtesies, is widely ignored. Not in the Netherlands. The left lane was a long, open road of promise. Nothing ahead of you. People that were driving a hundred miles an hour made sure to move back to the middle lane once they'd passed someone, just in case someone doing a hundred and fifty was behind them. Beautiful respect for fellow man that I so rarely witness in my homeland. And people sure could drive!
Nick, the exalted, unconquerable Nick, navigated the way. We took turns driving, but I never felt more than lost. Nick had prepared maps for us far in advance, and always seemed to know right where we were. He'd plotted a course that took us to La Trappe Monastary in Koeningshoven, a monastery that had brews that no one would scoff at. Only the shining bright prospect of Westvleteren could partially dim the light of this monasteries brew.
We pulled up to the monastery, at it played every bit of the part of a legendary castle in my mind. There was a moat, a drawbridge, a gate, and it was all forged in massive, cold, ancient stone blocks. We made our way up the path, and it seems as if I wouldn't have been surprised if a griffin appeared before us and asked us to answer the riddle of man before we were allowed to progress. We found a gift shop, and that anything so quaint as a gift shop existed in this environment was slightly shocking. But what a treat when we entered it! Fine brews everywhere on the shelves! Even loads of cheese made with beer! And a character behind the counter that Disney himself would've been proud to have drawn. A tall, lean monk with a smile that lit up the morning. There was no sense of judgment in his face, as I'd come to expect from other religious figures I'd known, and he emanated a most profound sense of natural joy and inquisitiveness. He was well over six feet, seemed to be the picture of health, and accustomed to joy. Was this truly a monk?
To put a fine point on it, Nick and I totally geeked out, and the monk could tell. He loved us for it. I really felt love and openness from this man, a credit to his order. We asked to take pictures with him, and he kindly indulged us. He primped up and said with enthusiasm "Wait here, I have something special for true beer lovers such as yourselves." He went into the back and I swear you could hear him digging through piles of stuff, like some wizard looking for a lost spellbook. He soon came back with coasters and posters and beer paraphernalia. How much would it cost? Free of charge, for us beer lovers. He amazingly lowered his voice and mentioned Westvleteren. His voice was lowered because he was telling us that the brew might even be better than the beer of his own order! We proudly informed him we were on our way to get some, and his brow furrowed in worry. You need an appointment, he told us. Ah, but we have one, we responded! His face warmed by several degrees. Ah, but you can only get two cases at a time, you know. We have three reserved, we proudly stated. Ah! They must have upped the limit, he returned. You are lucky men indeed!
Oooh, geeked out after this point puts it mildly. We ordered some quadruple at the cafe, against the advice of the monk who told us to have something lighter that early in the morning (the quad is 11% ABV). We clinked our newly purchased glasses, quaffed some of the finest beer in the world, loaded up on cheese and beer, and were off.
Our road took us deep into the countryside, far from the trappings of busy, everyday life. Cows and horses eyed us, seeming to know what our goal was, seeming to doubt our ability to reach it. But we found it, the Abbey of Saint Sixtus rose up before us out of the grasslands. Nick took a picture of every sign that declared our destinations distance from us. His energy took on a frantic pace, and so did mine. We were so close! We arrived slightly early at the beautiful abbey, and discovered a small line of cars that we joined.
A short wait, and then the line began to move. Here we go! We kept trying to get a peek of what was going on up front, and were able to spy monks loading crates of what could only be our most desired concoction on Earth. We inched up that driveway, and half expected God himself to bar us from reaching the end of it. The minds plays such tricks on you when your as close to we were to something we wanted so much. When we reached the front, a monk immediately looked at our registration, and couldn't find it on his sheet. Disapproval seemed to cross the mans eyes. Did we make a reservation? Under our name! OK, go inside. Nick disappeared, came out, and gave me the thumbs up! The beer had been purchased! Joy of joys!
We quickly loaded the crates into the car before anyone could change their mind, and made our exit. Low and behold, we were accosted at the exit by one more obstacle. People asking to buy our beer off us! They came such a long way to be turned away, they said! They just wanted a couple of beers, they said! We quickly recognized them as agents of darkness, related to them that we'd come all the way from America for these beers, and left them dejected by the side of the road.
This abbey had a cafe as well, where you could try any one of their brews. But when we reached the door, there was a little picture of a hammock strung to a pair of palm trees on some tropical beach. "Closed due to vacation", it read. A reason to return one day. So instead we took our beers to a secluded area of the parking lot, took out our new glassware, and poured ourselves our first Westvleteren. I brought that cup to my lips as if it were the very cup of Christ, and thought "What if it's all crap? What if, after all this, the beer is total shit?" But that thought did not last long. It wound it's way through my mouth and strolled down my throat. What tastes were these? Could I work them all out? Where was the alcohol taste that a strong brew such as this should surely be overwhelmed by? Instead there was a smokeyness, a woodiness, and was that nutmeg? And plum? How many other tastes could I not identify? The complexities of the brew wafted not only over my taste buds but my soul. Our quest completed, I looked over at my companion, and the truth of our trip hit me. The look on his face was that of a child that has just walked into Disneyland for his first time. The kind of joy that is absent from adult life, that you can only find on the rarest of days. The look on Nicks face alone was worth the whole trip. We had completed the Journey of Saint Sixtus, and the only wound we took was a speeding ticket that was mailed to me by the Netherlands. I still owe them 60 Euros.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Welcome to the Ring of Sixtus
The Stewards of Saint Sixtus has been forged over two fine pints of ale, drawn from the reservoir residing in the Hall of Battle. The conversation is varied, but is relative to all things that are good. A new literary age has begun as we type these words, and the virgin eyes of the world shall never be the same.
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