Monday, September 28, 2015

Co-valent bonds

Last year, I had the chance to teach a beer chemistry course with two very smart chemists. They reminded me of the concept of co-valent bonds: a manner is which two atoms associate and acheive stability as a compound by sharing electrons.
I love the notion. It would be a great way to describe alliances, I think. Probably a fabulous way to propose marriage too.
As craft beer prospers and approaches 22% of the dollar market of all beer in this country, it's probably a time to look around at the co-valent bonds that are developing. Here's one that might interest you.
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There was a list of beers in a magazine last summer.  I thought it was an interesting list, so I'm going to share it with you. Here:


There was a lot for the beer-lover to note in the article. For one thing, it included three sour beers. Sours are a style that most American beer drinkers would have rejected out of hand just a few years ago: 'Sour' meant that the beer went bad, turned to vinegar, got infected. Yuck.

Of the 16 beers mentioned, only three were IPA's. Considering that this style was picked out to take over the world not too long ago, this was a refreshing modesty. Two of the recommendations were West Coast, but the star was undoubtedly Delaware's Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA, a remarkably elegant and balanced beer in this style.

There were three Saisons-there could have been thirty. This spicy style can be remarkably elegant or youthfully exuberant and there's probably no style that earns the word 'yummy' as often. Brooklyn's Sorachi Ace and Hennepin's Saison are two of the sophisticates, Saison-Brett from Boulevard is an assertive version with a lot more hops. (It's built from Boulevard's scrumptious Tank 7)

And finally, there were wheats. No summer is complete without them, they do the tart of lemonade and iced tea and throw in a big mouthful of bubbles and a gorgeous opalescent color too. The undoubted pick of the litter is Allagash White, but you can't go too far wrong with any of the other three.

So far, so ordinary. There are lots of beer lists around these days and almost 4000 breweries in the US are competing to get listed. And hey, it's not even summer anymore so why do I mention this?

I'm telling you about this list, not because of what was on it but because of where it was printed. This two page, full color spread was in WIRED magazine. 

That's right, the very popular, gossipy, super-authoritative tech magazine . WIRED is known for being out front of trends in the language too, coining terms like "the Long Tail" and "crowdsourcing" as well as its annual Vaporware Awards which recognize "products, video games and other pies that never leave the skye.

So what's the big deal? Here, imagine this. put yourself back to the year 2000, let's say. Imagine you picked up a magazine that had about a million of the most technically-hip readers in the country. Scientific American, or Atlantic Monthly or the New York Times Magazine. Could you imagine a two-page spread devoted to-not just beer-but the beers of the season?

Not likely. So something has happened: beer has changed, and its audience has changed too. 
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Thursday, September 10, 2015

A Purist and a Modernist Walk into a Bar

Purism is a kind of ingredient specific thinking. The best X must be the most reverently produced, additive-free example of its kind-an original recipe that outdoes others only in its adherence to some antique ideal. The real beef lover will only allow some salt and perhaps a crank of pepper. A true baseball fan despises the designated hitter. A proper rum enthusiast will allow nothing but sugar cane in the bottle and maybe a splash of water in the glass. And so on.


When I started some serious tasting, what I discovered made me abandon the purist approach. It even led me to question and finally reject the whole notion of purism. What derailed my approach to purism was a sudden appreciation of Modernist cooking. This epiphany happened at a tavern in Philadelphia called Kraftwork and I'll tell you more about it in minute, but first let's talk about the Purist and the Modernist.



The Purist

You know this guy: he drinks single-malt scotch, maybe the occasional cognac. He takes his liquor straight, at cellar temperature in a thin-walled glass-a tumbler for the scotch, a snifter for the brandy.
He (it's almost always 'he') is horrified at the thought of soda, visibly pained at the notion of a cocktail. His wine is organic, his beer (if he deigns to drink the stuff) is Pilsner from Pilsn.
He is a conoisseur, someone proud of his knowledge of the difference between good and bad. He's also a purist, someone who revels in, even worships the idea of a pure, uncompromised thing in itself.
He likes the solos at the jazz club, the consommés at the restaurant. He also takes a certain pleasure in the elevation of his purism above your trashy compromise. He almost needs to snort at your brandy alexander in order to fully enjoy his VSOP.
He's an easy object of fun, both because of the supercilious attitude that often accompanies his pronouncements and for the shaky intellectual ground on which they stand. (was the scotch purer the minute it came out of the still? What about the adulteration of it by aging, then diluting? )

But there is something sweet, almost romantic about the purist-some quality that we have to admire and to which many of us aspire. Admiring things in their simplicity, he turns our attention ot the beauty in less, encourages a restrained horror of more. There is an elegance in the drink straight from the artisan's still or the winegrower's vat or the brewer's barrel. There is also a suitable humility in our recognition of that elegance by simply leaving it the hell alone as we put it in a glass.



The Modernist

You know this lady too. She can't leave well-enough alone. The sage in her garden comes into bloom and the next thing you know, she's making sage-blossom butter and sage-blossom ice cream. then there's sage-blossom vodka and jelly and sage is showing up in her apple sauce and her grilled cheese sandwich. She's wrong about half the time, but when she's right, the angels are dancing and snapping their fingers. Sometimes you wish she'd just give it a rest but most times you're delighted that she can't.

Suppose you could take a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich on a brioche, extracted all its flavors and textures and rearranged them. Let's say that you transformed smoky bacon into a chewy roll, made crispy strips of tomato and layered them with leaves of brioche and doughy, eggy, buttery slabs of lettuce. Does that sound awful? Does it offend the purist in you? Hmm.
The modernist position on food is that no food owns its own properties and that any manipulation we can do in service of foodie fun is not only justified, it's holy, worthy, artistic work. The aim is to create new experience, not to honor old ingredients. So let's compress a slab of cucumber in a vacuum bag and turn it into pemmican, then let's sprinkle it with gin and serve it before dinner where the cocktails used to be. You're not defiling the cucumber, you're helping it realize its potential, a potential which-by the way-did not exist until you saw it.
Once you make the sensation the center of culinary effort, you change the whole view of ingredients. Can you imagine a single-malt sorbet? Could you imagine its taste as it melts on a jelly-soft square of sous-vide cooked salmon that's waiting for it in a nest of deep-fried dill leaves?

If you're not really sure just what Modernism is, the first few paragraphs of this might help:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modernism

One of the most lovely things about beer these days is that it seems to invite collaboration. It wants to entertain a scoop of ice cream or get made into cakes and cookies.  Beer is pretty fond of other liquids too. Purists aside, it doesn't mind a splash of bourbon or a drop of fruit syrup. Not only that, beer doesn't seem to care about the canonical ingredients: malt, hops, water and yeast. It turns out that for most of its history, beer was made from a combination of fermentables. The homebrewer who makes a beer that includes oatmeal, honey and plums is merely resurrecting a tradition that stood from about 9000BP to 1560 AD.

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2014/01/the-archaeology-of-beer/355732/


Modernism in cooking probably begins in France in the early 1970's with cuisine minceur or nouvelle cuisine. Cuisine minceur with its tiny portions and elaborate plating was easy to make fun of, but today its revolutionary principles seem almost axiomatic. The Gault-Millaut restaurant guide of 1972 listed a few of cuisine minceur's principles.


Culinary rules...must be understood but they should not be allowed to hinder the development of creative new dishes
Creatively breaking culinary rules...is a powerful way to engage diners...
Diners have expectations...Surprising them with food that defies their expectations is another way to engage them...This includes putting familiar food in unfamiliar forms.

First-rate ingredients are the foundation on which cuisine is built.


So, let's start this course in that spirit. Let's marvel at what beer has become and let's also imagine-in the spirit of those ultra-modern homebrewers- all the tasty things it might be.
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Want to know more about The Short Course in Beer?
http://amzn.to/1JWLfXT