Have I mentioned that I love bitter? Yes, I think I may have.
Bitter's are steadfast, nose-to-the-grindstone beers—subltle and quiet. They don't need to be pitch black or strong or hopped-up to. They step in—smooth and unassuming—and get the job done. If American pales are loud and brash, like Al Pacino, then bitters are aloof and focused like Ray Winstone. All of this makes it the perfect beer to be ignored in the U.S. Leading to both a lack of demand and therefore, a limited available supply. This leaves me with either the nitrogen fed, diacytal-ridden, stale abominable versions of Old Speckled Hen, Boddingtons and Tetley's or four-year-old, oxidized, clear bottles of The Tanner's Jack and Hen's Tooth.
What we never get is fresh, proper Britsh bitter.
Usually.
Have I mentioned that I love the Lionheart? Yes, I think I may have.
Now, as my faithful reader(s) knows I've been away this past week. Yesterday was my first time down the pub in ten days. I thought a trip might be in order; when to my wondering eye should appear, but a red cross on a white fielded, tap handle. A tap handle so pronounced that it smote all of it's beery competition—just as the Saint, that begot the same red and white symbol, slayed the dragon. All other beers offered, pale in comparison and fade into darkness. The tap gives forth it's gift—ruddy-amber, settling still and crowned with a delicate ivory froth. It has but one purpose—to be drank.
Long story short, I was a tad excited about the Bombardier. I've thought about reviewing it, but c'mon, my opinion might be little skewed—I just said it's tap smote all it's competitors for cripe's sake. My opinion is fairly obvious at this point. Either way, I've been rather happy these last two days, and I'll stay that way until the bitter runs out.
Bitter's are steadfast, nose-to-the-grindstone beers—subltle and quiet. They don't need to be pitch black or strong or hopped-up to. They step in—smooth and unassuming—and get the job done. If American pales are loud and brash, like Al Pacino, then bitters are aloof and focused like Ray Winstone. All of this makes it the perfect beer to be ignored in the U.S. Leading to both a lack of demand and therefore, a limited available supply. This leaves me with either the nitrogen fed, diacytal-ridden, stale abominable versions of Old Speckled Hen, Boddingtons and Tetley's or four-year-old, oxidized, clear bottles of The Tanner's Jack and Hen's Tooth.
What we never get is fresh, proper Britsh bitter.
Usually.
Have I mentioned that I love the Lionheart? Yes, I think I may have.
Now, as my faithful reader(s) knows I've been away this past week. Yesterday was my first time down the pub in ten days. I thought a trip might be in order; when to my wondering eye should appear, but a red cross on a white fielded, tap handle. A tap handle so pronounced that it smote all of it's beery competition—just as the Saint, that begot the same red and white symbol, slayed the dragon. All other beers offered, pale in comparison and fade into darkness. The tap gives forth it's gift—ruddy-amber, settling still and crowned with a delicate ivory froth. It has but one purpose—to be drank.
Long story short, I was a tad excited about the Bombardier. I've thought about reviewing it, but c'mon, my opinion might be little skewed—I just said it's tap smote all it's competitors for cripe's sake. My opinion is fairly obvious at this point. Either way, I've been rather happy these last two days, and I'll stay that way until the bitter runs out.
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