Ale Street News Online

Beer enthusiasts relish recalling their great romances with certain brews. I, for one, have had an enduring love for Bavarian wheat beer. I don’t care whether it’s light or dunkel, or named Franziskaner or Schneider. The same goes for Belgian whites and saisons. Dupont, Hennepin, Blanche de Chambly…they’re all dreamy.

Speaking of Belgians, I fondly remember the day when I first met Drei Fonteinen Gueuze in a little café in Brussels. The next day, I had a fling with Cantillon — right in the brewery!

Guinness has been a rock-steady partner for me over the years, easing me into a gentle buzz with its creamy bitterness. Recently, I met a rich cousin of Guinness’s, Duck-Rabbit Milk Stout. I have to say I’m smitten.

And yes, I admit I slum around sometimes with Schlitz and Ballantine. Sure, they’re inexpressive, but we have fun together, if you know what I mean.

But what about the breakups? Let’s face it, not all beer romances last. Some of my past beer relationships cause me to look back with a shudder and say, "What was I thinking?" Others fizzled out quietly. Sometimes, when I run into an old, familiar label in a bar while my hand is wrapped around my latest love, I feel the urge to explain, "It’s not you. It’s me."

Here, I offer reminiscences to a few beers I once loved.

Corona: I was a college student moving into my first apartment. I brought a case of you home for a housewarming party. You were like a sandy-haired surfer, uncomplicated and always ready for some laid-back fun. And that little wedge of lime — it made you seem so cool. All my friends loved you, and I wanted you to hang out in my fridge every weekend.

But then I realized there was nothing going on behind that cheerful exterior. I tried you slightly warm once, without the lime. Big mistake. Plus, younger girls started to hang all over you. I had to admit to myself that the only thing you were good for was a shallow buzz.

Bass Ale: You were my first English ale. At first, I didn’t "get" that bitter hop flavor of yours, but I grew to appreciate it. Compared to the American beers I knew, you had character and a sense of history. Our romance took place in pubs, and sometimes I’d invite Guinness into the pint glass for a black and tan. Those were good times.

But eventually, those American beers I used to complain about grew up and got interesting. I know, I know. You say all they did was copy you. But they took your two-row and caramel malts, and your liberal dose of hops, and they ran with them. They created all kinds of new, hoppy, malty flavors that stole my heart and made me abandon you. Sorry, luv.

Sam Adams Lager: I met you at a party on a crisp, autumn evening in New England. It was love at first sip. Those Hallertau Mittelfruhs just bowled me over. I admired your tawny color, your impressive head, and the brash way you stuck it to those pedigreed but dull imports.

What happened to us? You stayed the same, but I became a swinger. You sparked a desire in me for new flavor experiences, and I set out to try every bold, exotic beer I could find. I still check you out every now and again, generally in places that remain heavily populated with Bud Light and Heineken. What can I say, Sam? You’re dependable and sturdy, but you just don’t turn me on.

IPA: Not long ago, you brothers from the India Pale Ale family were cutting-edge. You started experimenting with large amounts of hops before anyone knew the difference between a Chinook and a Cascade. I loved your bad-boy attitude.

Soon, everyone joined the party, and the craving for IBUs grew. You kept having to add more alcohol just to balance the bitterness of all those hops. A few of you, high on alpha acids, started calling yourselves Double and Imperial. What started out as a merry bit of excess spiraled out of control. I couldn’t deal with you anymore; I had to move on.

The fact is, I’ll never settle down. Playing the field is too much fun. To all the beers I’ve loved and left: it was fun but it couldn’t last. It’s not you. It’s me.