Onion Pig.
Sounds delicious, right? But seriously, with a name like "Onion Pig," how couldn't it be?
Onion Pig was the name of my very first homebrewed beer back in early 1990, courtesy and all credit going to one of my oldest and hop-lovingest friends, Dr. Larry. Dr. Larry had himself recently been exposed to homebrewing, and being the selfless (buzzed) human creature that he was/is, held my hand throughout my first batch, talking me through the mash, the wort, the sparge, the pitch and the (glorious) fermentation. Six weeks later I was standing in the kitchen of my small apartment near UCLA toasting glasses with Dave, Jim, Greg and Irwin, all of us equally stunned, impressed, surprised and yes, perhaps even a little incredulous at how truly tasty this beer was.
I was hooked.
Soon, I was brewing all the time. I joined with a homebrewing club (Temecula Valley Homebrewers Association), subscribed to Zymurgy magazine, visited the Blind Pig Brewing Company as often as possible (Vinnie Cilurzo, the owner/brewmaster prodigy eventually closed Blind Pig and became the head brewmaster at Russian River Brewing Company - regarded by most industry experts as the best brewery in America - topping even Sierra Nevada...), and, yes, fell head over heels in love with yeast.
My first muse.
Back in 1990, it was nearly impossible to locate decent beer for sale. You pretty much had to scour seedy liquor stores and hope they carried one of two only known options to Southern Californians at that time: Pete's Wicked Ale and Samuel Adams Boston Lager. These beers were the platinum standard in an industry 99.99% smothered by corn and rice beer mavens: Bud, Coors and Miller.
Brewing your own beer was really the only way you could even somewhat reliably have decent beer around when you wanted it.
Ah, but of course I couldn't just make beer to have good beer. Somehow, I had to find a way to turn it on its side, give it an edge, shake things up.
Soon after college I took a job with McCormick - yes, the spice company. My next muse.
No longer would I be hobbled by the centuries old German brewing standard of only using four ingredients (water, hops, malt and yeast). No longer would I be uninspiringly following in the footsteps of tried recipes and expected outcomes. And, perhaps most importantly, no longer would I be judged by reliable and proven taste standards...because things didn't always turn out the way maybe I thought they would.
I tried everything, and sometimes things worked out pretty damn well:
But of course, with the good comes the bad as well...
But even with all of this, one beer stands alone...
I'd experimented with vanilla beans countless times. Well, maybe not countless. 18 times. I'd reached a point in the mid-nineties where I realized that I needed to stop brewing something new and different every time and instead try to perfect 3-4 receipes. One of these was a long path in which I tried to perfect a Vanilla Bean Ale.
The concept was simple: a lighter ale (slightly lighter than Sierra Nevada) in which the subtle and abstract vanilla flavors perfectly match up with the mouth-watering aroma and bitterness of cascade hops, creating an otherworldly inspired result, taking the imbiber to a spiritual place.
Oh sure, I can hear you all scoffing right now, small pustuoles of spittle peppering your iPad screen in unmitigated disdain. Vanilla and hops, balanced?!
I'm telling you, I had a vision. And my muse was yeast.
A dozen times over the first year I brewed this beer with inconsistent results. I'd get close, just make a small tweak, and the next end result would be at the exact opposite end of the spectrum. I was getting frustrated.
Right around this time, my good friends Steve and Sonja were planning their wedding and came to me with a sincere and heartfelt request, asking me to brew them a keg of vanilla bean ale for the reception.
I was touched. I was honored.
I was sure this was going to turn out like that pie-eating scene from "Stand By Me..."
But I enthusiastically said "yes!" and focused my mind and efforts on making the single best vanilla bean ale my yeast had ever had the pleasure to digest.
At the time I was living in Walnut Creek, California. Their wedding was in late October; that meant I needed to brew in late September. Uh oh... Walnut Creek routinely hit the 100s during the summer, and my small apartment had no air conditioning... Still, it had been mild that year, and with the bulk of the fermentation happening in October, it shouldn't even be an issue...
So I forged ahead. Everything went great, I transferred it to the carboy, pitched the yeast, and soon the billion organisms were immersed in their swirling, magical, frenzied, innocent orgy of nastiness. After a week, they settled down and I transferred it to a second carboy, straining off as much gunk as I could. After a second week, all activity appeared to be nearly stopped and from what I could smell, everything seemed...OK. I kept my fingers crossed.
At the end of the second week I was called out of town by work on a five day trip. I returned late friday afternoon to a 110 degree heatwave. In mid October. When I pulled into my driveway my neighbor saw me arrive, "Boy, it seems like it's never gonna let up, huh? Five days of 100+ degree weather?!"
My heart clenched in pain.
I ran up to my door and somehow got my key in the lock - hands shaking like crazy. The second the door opened it released the vaccuum oven of hot air that had been trapped inside for the last week. If it was 110 outside, it was Death Valley in my apartment.
I was afraid to look at my carboy, convinced there would be some alien-like creatures morphing inside the gelatinous, fetid mess. But when I unwrapped the towel around the glass...it looked...normal. Still, the glass was hot to the touch; ales should ferment at a consistent temperature - around and below 80 degrees. It doesn't take much to ruin a whole batch: an unwashed piece of equipment, the top left off for a short while, a drop of impure water infecting it... Heat was one of the worst.
But what could I do?
I was heartbroken, and felt horrible for Steve and Sonja. But there was no time left. Angry and frustrated, I stuck the carboy in a small, uninsulated storage shed in the backyard, intending to transfer it to my keg, but was so disillusioned that it ended up sitting out there - unchecked - for the next two weeks. Two days before the wedding, I dragged myself out there, transferred it to the keg (refusing to taste or even smell it), and stuck it in my trunk.
I would tell them what had happened, force them to try it, and buy them a keg of Sierra. Everyone would be happy and nobody would know the embarrasing tragedy that had occurred.
The morning of the wedding up in Lake Tahoe, the icy snow was incredible - one of the earliest, worst snow storms they'd experienced in recent history. I hadn't yet told them my story at the rehearsal dinner the night before, so as we were setting up for the wedding I grabbed them both and privately led them out back in the snow to my keg. They were instantly excited.
"Before you say anything, you have to try it," I prepared them, further instructing them to just take a small sip (I didn't want them to get sick).
Sonja's eyes grew wide, she smiled and spoke first, "It's amazing!"
Huh?
Steve was next, "Dude - this ROCKS."
I grabbed a glass and poured myself one. It was phenominal. The perfect balance of hops and vanilla. Incredible body. Crisp finish. Unbelievable!
During the reception, the Vanilla Bean Ale was empty in about half an hour - long before there was even a dent out of the Sierra Nevada keg.
People still talk about this beer to this day (almost 16 years later), and, of course, I've since tried to recreate it easily another dozen times. Never have come even close. I've considered fermenting a batch in a sauna...but haven't yet been bold enough to try it.
So what's the point of the story? Well, that where this week's episode of Survivor comes in.
You see, all these contestants are like different brews. You've got your Phil: Xmas Rex. Grant: Redbeard Bitter. Ashley: Gnarled Earwig. Matt: Cranberry Ale. Rob: Dog Leg Left Lager. David: Dill Weed/Maple Syrup Ale. You know what I'm talking about.
Each has great intentions of winning the money, but you have to wait and see how the elements affect them. How the other ingredients influence them. How the yeast defines them.
They're all stuck together in an island carboy, constantly swirling around, bumping into each other during challenges, letting off offensive aromas...
Probst is like that perfect Vanilla Bean Ale brew...except he's the same every goddamn time. How does he do it? If only the yeast could talk...
The interesting one is Phil. How great would it be if Phil makes it to the finals, and during his final speech he turns to the jury and says, "Friends, it was all an act. I spoke with CBS prior to coming here and explained that my plan was to create a character that was crazy, psychotic...yes, a numbnuts. I worked hard in everything I did to convince you that I was crazy, 24 hours a day, from my insane meditations to my racial rantings, because I knew that whomever was going to make it to the finals would have to take me along with them because they'd be convinced that nobody would vote for me. And maybe when you came here tonight you weren't going to vote for me either. But my strategy has been rock solid since the beginning, unwavering, and executed perfectly, and every one of you on the jury would have taken me too. My plan was infallible. I am here as I knew I would be, and I deserve to win."
I'd vote for him.
Xmas Rex just upgraded to Zutroy's Response.
But no matter what happens, let's give credit where credit is due.
When you're making bread. Making beer. Or making love. Only one thing matters:
Yeast.../Probst.
Sounds delicious, right? But seriously, with a name like "Onion Pig," how couldn't it be?
Onion Pig was the name of my very first homebrewed beer back in early 1990, courtesy and all credit going to one of my oldest and hop-lovingest friends, Dr. Larry. Dr. Larry had himself recently been exposed to homebrewing, and being the selfless (buzzed) human creature that he was/is, held my hand throughout my first batch, talking me through the mash, the wort, the sparge, the pitch and the (glorious) fermentation. Six weeks later I was standing in the kitchen of my small apartment near UCLA toasting glasses with Dave, Jim, Greg and Irwin, all of us equally stunned, impressed, surprised and yes, perhaps even a little incredulous at how truly tasty this beer was.
I was hooked.
Soon, I was brewing all the time. I joined with a homebrewing club (Temecula Valley Homebrewers Association), subscribed to Zymurgy magazine, visited the Blind Pig Brewing Company as often as possible (Vinnie Cilurzo, the owner/brewmaster prodigy eventually closed Blind Pig and became the head brewmaster at Russian River Brewing Company - regarded by most industry experts as the best brewery in America - topping even Sierra Nevada...), and, yes, fell head over heels in love with yeast.
My first muse.
Back in 1990, it was nearly impossible to locate decent beer for sale. You pretty much had to scour seedy liquor stores and hope they carried one of two only known options to Southern Californians at that time: Pete's Wicked Ale and Samuel Adams Boston Lager. These beers were the platinum standard in an industry 99.99% smothered by corn and rice beer mavens: Bud, Coors and Miller.
Brewing your own beer was really the only way you could even somewhat reliably have decent beer around when you wanted it.
Ah, but of course I couldn't just make beer to have good beer. Somehow, I had to find a way to turn it on its side, give it an edge, shake things up.
Soon after college I took a job with McCormick - yes, the spice company. My next muse.
No longer would I be hobbled by the centuries old German brewing standard of only using four ingredients (water, hops, malt and yeast). No longer would I be uninspiringly following in the footsteps of tried recipes and expected outcomes. And, perhaps most importantly, no longer would I be judged by reliable and proven taste standards...because things didn't always turn out the way maybe I thought they would.
I tried everything, and sometimes things worked out pretty damn well:
- Gnarled Earwig Ale - a nice, light honey ale with a crisp finish and just a hint of coriander and nutmeg on the palette at the end.
- Snail Trail Pale Ale - my first IPA...and one of my first beers brewed with whole vanilla beans - a tremendous start for a developing hophead.
- Dog Leg Left Lager - brewed at the first Brew It Up! in San Francisco with my twilight golfing buddies Bill and Jen. When Brew It Up! found out that I wasn't using their "mandatory" prewritten recipes and instead was using my own grain ratios and *GASP* even tossing a little ground mace in as well - they nearly kicked us out of there (no joke). The recipe author was pissed. The end result 6 weeks later, however, was 10x better than his.
- Zutroy's Response Porter - in one word: infamous. My chocolate/banana porter - brewed numerous times, and nearly always with great results. The first time I couldn't decide what type of chocolate to use (typically people use unsweetened cocoa powder), and finally decided to patronize a small candy shop in Belmont Shores where I purchased 5 lbs of fresh dark chocolate fudge and dumped the entire thing into my brew kettle. Paige nearly throttled me (...until she tried the final product...)
- Redbeard Bitter - leaving the naming convention aside for another time (...), this celery seed ale - although strange in concept - ended up being one my best brews. Surprisingly fantastic.
But of course, with the good comes the bad as well...
- Xmas Rex Stout - an oatmeal stout with (gulp) 69 cloves...somewhere between a refreshing after-dinner mint and black mouthwash. We kept saying that it would mellow with age...but when we popped the last bottle some 8 years later, it instantly cleared my sinuses.
- Cranberry Ale, in which I used something like 6 pounds of fresh cranberries, placed the 70 bottles on the top shelf of my walk-in closet, and returned home one day from work to find them going off like grenades due to all the residual sugar continuing to ferment, sending foamy red sticky beer and endless glass shards splattering the walls and soaking my clothes and carpet. (As a side note, the only unexpected discovery worse than this is returning home to find your dog has diarrheaed all over the house... Even worse than this is when your dog diarrheas all over your walk in closet and clothes...)
- Dill Weed/Maple Syrup Ale - I honestly can't explain how or why I ever thought this would be a good idea...I think it started to dawn on me when I noticed that the half-fermented branches of dill week packing my 6 gallon carboy were slowly growing a Who-ville universe of mould. I just threw the entire thing out - carboy and all.
But even with all of this, one beer stands alone...
I'd experimented with vanilla beans countless times. Well, maybe not countless. 18 times. I'd reached a point in the mid-nineties where I realized that I needed to stop brewing something new and different every time and instead try to perfect 3-4 receipes. One of these was a long path in which I tried to perfect a Vanilla Bean Ale.
The concept was simple: a lighter ale (slightly lighter than Sierra Nevada) in which the subtle and abstract vanilla flavors perfectly match up with the mouth-watering aroma and bitterness of cascade hops, creating an otherworldly inspired result, taking the imbiber to a spiritual place.
Oh sure, I can hear you all scoffing right now, small pustuoles of spittle peppering your iPad screen in unmitigated disdain. Vanilla and hops, balanced?!
I'm telling you, I had a vision. And my muse was yeast.
A dozen times over the first year I brewed this beer with inconsistent results. I'd get close, just make a small tweak, and the next end result would be at the exact opposite end of the spectrum. I was getting frustrated.
Right around this time, my good friends Steve and Sonja were planning their wedding and came to me with a sincere and heartfelt request, asking me to brew them a keg of vanilla bean ale for the reception.
I was touched. I was honored.
I was sure this was going to turn out like that pie-eating scene from "Stand By Me..."
But I enthusiastically said "yes!" and focused my mind and efforts on making the single best vanilla bean ale my yeast had ever had the pleasure to digest.
At the time I was living in Walnut Creek, California. Their wedding was in late October; that meant I needed to brew in late September. Uh oh... Walnut Creek routinely hit the 100s during the summer, and my small apartment had no air conditioning... Still, it had been mild that year, and with the bulk of the fermentation happening in October, it shouldn't even be an issue...
So I forged ahead. Everything went great, I transferred it to the carboy, pitched the yeast, and soon the billion organisms were immersed in their swirling, magical, frenzied, innocent orgy of nastiness. After a week, they settled down and I transferred it to a second carboy, straining off as much gunk as I could. After a second week, all activity appeared to be nearly stopped and from what I could smell, everything seemed...OK. I kept my fingers crossed.
At the end of the second week I was called out of town by work on a five day trip. I returned late friday afternoon to a 110 degree heatwave. In mid October. When I pulled into my driveway my neighbor saw me arrive, "Boy, it seems like it's never gonna let up, huh? Five days of 100+ degree weather?!"
My heart clenched in pain.
I ran up to my door and somehow got my key in the lock - hands shaking like crazy. The second the door opened it released the vaccuum oven of hot air that had been trapped inside for the last week. If it was 110 outside, it was Death Valley in my apartment.
I was afraid to look at my carboy, convinced there would be some alien-like creatures morphing inside the gelatinous, fetid mess. But when I unwrapped the towel around the glass...it looked...normal. Still, the glass was hot to the touch; ales should ferment at a consistent temperature - around and below 80 degrees. It doesn't take much to ruin a whole batch: an unwashed piece of equipment, the top left off for a short while, a drop of impure water infecting it... Heat was one of the worst.
But what could I do?
I was heartbroken, and felt horrible for Steve and Sonja. But there was no time left. Angry and frustrated, I stuck the carboy in a small, uninsulated storage shed in the backyard, intending to transfer it to my keg, but was so disillusioned that it ended up sitting out there - unchecked - for the next two weeks. Two days before the wedding, I dragged myself out there, transferred it to the keg (refusing to taste or even smell it), and stuck it in my trunk.
I would tell them what had happened, force them to try it, and buy them a keg of Sierra. Everyone would be happy and nobody would know the embarrasing tragedy that had occurred.
The morning of the wedding up in Lake Tahoe, the icy snow was incredible - one of the earliest, worst snow storms they'd experienced in recent history. I hadn't yet told them my story at the rehearsal dinner the night before, so as we were setting up for the wedding I grabbed them both and privately led them out back in the snow to my keg. They were instantly excited.
"Before you say anything, you have to try it," I prepared them, further instructing them to just take a small sip (I didn't want them to get sick).
Sonja's eyes grew wide, she smiled and spoke first, "It's amazing!"
Huh?
Steve was next, "Dude - this ROCKS."
I grabbed a glass and poured myself one. It was phenominal. The perfect balance of hops and vanilla. Incredible body. Crisp finish. Unbelievable!
During the reception, the Vanilla Bean Ale was empty in about half an hour - long before there was even a dent out of the Sierra Nevada keg.
People still talk about this beer to this day (almost 16 years later), and, of course, I've since tried to recreate it easily another dozen times. Never have come even close. I've considered fermenting a batch in a sauna...but haven't yet been bold enough to try it.
So what's the point of the story? Well, that where this week's episode of Survivor comes in.
You see, all these contestants are like different brews. You've got your Phil: Xmas Rex. Grant: Redbeard Bitter. Ashley: Gnarled Earwig. Matt: Cranberry Ale. Rob: Dog Leg Left Lager. David: Dill Weed/Maple Syrup Ale. You know what I'm talking about.
Each has great intentions of winning the money, but you have to wait and see how the elements affect them. How the other ingredients influence them. How the yeast defines them.
They're all stuck together in an island carboy, constantly swirling around, bumping into each other during challenges, letting off offensive aromas...
Probst is like that perfect Vanilla Bean Ale brew...except he's the same every goddamn time. How does he do it? If only the yeast could talk...
The interesting one is Phil. How great would it be if Phil makes it to the finals, and during his final speech he turns to the jury and says, "Friends, it was all an act. I spoke with CBS prior to coming here and explained that my plan was to create a character that was crazy, psychotic...yes, a numbnuts. I worked hard in everything I did to convince you that I was crazy, 24 hours a day, from my insane meditations to my racial rantings, because I knew that whomever was going to make it to the finals would have to take me along with them because they'd be convinced that nobody would vote for me. And maybe when you came here tonight you weren't going to vote for me either. But my strategy has been rock solid since the beginning, unwavering, and executed perfectly, and every one of you on the jury would have taken me too. My plan was infallible. I am here as I knew I would be, and I deserve to win."
I'd vote for him.
Xmas Rex just upgraded to Zutroy's Response.
But no matter what happens, let's give credit where credit is due.
When you're making bread. Making beer. Or making love. Only one thing matters:
Yeast.../Probst.
