Monday, November 21, 2016
heady beer
I thought, "You know, I'm going to drink this beer in a proper glass." The homemade beer my friend made is the foamiest beer I've ever seen. I slowly poured with the glass tilted, about 2 tablespoons of beer from the bottle and the whole glass suddenly filled with foam. There was a tiny amount of beer in the glass, the rest all foam. I didn't think of photographing until after I inhaled the top of the foam and poured more in four times. It took a long time, a lot of foam sucking until the bottle emptied and the the glass filled with beer. I never saw that before.
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3 comments:
No surge upon opening? Good.
I think the Brits call that a nonic glass. No nick. The idea is you can stack them and the bulge keeps them from wedging too tightly.
Used to be that Bavarian wheat beers produced a gigundous head. The glass true-to-style is tall and slender and bigger at the top for that reason.
I say used to because I'd switched to drinking American versions many year ago before I recently decided -- what the hell? -- and got a six of Hacker-Pschorr Weiss. Same head as pretty much any other beer.
You can't go home again, apparently.
Sam Adams Boston Lager is all I know of beer and all I have to know. Love it. Average head.
Completely Off Topic: I thought I couldn't stand the writing of Henry James (all those tortured, convoluted sentences) but recently took a book of his early travel writings out of the library and found it very readable indeed. Possibly because he had not yet perfected that serpentine style. Anyway, here's a short passage from Autumn in Florence, a subsection of Travels With Henry James:
At two or three points it [Florence] exists in perfection--in just such perfection as proves that often what is literally hideous may be constructively delightful. On the north side of the Arno, between the Ponte Vecchio and the Ponte Santa Trinita, is an ancient row of houses, backing on the river, in whose yellow flood they bath their aching old feet. Anything more battered and befouled, more cracked and disjointed, dirtier, drearier, shabbier, it would be impossible to conceive. They look as if, fifty years ago, the muddy river had risen over their chimneys, and then subsided again and left them coated forever with its unsightly slime. And yet, forsooth, because the river is yellow, and the light is yellow, and here and there, elsewhere, some mellow mouldering surface, some hint of color, some accident of atmosphere, takes up the foolish tale and repeats the note--because, in short, it is Florence, it is Italy, and you are an American, bred amid the micaceous sparkle of brownstone fronts and lavish of enthusiasms, these miserable dwelling, instead of simply suggesting mental invocations to an enterprising board of health, bloom and glow all along the line in the perfect felicity of picturesqueness. Lately, during the misty autumn nights, the moon has been shining on them faintly, and refining away their shabbiness into something ineffably strange and spectral. The yellow river sweeps along without a sound, and the pale tenements hang above it like a vague miasmatic exhalation. The dimmest back-scene at the opera, when the tenor is singing his sweetest, seems hardly to belong to a more dreamily fictitious world.
Wonderful, yes? As only a young man can see the world.
Micaceous: consisting of, containing, or resembling mica.
The very soil, full of micaceous fragments, sparkled at our feet.
Dwellings not dwelling. Sorry.
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