It still draws me up short to hear mainstream American beer drinkers refer to a beer like Samuel Adams Boston Lager as a "dark beer." If it's darker than lemonade, it's dark to these guys. What that makes Guinness, I dunno, probably "really dark." Verbal imagination is dead.
I always hear things like "It doesn't look like beer," or "That looks like a beer, not that dark stuff." That's what makes me giggle when I look at a glass of Victory Prima Pils. It sure isn't dark, but it will make a light beer drinker's tongue swell inside a swiftly spinning head, a head displaying the dreaded Bitter Beer Face. And call me vindictive, call me vengeful, heck, call me Ethel if you really want, but I get a kick out of that.
It reminds me of one of the oddest things that happen at beer tastings. Picture the scene at a beer store. A sales rep, often an attractive young woman, offers samples of light yellow beer with a frothy white head to incoming male customers. Free beer, that "looks like beer." Do they stand there, sipping and ogling? Do they take this opportunity to get some for free, with a second with a pretty girl thrown in for free also? They do not. Almost without exception, they will march past with turned head and warding hand, pick up their suitcase of cold cans, and march out again.
What's the problem? Are they so dismissive of new beers? Are they in such a rush? I suspect they are scared. They are embarrassed by their ignorance of such an everyday thing as beer.
I've been called a snob because of this argument; I don't care. The accusation goes that these guys just know that they like their brand, so why should they try anything else? This was the argument my son used to try to avoid eating anything but pasta with butter and cheese when he was four years old.
These people have been successfully persuaded by advertising and marketing that 'beer' = light lager. I understand Anheuser-Busch's lawyers recently argued in an Ohio court that anything over 6% alcohol was not really beer. Asinine, but par for that hole.
Why will Prima Pils shock these monkeys? Hops. Lots of 'em. Crack a bottle open, and whiff those noble hops, the sharp floral aroma with a malt firmness underneath. This is lager country, remember. Think of the depth and richness, and the simplicity, of a cold northern pine forest. This is not the ale jungle, warm and full of a profusion of aromas and flavors. This is the lager forest, where malt and hops are the only things you smell and taste.
When you're out there brewing in the forest, there's no place to hide, no room for error, no way to cover up any mistakes. And Prima doesn't mind, because it's clean as snow, fresh as peppermint. That's what makes it so easy to describe this beer -- a slippery solid malt base under a howling slipstream of hops, mingling a bit at the boundary, slightly peppery, and a long bitter finish -- and so difficult to explain its strong appeal.
How can a beer so apparently simple in character be so beguiling, so robustly beckoning? Prima is catching up to HopDevil in sales, though I doubt it will ever actually catch the 'Devil. This is a lighter, quicker, more delicate beer, and that's some of the appeal. It's light on the tongue, but still packs a wallop.
Southwest Ontarians may still remember the original Stonehammer Pils, from F&M Brewery in Guelph; the controversial Stonehammer that was fairly quickly toned down from the raging hop experience it briefly was. That was some beer. This is like that, only a bit more refined.
Prima Pils is bitter, but balanced. It will complement anything from pizza to top-quality steaks with ease, and plays well with Chinese as well. Think of it as hop champagne, Chateau de Houblon, and you'll get it.
No excuses, no apologies. Beer that speaks for itself.
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