Good Times Are Near With Pumpkin Beer!

There are a select few seasonal treats that I enjoy as they're meant to be enjoyed - by completely burning myself out on them during the month they're available, then not even wanting to think about them again for the following eleven. With Ontario sweet corn and nectarines on the way out - and seriously, corn might be The Actual Devil on an industrial scale, but local field-fresh eatin' corn is unbeatable - and fruitcake still two months away, it's time to partake in a great excess of one of my all-time favourite seasonal novelty beverages: pumpkin beer. Granted, pumpkin spice anything has become meme-level common in recent years (I blame Starbucks and implore you to join me) but beer generally goes the extra mile by including actual pumpkin in at least a token amount, rather than just vaguely cinnamon-nutmeg-baked-goods-kinda-reminiscence. That and it's, y'know, beer, something Oreos and instant oatmeal have the distinct disadvantage of not being.

Swiped from some Flickr guy, but too accurate not to.
Of course, Schulz' original joke may merit some credit, too.

Not that you ever get one that tastes like squash - pumpkin is always the last ingredient listed, and with different fun labels and an extra clove most could easily also be Holiday Spice Mulled Ale - but there's only so much you can expect. These are "seasonal favourites" we're dealing with here, not "wacky joke flavours clearly for promotional purposes only"-es.

As a Canadian male over thirty, my first instinct when I desire any new product or possession is "hah, I bet I could build my own for pennies on the dollar", and pumpkin beer could come dangerously close to crossing the line from "poorly reasoned dream" to "out of control project". Then concluding with "stenchpocalypse". Last year I saw an "easy" twenty-step guide to brewing the whole potion in a pumpkin, but like all home beermaking it seemed like the long way around to a complicated and expensive mess. I'm just going to doodle a freaked-out clown on a bottle with silver Sharpie and call it a draw.

I'd hate to only use this drawing once. Run, it's a CLONE CLOWN!

A bout of strep throat, no doubt aggravated by the strata of cat hair and resin that moving disturbed and aerosolized, left me unable to properly toast in the new digs last week - but it lead to the unusual situation of me gathering a collection of undrank pumpkin beers. Normally, I call Beer of the Week on the first variation I see, and have moved on (or supplies have run out) before the fridge can accumulate a diverse roster.

Pictured: Journalism

This year's entries are the creatively named Pumpkin Ales from Black Creek Historic Brewery and Great Lakes Brewery, Highballer Pumpkin Ale from Grand River Brewing, Mill St. Brewery's Nightmare on Mill St. (which already won Best Name), Citrouille - The Great Pumpkin Ale by St. Ambroise, and whatever goofy name Stack Brewery gives the one it's releasing today. The American entry, Pumking from New York's Southern Tier Brewing Co., was scratched at the last minute due to the appearance of a West Coast contender, BC-based Tree Brewing Company's Jumpin' Jack India Pumpkin Ale. Can-con laws, can't be helped.
I'll be posting entries at the rate of one of two brands a night. This is done in the interest of fairness, so the fifth sugary, spicy beer of a single night run isn't automatically rated "BESHT BEER EVAH FEELSH AMAZSING HAAALLOWEEEEN!", and the sixth "oh so siiick...baaad calzone...no schorre...no pointsh...WHYYYY?". I'll also be starting each session with a small portion of a baseline pumpkin-spice alcohol concoction for calibration, Growers' Pumpkin Spice Cider. As with most flavours of Growers other than 1927 Dry Apple, I fully expect it to be grosser than gross, but without the confines of beerness, it has no reason not to taste purely like Halloween itself. Does this mean it tastes like plastic residue and BBBats barf? Only this evening will tell.

Tonight, I'll be posting thoughts on The Great Pumpkin Ale (the one which, based on last year's, I couldn't resist cracking into before starting this article) and Stack's newest offering, whose name they would not reveal to me in advance, but whose previous incarnation was called Last Slice.

Update the First: Nothing!
Denied, denied, DENIED! No Stack pumpkin beer until tomorrow, and they "expect a line". I'm stuck working until four - and anyone who buys craft beer before 4 PM is a no-good dirty hipster! St. Ambroise gets a solo sampling tonight, it seems.

Update the Second: Growers Pumpkin Spice Cider and St. Ambroise Citrouille
The first thing I noticed about Growers Pumpkin Spice is that (at least for this economy), you get a lot for $6.90 - a full liter of a seasonal, possibly even collectable, flavour. That's not necessarily a good sign, given that after the most recent tax hike pretty regular microbrew is fetching three-quarters of a cent per milliliter, with premium starting at the full penny. Black Oak, for example, is bottling their standard Nut Brown and Pale Ale in the apparenly trendy 650 ml. bottle at the LCBO price of $4.95, with limited edition Saison and Ten Bitter Years at $5.95 and $6.50, respectively. The upshot of this is that you now get the equivalent of a four-pack for just shy of the former price of a six. First world my ass.

Pumpkin Spice was better than expected - of course, it would have had to reach Acai Berry levels of Growers grossness to really be worse than I expected. Poured, it's a clear, deep gold like the good soft apple cider - as distinct from the opacity and russet shade of the *really* good soft stuff. Cracking the bottle unleashes a blast of cinnamon that's unfortunately reminiscent of scented candle - not even one available for individual purchase, but a second-string item in a premade gift basket. I grew up next to an artisan candle factory, so that's not a comparison I bandy about lightly - I can barely perceive candle scent anymore unless it's especially aggressive, and this hit my nose like a teenager who heard a badly corrupted version of the nutmeg myth.

The flavour, thankfully, didn't live up to what the aroma threatened. While it takes a little digging around the package text for confirmation that this is, in fact apple cider, and not entirely composed of the nebulous "pumpkin spice", it becomes abundantly clear when tasting it. It tastes more like a cinnamon-blasted version of year-round variety Extra Dry Apple than anything else, but the overpowering scent eventually fades to a faintly bitter aftertaste, with the pleasant astringency of real cinnamon. While the spices aren't named outright, the label does list only natural flavours, and I'm willing to give the benefit of the doubt here. The Lady of Marmot (enough of a Growers fan to sample an entire glass while) opposed enough to beer to not have a comparison point), described it as "not having much pumpkin spice flavour at all" beyond the cinnamon, with a "vaguely nutmeggy" aftertaste - "drinkable enough", but not as enjoyable as their plain apple offerings.

The control pumpkin-spice sampled, I approached the first of the pumpkin beers proper, St. Ambroise Citrouille - The Great Pumpkin Ale. They're kind of trying to have it both ways with the name, with both an elegant French handle worthy of a fancy tap pull and a pop-culture-referencing joke one suitable for the most rollicking gastropub's chalkboard. The label stands out as a subtle success - wrapping the bottle in shiny orange foil adorned with pumpkins that look kind of like a butt if you squint. It comes off as more of a general "fall" beer than anything specific to Halloween - the flavour is warm and earth-toned, not startling or candy-like, and with nothing like the cinnamon blast of Growers. I elected to serve Citrouille in a chalice, because a 355 ml. bottle poured into a pint glass looks so dinky and cheap - like, "oh boy, some of a beer". It fizzed vigorously, foaming up a head that, sadly, dissipated so quickly I couldn't get a decent picture. A stout this is not.

Citrouille is a dark copper ale, similar in shade and body to Mill Street's Tankhouse Ale, but less vigorously hopped than many beers in that part of the spectrum - the more subtle flavours of the spices are allowed to come to the forefront, backed by a muted take on an IPA's hops. St. Ambroise proudly lists the spices used - there is nothing only referred to as "flavour" - as cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and clove, and each of these is present and distinct on the nose and the palate. It has a perceptible sweetness, which the spicing and overall richness complement nicely, without being so sweet having more than one becomes unreasonable (something "festive" beers are prone to whether dealing with a fruity summer weiss, a harvest-flavoured ale or a holiday porter). Although I loathe the popular new term "sessionable", Citrouille is definitely better suited to multiple servings than anything that could rightly be considered a "Halloween" or "novelty" beer. I've had a Pumpkin Pie Blizzard, and it was awesome, but even metaphorical chunks of pie and ice cream aren't what I'm looking for in a brew. Citrouille tastes largely like a malty, medium-dark ale, more "accented" than "flavoured" - exactly the kind of experience I hope for in a pumpkin beer. If I wanted pie soda, such a thing can be acquired - good beer is above that nonsense, and this is good beer.

With a working neckhole and a returned desire for food and drink, I'll be reviewing more pumpkin beers throughout the week. Tonight, I'll be posting my thoughts on this year's batch of Nightmare on Mill St., along with either a review of Stack's take on the subject or the impotent (yet wordy) rage of an aging hipster denied local craft beer.