Having grown up in an agriculturally-rich part of the country, I am not unfamiliar with the sights, sounds and smells of the farm. Contrary to the images (and aromas) this might tend to conjure up in the mind of the hardcore city-dweller, these sensory elements aren’t always the offensive ones – in fact, they’re often soothing, agreeable and even a little romantic in their own unpretentious way. If you’ve ever taken a stroll down a country road during a clear autumn evening or savored the smell of freshly cut field grass, you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you’ve been privileged enough to get your hands dirty in the rich earth and breathe in the black soil, you’ll be acquainted with the undeniable sentiment of complexity and depth clothed in the form of simplicity of which I speak.

A good saison is a lot like that.

Because of its popularity, most craft drinkers know – or think they know – how IPA began. To quote one version of the popular history of the style: "Back in the late 1700s and early 1800s, England held a large colonial presence in India. British soldiers, sailors and civilians had a huge appetite for beer. Trouble was, the voyage to India was long, and by the time the ship made it there the traditional beers had spoiled. Even when they didn't, the dark porters that were popular at the time weren't quite the ticket in the hot climate of India. George Hodgson of the Bow Brewery in London was the first person to come up with an answer to this problem. He began brewing a lighter style of beer with more bitterness, known as pale ale. Hodgson realized that high alcohol and hop levels would retard spoilage. His process succeeded, and for about 50 years he held a virtual monopoly on the market."

Nobody can seem to agree what is the difference between porter and stout. Is it that stouts contain roasted barley? Is it that porters are lighter, or sweeter? Is it that stouts have patent malt in them, while porters have chocolate malt?

Historically the answer is "none of the above," and most especially it's not true that stouts have to contain roasted barley, or patent malt, since stout was being brewed when roasted barley was an illegal ingredient and before patent malt was invented. 

If we go back to the latter half of the 18th century and the first part of the 19th century, stout, more particularly brown stout, was simply the name for the strongest version of porter. Here's a quote from a book called "A General Dictionary of Commerce, Trade and Manufactures," published in 1810:

"Porter may be divided into two classes, namely brown-stout and porter properly so called … Brown-stout is only a fuller-bodied kind of porter than that which serves for ordinary drinking. A great deal of this is exported to America and the West Indies."

The marketing angle for these beers centers on a process by which the beer is cooled to sub-freezing temperatures after fermentation in order to yield a smoother, “ice-brewed” product. A corollary result of this process – one not missed in frat houses far and wide – is the finished beer also tends to boast a slightly higher alcohol by volume than the typical light lager, thus giving the (not so) discerning imbiber optimal bang for the beer buck...
 

German Eisbock

...While the ice wars of the 1990’s mega-brewers had more to do with marketing than beer brewing, the notion of freezing beer didn’t originate with some ad agency executive. In fact, some of the science behind the commercial glitz is true – the process commonly known as freeze distillation does indeed yield a smoother, more concentrated beer… and a stronger one to boot. The real issue is the quality of the beer being frozen in the first place. Try it with a light, adjunct-laden lager and you get more of the same, quite literally. Try it with something more substantial – like a rich, malty bockbier, for example – and you’ve got the makings of a legend.  

Asheville, N.C., draws flocks of tourists for its lively downtown, Blue Ridge Mountains scenery and the massive Biltmore Estate, the late 19th century mansion that is known as the country’s largest private residence. You can easily fill a long weekend – call it a Beercation – visiting its many great breweries and beer bars.  

Here’s a guide to what the city has on tap:  

Breweries

A Beer and a Movie 
An unexpected yet brilliant concept, Asheville Brewing is a family oriented restaurant with fresh-made beer.  Formerly known as Two Moons Brew ‘N View, it has movies for the kids, beer for the parents and pizza for everyone.    
675 Merrimon Avenue, (828)254-1281; www.ashevillebrewing.com.
Recommended Tasting:  Ninja Porter

When it comes to pairing beer with cheese, the start of any conversation typically begins with an oft-repeated line. The two make for a natural match, it is said, since they were raised together on the farm, with the grain that goes into making the beer also being used to feed the milk-producing cow, sheep or goat. It’s a nice idea and one not without merit. But the intricacies of blending beer and cheese to perfection go way beyond a snappy sound bite.

The world of cheese, like that of beer, is constantly evolving, as new producers arrive and test the bounds of traditional craft. These days there are innumerable options for pairing beer with cheese – long the upscale domain of wine – and while some can find it fairly intimidating to sift through the wide array of possible matches, a few basic ground rules will put you well on your way to blissful blending.

Here in America, the growing craft beer and artisanal cheese movements share a great deal of common ground. The creativity, passion and experimentation that continues to draw legions of fans to craft beers can also be found in the many specialty creameries that have popped up around the country as of late. 

Entering the Warrington, a pub in London’s mostly residential Maida Vail district, forewarns of nothing particularly astonishing. Sure, it is gorgeous in the way that most restored Victorian pubs are, but frankly the British capital is full of such places. And while the beer selection is quite nice, featuring casks from Fuller’s and Adnams and bottles from Meantime and Young’s, there are plenty of pubs in Westminster alone that offer better selections.

So the average visitor might order a well-kept pint at the ornate bar, admire the mosaic tile floor and Art Nouveau friezes, and conclude that all was good with the world, if not extraordinary. Until he got hungry and ordered some food. Then, the universe of the Warrington would slowly unfold.

It would begin when a fine-looking ploughman’s lunch or a chicken and wild mushroom pie, unfussily adorned by a rounded scoop of mashed potato, arrived at his table. He would take an absent-minded bite and respond with a raised eyebrow. A second bite would inspire greater interest, while a third might bring about something approaching gastronomic rapture. And that’s when he would realize that he was in some place special.