At the back of my refrigerator, behind the milk and yesterday’s leftovers, stands the loneliest beer.
The single pickle swimming in a cloudy sea of brine won’t talk to him, and even the bottle of ketchup, with barely one last squeeze left in it, acts superior. Both know that one day, when their time has come, they will be enjoyed. Someone will consume them and be grateful for even their meager offerings.
But as proud and erect as that bottle of beer stands, he knows he’s doomed. No one will crack his seal in anticipation; no one will pour his contents into a clean, eager pint glass. Despite having come from a well-respected family and claiming a patriotic past, he knows he’s a pariah.
He’s a bottle of Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale.
How could such a thing come to pass? I blame myself. But you must believe me, dear reader, everything I did, I did for you!
*
It all started one afternoon in early September.
Even though it was still hot outside and the leaves had only just begun to turn, like geese heading south, the local package stores began building giant displays of their seasonal beers. Once, long ago, such displays featured bock beers. Originally made by Catholic monks in Germany, these darker, heartier beers were brewed for special occasions, like Christmas, Lent or Easter. In America, during the micro-brew revolution of the ’80s and ’90s, these heavier beers were brewed to welcome the fall, and they became the staple of Octoberfests across the nation.
But then—quietly and unassumingly at first—a new tradition appears to have been invented and introduced to the mix. Apparently not content with the time-tested variations of malted grains and hops, someone thought to add pumpkin to their beer. As the text on the six-pack of Smuttynose Brewing’s variation explains, “Recipes calling for the use of pumpkins in beer date back to early colonial times, when brewers sought to extend their supply of costly imported malt with locally grown ingredients, such as squash and “pompions.” Repeating this process and adding pumpkin to their mash (even though malt isn’t so expensive any longer), the brewery claims it’s created “a delicious American original.”
My parents, both immigrants to this country, raised me with a healthy skepticism when it came to America’s love affair with the pumpkin. I didn’t even try pumpkin pie until I was in my twenties, and while I thought it better than I’d feared, I was perfectly content for pies and jackolanterns to be the only place I encountered the big squash. It was only my love for Smuttynose Brewing, based in Portsmouth, N.H., and my desire for journalistic accuracy that emboldened me to investigate further. On a whim, I filled a six-pack with a selection of four different pumpkin-“enhanced” ales to take home and test my suspicions.
Because of my clear bias against this particular ingredient, I asked two friends to join me in my taste challenge, each of whom had expressed some tolerance for beers with crap added to them.
First, we cracked the Punkin Ale by Dogfish Head. On the label, it described itself as “a full-bodied brown ale brewed with real pumpkin, brown sugar, allspice, cinnamon & nutmeg,” and much to our surprise, the stuff went down easily. At 7 percent, it was the most alcoholic of the four we tried, and the unfiltered blend of flavors was the most balanced. We could actually taste the pumpkin without cringing, and we agreed that it might be nice by the fire on a winter’s day.
Emboldened, we moved on to Southampton Publick House’s Pumpkin Ale. It, too, justified its existence by pointing to a “colonial brewing tradition.” The immediate reaction from all of us was that it was too fizzy and too sweet. To me, it tasted as if the flavoring had been added later, and none of us could identify pumpkin on our palates. Only one of us finished his sample, declaring it “all treat with no tricks.”
Next, we tried Fisherman’s Pumpkin Stout by the Cape Ann Brewing Company. The black liquid slopped into the bottom of our glasses, not offering even a hint of a head. It appeared to lack any carbonation, and we detected neither the flavor of pumpkin nor even of stout.
Finally, thinking I might be saving the best for last, we tried Smuttynose’s offering. While it offered up a good, chunky head and smelled appetizing, we were again at a loss when trying to detect the pumpkin flavor, and like the Southampton ale, it was more fizz than fun. I’d bought two bottles of the Smuttynose and the Dogfish brews, anticipating that we might want to return to one of them afterwards, but only the second bottle of Punkin Ale got opened.
The Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale, sad and dejected like the last kid to be picked for a game of kickball, was returned to the fridge. Since then, he’s been joined by other beers from Smuttynose, but their stay has always been brief. “I’m a delicious American original. What do they have that I don’t?” the lone bottle wonders, not understanding that it’s the ingredient the other beers lack that helps them pass muster.
