It’s hot outside. Steam-room hot. The birds hop around, mouths open, too weary to fly.

I get home dripping sweat. It’s time for a beer. I would go so far as to say that right now a beer is completely necessary.

I’d been saving this one for a review — so in order to drink it, I have to write this. That’s just the way it is. Even if I’m not in the freaking mood — I mean, really, it’s just too hot.

Lily Allen on my iPod, Mission tortilla chips and a bowl of blood-red salsa in front of me on the table, I pop the top of this Flying Dog Classic Pale Ale.

It better be good. I’m in a pissy mood.

Smells good. Smells, in fact, awesome. The hops are strong but darkened by an aggressive malty bouquet. To my lips I raise the bottle and tip it way back.

Not a sip. I’m going for broke.

Eyes roll back in my head. Tongue tenses into a hard knot. Mouth puckers into a kiss around the lips of glass.

It’s good. It’s damn good. The hops sing a siren’s song, voice clear with a razor’s edge. It curls like smoke into bitter ringlets and rolls around in the dark umber malt. All of this plays out behind a thin yeasty curtain that hints of bottle fermentation.

This brew does its job, either dropping my temperature or making it so I don’t notice the heat as much.

It goes great, too, with the chips and salsa. And it’s elevated my mood.

All said and done, I wish I had more. It’s a groovy brew, and a definite Holy Beer contender. I’m putting it at 4.7 on the Holy Grail Scale.

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