CON’T/FOOD BEER GUZZLER/FOOD
SAISON-STYLE BREWS Belgian saisons were originally brewed as light alcohol ales designed to quench the thirst of summer farm workers. As with all things creative, the style has morphed, and now saisons for all seasons can be found, while the level of alcohol can vary widely. The one quality most share, no matter where they’re brewed, is a pleasantly refreshing bit of sourness at the center. FANTOME BREWING HIVER SAISON This Belgian entry, sealed with both a cork and a crown cap, is meant to be a winter offering, but it works surprisingly well in the heat. It pours a hazy gold with a nice white froth that holds well, and offers up floral, fresh-grass aromas with subtle pear and orange zest. Yeasty citrus with a distinct tang melds nicely with the smooth malt, mango, subtle hops and spice. It’s deceptively easy drinking, but at 8 percent alcohol, use caution. GRAND TETON BREWING GRAND SAISON FARMHOUSE ALE A part of this Victor brewery’s Cellar Reserve lineup, this is a unique take on the style. The thinnest of heads tops the amber-colored ale. It has a surprisingly assertive hop profile on the nose that complements the spicy lemon aromas. The palate is filled with smooth fruit flavors (apricot, pear, orange, lime) and touches of spice. The requisite sour note is a bit subtle, but overall this is a refreshing summer brew. SIERRA NEVADA OVILA SAISON Brewed in collaboration with the California Abbey of New Clairvaux, it’s slightly cloudy and orange in color with a thick head that boasts good persistence and tight lacing. The aromas are a sweet and sour mix of orange, lemon and herb. A nice core of sour citrus is surrounded by soft malt and spice, with a touch of hops adding a little bite to the finish. This is a lovely and lively entry. —David Kirkpatrick
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was concerned with when I crossed his path a little later. “How are you doing, Matt?” I asked “I’m doing ...” he began with the same distracted, body-snatched voice and ground-scanning manner that everyone seemed to have been infected with. “I got a few,” he continued. “A few morels and one cauliflower-looking one that’s edible, too.” He pushed his basket my way while looking in the opposite direction. “Oops,” he suddenly said, then twitched to the right. “There’s one. One there, too.” He kept twitching. “Oh, like four.” After dropping to the duff, hungrily cutting his prey off at ground level and putting them with his others, Fuxan focused his eyes on me. “This is exactly why this is an important experience to have,” Fuxan said. “Foraging and actually learning how mushrooms grow and what’s edible and what’s not, that to me is really important to understanding our food system. Having that opportunity, especially where we live, is just huge.” Fuxan looked straight up through fir trees that seemed to converge in a quiet epiphany. “It’s huge for me,” he said. In those static seconds before he went back to the hunt, Fuxan, like the others, had been turned. They had, as Florence hoped, been mesmerized by morels. They all vowed to put more mushrooms on their menus and therefore became, in the brief span of a morning, what their 19th century ancestors would have feared were “idiots among the lower order.” What their Victorianera, mycophobic kin couldn’t have known was just how stunning those mushrooms were going to taste—sauteed with a little butter, garlic, shallot and a good shake of salt and pepper—when the group sat down later for a campstove lunch. 30
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