Milling Around Milly's Tavern

(Blogger's note: After five days of photos, my camera battery lost all its charge, so no photos of Manchester. I left the charger at home. It's a drag, I know).

For local beer in Manchester, I had only one choice. After dropping off my rental car, a taxi took me from the airport to Milly’s Tavern, the only brewpub in Northern New England's largest city. It sat in the basement of a restored building along the Merrimack River, among the former mills that cut a marvelous image for the city.

Its innocuous entrance gave no indication of the bar inside. It was a monster, capable of holding a few hundred people without violating fire codes. The gargantuan bar had more than a dozen taps and some of the brewing operation directly behind it.

For all their handles, I started with Manchester Mild. If a brewer can master this underrated, poorly named style, they can product almost anything. To me, mild is the ancestor of porter and stout; it usually has a dry, roasted character, dark malts and a low alcohol content. Manchester Mild crests at 3.7 percent ABV. Slightly bitter, its dry creaminess almost turns sweet before finishing smooth and viscous. Milly's went for authenticity, brewing with East Kent Golding hops and London ale yeast. If I could drink it regularly, this could have been my dark session ale of choice.

After Manchester Mild, I waded into General John Stark Dark Porter. The mild skewed my sample General Stark; it tasted like a heavier, less carbonated version of Manchester Mild. It had a more prominent molasses character on the front end, a gentle creaminess, and almost no bitterness on the finish. Which one to choose is a matter of individual tastes. I’d go mild, because you could still be drinking it long after burning out on porter.

Amoskeag Harvest Ale was a copper/amber ale, comfortably bitter with a hop profile that barks but never bites. The malts don't aspire to change the world, but they don't have to. At 4.8 percent ABV, it could please the taste buds thought a few sessions.

At this point I entered the experimental part of the visit. Milly's brewed three lambics that bore little resemblance to the ultra-fruity Belgian classics.

Blueberry Lambic was the clear winner at Milly’s, and quite possibly the fruit beer I've wanted my whole life. Wheat malt based with a wild year, the Blueberry Lambic takes an undeniably sour twist as it finishes. The sour character rattles up, disrupting the smooth blueberry landscape. Muddy pineapple in color, it’s loosely lambic, but mostly great beer. On a bet, I would drink nothing else for an entire summer.

The Raspberry Lambic bore no resemblance to Belgian framboise – here, here! It pours paler than the blueberry and aside from a deviant year, has little to link it to any lambic. The sour conclusion owes a debt to the yeast, and a far more conservative use of raspberry produces a drastically different ale. The wheat creates a fine lemon-orange citrus to push against the raspberry, pushing it further down the spectrum from Purple Haze and other raspberry beers. The ale has a raspberry boost on the finish that complements the sour tang.

They had a cranberry lambic in honor of the region’s other famous fruit. After years of watching Sam Adams Cranberry Lambic outlast the rest of the Holiday Classics by weeks and months, I had little desire for another, no matter how different it might have been.

By brewing Northern New England lambics, Milly’s served as the right capstone to five days of local beer and small producers.

North Conway's Finest Pints: Moats Mountain Smokehouse & Brewery

Moats Mountain won me over with a simple blueberry ale, by which I mean a complex, tart blueberry wheat. The brewery and smokehouse came on my radar as the perfect stopping point between a morning in the White Mountains and an afternoon on the Kancamagus Highway.

After passing the Mount Washington lookout, Moats Mountain fit snugly among the roadside restaurants targeting tourists lured by summer and snow. The brewing operation did not overshadow the restaurant with its massive comfort food menu. No matter the beer, I couldn't skip bison quesadillas.

Nor could I skip Violet B's Blueberry, Moats Mountain's summer wheat. Ales brewed with fresh blueberries and huckleberries are a longtime guilty pleasure, and a staple of summer, even in early May. It was helped by my ability to see both the brewery's grain sacks and Mount Washington from my seat.

Violet B's has a wheat malt profile that flashes signs of lemon and clover before cloak of blueberry descends. A few fingers of lemon reappear throughout the blueberry veneer just before the dry finish. The flavors complement each other thoroughly. Every New England brewer seems to drop a blueberry beer in summer. Moats Mountain has the White Mountain region covered before the snow finishes melting.

Moats Moutain's Czech Pilsner finally returned me to the elusive, fresh pilsner I craved ever since I visited Germany, Austria and the Czech Republic. Forget all the awful skunkiness that ruins Pilsner Urquell, Czechvar, and everything else imported in green glass bottles. Also forget about the American brewers who feel that every pilsner must be (ahem) improved with a fragrant, citrus hop or should be brewed to 9 percent ABV. This is just everyday pilsner, but fresh, bubbly pilsner like few poured domestically. It features a crisp display of the essential hops (Saaz and Hallertau, most likely). This is the rare beer that could please beer nerds and fans of everyday American lagers.

They just began canning their Iron Mike Pale Ale in pounder cans, a refreshing break in the trend. I hoped for the blueberry wheat in a can, but that was still in the planning stages.

Like Long Trail, Moats Mountain also has an ethos - its water is heated via solar power.

Having no idea what this brewery looks like at ski time or at summer's peak, I imagine it's a popular stop for beer lovers. From what I tasted, they do it right, and by canning, they will bring their excellent brews to a larger audience.



Moats Mountain epilogue

The brewer began canning their Iron Mike Pale Ale, and in a Manchester hotel room, it holds up well. The first New Hampshire craft brewer to can their wares, Moats Mountain sells them for $4 at the brewery and local stores.

This is nice effervescent American Pale Ale, with a payload of strong hops. Iron Mike almost drinks like an IPA, but holds back on any intense grapefruit character – it’s muted slightly. It’s hoppy, sure, but the volume makes it better than Dale’s Pale.

More craft brewers should go with 24 oz. cans; it might be the best way to push the Steel Reserve and Dog Bites of the world off the shelves.

This might qualify as the best canned beer not made by Big Sky, Oskar Blues or Caldera. Moats Mountain made an excellent first stab into the canned beer market. Bone Shaker Brown Ale is on deck for canning. Let’s hope that blueberry beer earns a canned debut soon.

Cornered in Bridgewater? Pour a Long Trail

Originally I wanted to push quickly through the Green Mountains to hit Harpoon's Vermont operations before they closed. A brewery sign at a quiet bend in U.S. 4 changed our minds. Passing along the Ottaquechee River in Bridgewater Junction, we decided Long Trail earned a visit.

After sampling a six-pack of their raspberry wheat, it seemed like a solid choice for a few mid-afternoon pours. We opted for a pitcher of their spring seasonal,a Belgian White, and Long Trail nailed the style. Pale orange, the lemon steers the flavor, with supporting roles from coriander, lavender and a bit of licorice on the finish. Cloudy and crisp with a bill of grains presenting complex tones throughout, it was a spring winner.

As the (ahem) designated driver, I went with Long Trail Ale, their original brew. This brilliant amber ale was unlike any I had tasted in recent memory. It lapped Fat Tired by many miles. This English-style amber reminds me of a fresher, tighter Lord Chesterfield from Yuengling. LTA had a nice stiff malt structure, foamy character and a punchy dose of hops on the finish. It was not hoppy by any stretch, but ruby fruits and touches of smoke surround the bittering hop.

The bartender confessed that when he had Long Trail pours at the ski resorts and local bars, the brews never tasted as fresh.

Long Trail earns applause for offering something I wish more breweries chose – a self-guided tour. A second-floor walkway extended over the brewery floor and explained their brewing process. Simple, effective, and the staff can continue [pouring drafts while the interested look around). The brewery floor was quiet but the tour explained everything as well as any of the staff could.



Long Trail has that ethos everyone hopes for in their local brews. They make 75,000 barrels annually, participate in a manure-to-energy project (CVPS Cow Power), and local cows receive their leftover grains.

Situated far from everywhere, it was the perfect setting for afternoon brews a few hours after a half-marathon. Long Trail also became an easy choice throughout the rest of the trip. If a brewer can master session ales, they don't have to answer to anyone.

A Savory, Sour Selection: Threepenny Taproom, Montpelier, Vt.

A few blocks from the golden dome reflecting Friday's last sunlight, I found Montpelier's beer destination, the Threepenny Taproom. In a word or 12, it's the kind of bar every craft beer lovers wishes was at the end of their block. The narrow bar fits neatly into Montpelier's main commercial block, not spoiling the bounty of fresh, rare beers inside.

Immediately I noticed the plants - lots of hanging plants spread around the bar. A plackard announced, "We proudly DO NOT SERVE Anheuser-Busch products." Any doubts as to Vermont’s independent spirit ended there. Of the 24 taps, seven were sour ales, a ratio nearly impossible at any mainstream beer bar. Aside from Stone and Sierra Nevada, almost ever tap came from New England or East Coast breweries. Rarities from Dogfish Head, Allagash and others filled the chalkboard.

It felt slightly insular at first, but if people didn’t include me in a bar conversation, it wasn’t their fault. Montpelier was a small town, albeit a state capital, and I suspect casual visitors in May weren't typical. Still, the bar staff were friendly and helped with my choices.

An old sour stand-by got me moving: Rodenbach Grand Cru. Among the best-known sours, Rodenbach GC had plenty of secondary fruit tones behind the sour wave, and lacked the massive cidery, mustiness found in almost every sour (this could have been a result of having it on tap). Flavors including peach and apple tape into a delightful sour cherry on the finish. This world classic coats the palate delectably, the authenticity and freshness of the cherry never up for debate.

Switching to a local handle, I could have skipped on Hill Farmstead Arthur Saison in Greensboro Bend,which lies northeast of St. Johnsbury (it's way up there, folks). The brewery makes the same recipe twice and brews in extremely small batches. It produces 200 to 400 gallons of beer and only ships within Vermont (aside from special shipments to Philly and NYC, per their website). No saison lover could ignore local, small-batch saison brewed in an actual farmhouse.

I couldn't stop sniffing this beauty. Arthur crackled with dry zesty spices, and off the tap, rivaled standard bearers like Ommegang Hennepin and Saison Dupont, Stylistically, it falls closer to Hennepin but was still resoundingly unique. Arthur's lemon character defeats the orange by a few lengths. The race between the two augments Arthur's complexity. Fresh beer almost always tastes the best, and this was easily the best saison I found in Northern New England.

I closed with Cuvee des Jacobin Rouge, another sour ale. Because the wild yeast and lactobacillus lead to wildly divergent flavors, this couldn’t taste more different from Rodenbach. This yeast and bacteria came with a mean streak, heaping on the musty character and a punchy finish that refuses to weaken.
This brown sour lacked cider tones, but like Rodenbach, proves excellence can be routine. This might have been the best European sour I've sampled.

Three beers in, I needed a break. While contemplating a return trip later on Friday, four hours on a plane and seven more on unfamiliar, winding roads had sufficiently sapped my energy. For a few days, a return trip to the Threepenny appeared to be my trip's first regret.

The Threepenny Taproom (Reprise)
Alicia expressed interest after returning from the Kanc to Burlington, and with Montpelier in our path, we decided to stop. Besides, who was I to refuse her a chance at this hip watering hole? On a Monday, the Threepenny was much less occupied. A few Vermont legislators mingled with red-shirted single-payer health plan advocates who rallied at the Capitol earlier that day. It was a scene that could only have traction in Vermont.

We nestled up to the bar and Allagash's version of Vrienden stared at me from the chalkboard. It wasn't there Friday. However, I was still driving, and couldn't chance a 9 percent ABV ale before returning to the road. I remembered the New Belgium take on Vrienden as underwhelming, and pursued Allagash's other sour offerings.

The lighter side of wild yeast accentuated Allagash Confluence Ale, which uses Allagash's house Belgian style yeast and its proprietary Brettanomyces strain, along with Tettnang and East Kent Golding hops and pilsner, American pale, and caramel malts. After steel tanking aging, it received a final round of dry-hopping with Glacier hops. I hope you got all that, because there will be a quiz at the end.

Flashes of perfume and a little barnyard odor ripple beneath the lace. At times, its smell hearkens to a cellar filled with wine and beer barrels. In some ways Confluence resembles Reinart's Wild Flemish Ale. In others, a different beast emerges. This is the subtle side of wild ale, orange tones inflected with sour nibbles and a dry finish. The yeast plays a central role, but the maltiness cannot be denied. it possesses a little minerality, which it pairs with lemon grains, and coriander. Confluence leaves the palate achingly dry - a great sensation, in case you wondered.

I switched gears to Allagash Indigenuts, a more powerful ale brewed with cider yeast aged in oak barrels. Indigenuts doesn't quite pucker the lips, but the orange revels in its sour character. It comes off as a sour saison at times, and leaning toward my favorite style never hurts. There's a firm strain of tangerine, and some bitter orange that occasionally borders on passion fruit. Before passion fruit blossoms, Indigenuts quickly veers toward severe lemon, coating the taste buds challenging with its sour demeanor. The oak character barely breaks out. While much different than Confluence, Indigenuts freshness and multi-faceted approach to sour and wild ale begged for another pour to see what else turned up.

The same bartender from Friday came on as we finished a second round. I asked to buy some stickers, he gave them to me free, only requesting that I put them somewhere creative. Declaring that “Chimay had never given me anything," I slapped it on my beer notebook, covering up a red Chimay shield. Five beers in two sessions left me craving more from the Threepenny, a pain caused only by a good beer-bar.

Starting from the Coast: Portsmouth Brewery

On Portsmouth's narrow streets I stumbled onto its original brewpub, the Portsmouth Brewery. Despite my intentions to hunt for Smuttynose, hunger won out. At first I expected a standard public house, but it was more casual away from the bar, which boasted the best spirits collection I'd seen in a any brewpub. The brewpub pours Smuttynose products but has a half-dozen handles devoted to its own concoctions.

Driving necessitated a two-beer limit. Something with a breakfast character felt in order. I started with the Oatmeal Stout, which came off as bone-dry on the front end. With a creamy head and few signs of roasting, it contained a nice viscosity. There are traces of coffee and chocolate on the finish. Oats rule the beer and don't let any overblown roasted character steal the thunder, which is too often the case with craft-brewed oatmeal stout.

For an encore, Dirty Blond Ale worked well behind its estery nose ripe with passion fruit and a hint of cloves. Portsmouth's Belgian yeast livens up this blonde dutifully. The tandem of strong tangerine and mild, dry orange made Dirty Blonde an easy choice as a session ale. The coriander burst at the finish splinters rapidly and reveals fingers of papaya and honey lurking beneath the citrus.

Based on session ales alone, Portsmouth deserved more than the 75 minutes I gave it. But its original brewpub provided the necessary foundation for five day's of beer-exploration in Vermont and New Hampshire.