Ale Street News Online

I was moving, from Kentucky to California, and I stopped for lunch at a deli in Tahoe City, NV. It was August 13, 1987, just before noon; I got a corned beef special on rye. Then I spotted a bottle of SNPA in the cooler, the first I’d ever seen. I grabbed it, opened it, and man, did that ever taste good. Solid hops, malt body, the tiniest hint of fruitiness, and just as clean as bejayzus. It was the beginning of a relationship that has lasted to this day. Sorry, honey: SNPA had me first.

Beerwise, I was rolling into Fat City in those days. Good God, within a month I’d have my first draft Anchor Steam, visit my first brewpub, taste my first Cooper’s Stout (a favorite still), and finally, finally meet some people who were as crazy about this stuff as I was. Of course, I’d also meet my new boss, who would sneer at my beer excitement: “You like that Guinness stuff? I don’t think it’s worth my time.” Maybe not his, but beer absorbed a huge amount of my time that year, and I absorbed a huge amount of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.  

SNPA followed me east when I moved back the next year, and soon there were other pale ales here: Geary’s Pale, Blue Ridge Afton Ale, Red Feather. Pale ale was the backbone of craft brewing, to the point where some breweries didn’t make one because of its very ubiquity. Sierra Nevada was often the first craft beer into a bar, walking point for the craft invasion. 

So even though I knew it was bound to happen, it was still a shock to me when, in about 2002, people started running down Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Hey, you know how it is. You find a new band you like that no one else gets, you listen to their music and obsess over the lyrics, and then one day they’re on the cover of a magazine and everyone’s listening to them…and suddenly, their new stuff? It sucks. You don’t listen to those sell-outs any more. 

I ignored it for the inevitable backlash it was. But recently, on a pleasantly warm February day, I asked an otherwise rational and helpful bartender what he thought of the Eel River Extra Pale he had on tap. He gave me a wry smile, and said, “I don’t think pale ales really have anything to say anymore.” He then suggested I try an IPA. 

Pale ales don’t have anything to say anymore? Evidently not, if you take a look at a lot of what the übergeekerie are saying about them. Pale ales are merely watery IPAs, they don’t have enough. It’s similar to the opinion a friend of mine heard at a meeting of craft brewers in Yakima not long ago: barleywine’s dead, we have double IPAs now. It’s as if some weird habitat loss has destroyed pale ale’s niche in the beer-drinking ecosystem, and it can’t survive. 

I’m not blind to the fact that pale ales continue to sell strongly, of course. SNPA keeps booming along, Philly Pale kicks ass here in my home turf. But much like what set me off on the Session Beer Project a couple years ago, when do you hear anyone talking about pale ale in the kind of glowing terms reserved for double barrel-aged sour-brett $20-a-bottle jump-juice? What’s that? Pale ale’s just not that exciting? Pale ales don’t really have anything to say anymore? 

Back to school, sucker. Pale ales always have something to say, and it’s “Drink me!” It’s not the brewers; they’re making great pale ales. Deschutes recently sent me some samples of their Twilight Ale, a 5% American pale ale. Here’s how it hit me. 

“It’s a golden-hued ale, clean and bright, with a snow-white cap of foam. The nose is fresh, like just-baked bread when it reaches a cool temperature throughout, with a dash of grassy, lightly citrus-laced hop. The quaff is good and deep, teasingly malty-sweet before the hop-current cuts in. It’s not overdone, and leads the palate along to a clean-breaking finish that leaves a bit of bitter behind it. This is really great outdoors beer, just the thing for enjoying with friends and scenery.” 

Pale ale. The stuff that broke the trail for craft beer, the kind of beer many of us cut our craft teeth on. It’s hardly like I’m asking for some respect for Pabst, you know: I’m talking about the kind of beers and brewers that blew things wide open in the 1990s. Catamount, Grant’s, Anchor Liberty, Great Divide, Hale’s, Pyramid…landmarks. 

Get a cold sixpack of a good one (I’ve got 10 of my favorites listed below), grab a friend and a bottle opener. Then watch a sunset, or go fishing, or play cards (does playing cards have anything to say anymore?). Forget about “rating” your beer, about ticking off another beer on a list, forget about blowing your mind with complex flavors; calm down, and enjoy a pale ale. If it’s quiet enough, you might just hear what it has to say. 

Top Ten Pale Ales You Should Go Love Right Now 

Sierra Nevada Pale Ale — No reason needed. You know it, crawl back to it and beg forgiveness.
Berkshire Brewing Steel Rail Extra Pale — Light, crisp, what the water in heaven oughta taste like.
Original Basil T’s Rosie’s Tale Waggin’ Pale Ale — Our girl Gretchen makes a Cascade beauty.
Yards Philadelphia Pale Ale — Breathtaking Simcoe character is the signature.
Sly Fox Phoenix Pale Ale — Canned heat, hop-sweet, powerful good. 
Stoudt’s American Pale Ale — So much hop edge, it’s got a crease.
DuClaw Venom Pale Ale — Beer with a real bite; solid flavor in several directions.
Shipyard Chamberlain Pale Ale — Maybe the best beer Shipyard makes.