![]() This likely wasn’t aided by the post-judging nights that often included a more informal and relaxed environment with fellow judges and, you guessed it, more beer. Putting in full days of drinking, even with small samples and a healthy dose of H2O has its effects. When I said I approached the “sensory work ” with reluctance, it was for the the health concerns. Still, there is the argument that a lot of people who say they love beer really have no clue what they are drinking or why they like it other than an acquired taste, brand loyalty, or in some extremes, blind alcohol dependency. Afterall, loving the beer the way many people found at a judging panel love it probably doesn’t always lead to instituting and toward moderation. My brother undoubted is articulate, creative, and able to perform such functions, but, like many people perhaps doesn’t view beer as a worthy polestar for such cognition. Why is it good? Is it appropriate for the style? What is the style? Is the beer technically flawed? Also, the oft taxing process of palating flight after flight of samples necessitates a workable vocabulary and an ability to modify, elucidate, and expound upon thought. He confers his approval, like most folks, with a beer based on personal preference with terms such as “good” and “bad.” With adequate beer adjudicating, more questions are raised like how, what, and why. And, not to slight him in the least, as his life is filled with the purpose of his own constructed reality (this could be taken to say that he is not as much of a “beer geek” as his younger brethren). ![]() My brother says he doesn’t like dark beers or sour beers. With great sarcasm, he says throws out the phrase “sensory work,” a tag line used to explain the cognizant evaluatory processes employed by serious beer judges along with their adeptness to articulate and valuate a plethora of sub-styles while disregarding any prejudice toward personal preference. My brother who is a teacher and guidance counselor likes to razz me when I speak of beer judging by delineating it as such. Fortunate for John, he loved craft beer and homebrewing, and the annual NABA it appeared to serve him great deal of enjoyment.įolks not in the know, as I’ve said before, often are unable to wrap their minds around the fact that beer judging is more than a festival of samples. There’s nothing to do.” But he admitted his contentment in being in such a locale at this particular stage in his life. “This is no place for young people” said the middle-aged man with a chipper smile. ![]() ![]() Speaking with a fellow beer judge named John, who had moved to the region from California two decades prior, I asseverated what I had already suspected. In Idaho Falls, the only city of any considerable population for hours (around 51,000 people in the city and 123,000 in the “metro” area it is the third largest in the state and the largest in Eastern Idaho), life is at a much slower pace. In the bubble of Portland where the world is at your fingertips, public transportation is not only available, it’s reliable. The thing about living in a remote region such as Eastern Idaho is long commutes are an acceptable part of life. Portland, Oregon, by comparison was a world away, nearly 12 hours by car and a timezone away. Many of the people who I tussled with were from places like Salt Lake City, Utah (a three miles drive to the south), Boise (a four hours drive to the west), Jackson Hole, Wyoming (a two hour drive to the east), and a smattering of small to medium sized settlements in Montana to the north. You see, Idaho Falls falls at the confluence of the Pacific Northwest and the gateway to the mighty Rocky Mountains. First off, I was excited to be a part of a personally modifying, didactic, and challenging experience that had, to this point, afforded me the opportunity to confabulate with a variety of craft beer loving minds, the bulk of which were from a region I had spent little time in. In case you missed it, you can read part 1 hereĪfter a week of serving as a beer judge at the North American Beer Awards (NABA), a week in which my palate and liver had been tested, I was excited yet reluctant about my final two days in Idaho Falls, Idaho.
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