Mac’s Hop Rocker Pilsener

macs

Beer tasting, let alone beer judging, reviewing, and reporting is an onerous task indeed. In this obiter dicta I would like to thrash out not only a personal account of my 5 minutes spent with the charming young lass under review, but also to take stock of the profound responsibility bestowed upon the reviewer in taking up this pursuit. Foremost, I will deal with the latter.

What right do I possess to pass judgement on that which man cannot live on bread alone. The weight of society rests heavy upon the task at hand. Is it possible to distill in a moment a finely crafted offering. If it were to be put on trial again, in another time, at a different moment, perhaps to celebrate my first born, would the offering then appear to me rather different? Is my olfactory, papilae, epiglotis and esophagus up to the task? Society demands judgement be passed. Without review we have anarchy. It is not until one is placed in these shoes that the tremendous weight of such a task takes shape not only now, but in honouring all those who have gone before in contributing to the evolution of society and culture. Les Patterson, Boris Yeltsin, David Hasselhof, and so on.

A review probably first begins with a cursory, perhaps perfunctory analysis of beers available for tasting at your local bottlo. At first take, this may seem a relatively simple task. But it soon becomes apparent that of all the lovely young lasses perched and pouting in various poses and states of dress behind the slightly frosted refrigerated glass, one of these must be ‘chosen’. And so it was with trepidation that I chose Mac’s Hop Rocker Pilsener. What a dresser she is too. Ginger beer style ring-pull (cant wait to get that off!), faux wicker basket blown into the glass (this chick’s got class), tattoo’ed with wall graffiti style Melbourne laneway art, or perhaps ’80’s rock Wham T-shirt pop art. I could’nt decide. Perhaps it was this conundrum which led me to her door. Was she a rock chick or pop chick?

Getting her top off was an exercise filled with trepidation. Like a schoolboy wrestling with the daintily intricate latch on a bra-strap I found myself tugging and pulling on this confounded item of apparel. Slow down….with a relaxed grip and an easier angle she slipped out of her top with relative ease. Schweppervesensce hissed forth on a slightly perfumed mist. As a taster i had felt compelled to ‘get the nose’ over the brew.

The first swill is always the defining note. A heavily perfumed nectar that assaults the tastebuds on the tongue, before evening out to a clean European natural spring. This young lass is no one-night stand. As the amber flows, the heavy perfume diminishes and by the time i had gone back for more sultanas i found this beer could be consumed in multiples. Too often, novelty or boutique beers suffer from sensory overload, and as a result find themselves substituted for your garden variety New, Old, or VB after an experimentary foray.

A confusing young lass. Born in New Zealand, raised in the heavily perfumed corridors of aristocracy, and made the Grand Tour of Europe. Yet bedecked in rebellious attitude. As such I declare her a pop chick.