As regular readers know, I’m a fan and booster of Portland beers, restaurants, and sports teams [Rip City and Rose City ‘Til I Die!]. As often as possible I promote and attend local festivals. I regularly read, link to, and recommend local blogs and I keep tabs on media paeans to, and critiques of, my hometown.
I love Portland.
But not all my opinions jibe with the hometown consensus, for my love is not blind.
I am a Portlander, but I am firstly my own man.
Take, for instance, local beer brewers and consumers’ obsession with hops and a beer style, the Northwest India Pale Ale, that generally tastes like rancid grapefruit juice. I prefer beers that are interesting, or even subtle; IPAs are seldom the former and never the latter. One day I might be in the mood for something sweet and malty, the next day dry and toasty. Sometimes something a bit Belgiany, or tart. In the fall, when the hops are fresh and the air is crisp, I may even enjoy one of the banal and ubiquitous Northwest IPAs of which I whinge – the hop aroma is nice. But I’m tired of local bar and beer festival lineups where IPAs make up a third to half of the available beers. Show some creativity! When I want a grape fruit juice I’ll order a Greyhound.