Pliny

One of the most sobering experiences for a critic is to re-evaluate those works of art that were his first loves. Memory airbrushes flaws and exaggerates excellence, but in the clear, cold light of the present, these illusions fall away. Impressions of all but the most exemplary of subjects weather with the passage of time.

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Not counting the cheap, watery lager that fueled many long nights of “studying” abroad in Madrid, Russian River's Pliny the Elder (8% ABV) was the first beer that I ever had on-tap. I know, I know – it’s a hell of a one to start on, what with being universally regarded as one of the top 3 best beers of all time. Incredibly, Pliny was fairly standard fare at The Rose and Crown, the local pub in Palo Alto where three of my college friends and I would go every Tuesday of Senior spring for their trivia night. We would roll in and have a 50/50 shot of scoring a few pints of Pliny to ready us for a grueling six rounds of competitive esoterica against teams stacked with Stanford students, teachers’ assistants, and researchers. To this day, I can hardly believe how casually we enjoyed our Pliny. Sure we loved it – it was delicious – but there was nary a thought on how special each glass would one day seem.

After graduation, I moved out to NYC. I found trivia nights, sure, and even got the whole trivia team reunited for a weekend of incredible beer-tasting (here’s the lineup in panorama), but there was no Pliny in sight. Only in this relative privation did I begin to appreciate my previous fortune.

My birthday swung around last summer. I was sick as a dog, and it had been a long day at work. When I arrived back at my apartment, my girlfriend greeted me with a package. I unwrapped it to find six bottles of fresh Pliny, shipped all the way across the country for the explicit purpose of making my birthday awesome. Mission accomplished. The picture above shows how we enjoyed those beauties - in tall pint glasses on a balcony together looking out at the Lower Manhattan skyline at sunset. Many ensuing beer adventures have been all about replicating the perfect "something" of that late afternoon in July - the holy trinity of hard-won, great beer, top-notch company, and beautiful scenery.

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It was to be nine more months before Pliny and I would once again cross paths. My lovely girlfriend introduced me to the "on-the-down-low" beer newsletter from the kindly storeowner in California that had sourced her the Pliny back in July. My conduit in place, I put in a order for two bottles of that sweet magic from Sonoma County.

They arrived in a chunky, well-packed box just after Easter. Pliny sported its usual, unassuming label, somewhat resembling Bangladesh's flag. Inscribed on the borders were a series of amusing admonitions that I had come to know and love:

Respect your elder: keep cold, drink fresh, do not age! Pliny the Elder is a historical figure, don't make the beer inside this bottle one! Not barley wine, do not age! Age your cheese, not your Pliny! Respect hops, consume fresh! Consume Pliny fresh, or not at all! Pliny is for savoring, not for saving! Do not save for a rainy day! If you must, sit on eggs, not on Pliny! Does not improve with age! Hoppy beers are not meant to be aged! Keep away from heat!

In case it wasn't immediately clear, the folks at Russian River hold sacred the dictum that hoppy beers should be consumed ASAP - while their deliciously interesting aromas and flavors are at their peak. My bottles had received their blessing on March 14, two and a half weeks before. This was still within my acceptable ballpark for freshness time: 1 day is optimal, 2-3 is still perfect, 4 days - 1 week is excellent, 1-3 weeks still has an appreciable amount of all the relevant highlights, 3-5 weeks is borderline fine, and anything past that tends to have passed from this hoppy coil. Practically stumbling over myself, I set about pouring a glass.

It looked as beautiful as ever, clear and copper, with a half finger of egg-cream foam that gradually receded to leave a slightly wispy lattice of bubbles on the surface. Bringing the cup to my nose and breathing in deeply,  I found myself drawn back with Proustian velocity to a warmly-lit pub in Palo Alto, elbow to elbow again with my dear friends. 

I was not to be disappointed. Citrus, honeyed grapefruit, a bit of punch, and some resiny pine all elocuted in perfect harmony. I took a happy sip and was reunited with the taste that had launched a love of hoppy beer. Medium-bodied, round, juicy hoppiness with flits of tropical fruit segued into a resiny welcoming of smooth malt and a beautiful bitter close.

But that wasn't even all. The most important detail remained, the point that set Pliny apart from almost every other of its style.

Perfect. Balance.

Whereas most other Imperial IPAs marshal many of the same flavors with similar conviction, Pliny is unparalleled in how well it balances all of its virtuous elements. The balance of hoppiness and maltiness is on the razor's edge - just the right amount of well-calibrated malt backbone to embrace and complement the dizzyingly impressive sequencing through the spectrum of hops flavors. The result is an eerily drinkable beer that despite its elevated ABV (8%) not only permits, but actively encourages, serial enjoyment. Many have come, many shall come, but all are measured against Pliny - overall, a vindicating and perfect 5/5, making it only the second beer that I've so rated.

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What of the man? According to Russian River's site, founder and head brewer Vinnie Cilurzo needed to name the more heavily hopped and malted big brother of his already established Blind Pig IPA. After leafing through many a history book, he came across evidence that the Roman thinker Pliny the Elder had written about Lupus salictarius, today known as Humulus lupulus - the "common" hop.