A hophead abroad

Chocolate? Check. Hazelnuts? Check. Ice cream? Check. Sparkling water? Check. Four of my five major food groups are covered in my new home. My depresion revolved around the thought that hoppy beers are no longer be on the menu. According to my meager research (an article the wife sent me), the Italian craft beer movement appears to focus on Belgian and German styles.

The beers identified above look interesting and delicious. But as a ’Murican beer snob, I love hops.

I started a recent evening with bianco and cicchetti at this centro spot:

Buono, giusto?

I ended the evening at Bamburger. A card on the counter identified an IPA. When I asked the waiter, he said, nope. All out.

If you had the crayons, you could color me hangry and disgusted.

I settled for the American Pale Ale they were pimping, expecting uno birra akin to Sierra Nevada Pale Ale (great, short of what is required).

A sip.

Elation.

Bitterness.

Release from the world of doppio maltos such as Moretti La Rossa (a personal favorite, but best during the winter). Then I read:

I have run into a few bitter Italians. Last Sunday, an old, bescarved woman at a corner market clicked her tongue in disgust when I blocked her path to the basil. She scowled as if she’d bitten into bird scat on toast.

Bitter.

Nowhere near as pleasantly bitter as the Italian above.

Va bene? Bene!