Slow-cooked German cuisine allows us time to sip beer with our friends as we wait patiently for sinuous tissues to break down into tender bits of meat, filling the home with glorious aromas.
Munich Helles, at first glance, is almost identical to Pilsner. Clear and blond, they both sparkle with carbonation that rises to a creamy, white collar of foam. On a hot and muggy day, you just want to dive in and soak it up.
Born as a cross between a taxation law and a means for protecting bakers’ ingredients, the Reinheitsgebot has long been a dominating influence on the German beer scene.
Tens of thousands of beers were tasted and thousands of places were put to the beer geek test for our largest beer in review ever. Who’s the best of the best? The results are in.
This insidious practice of cramming a cheap lemon rind atop a luscious, aromatic glass of Hefeweizen—the taproom equivalent of slobbering ketchup all over a perfectly grilled T-bone from Morton’s—has got to stop.