We are all the targets of nostalgia-based marketing.
This year alone, there is a Mortal Kombat movie, as well as He-Man and Street Fighter films—whose roots are all firmly planted in my youth. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the pull of nostalgia for the 1990s, a time before social media and widespread cellphones. MTV still aired music videos … the Super Nintendo and the Sega Genesis consoles … I could go on and on.
I’ve also been thinking about how beer was back then, and how much of it still exists to experience 30 years later. So I decided to go to a place I don’t go often—BevMo! in La Quinta—and bought some beers I would have reached for back then, in order to satisfy my nostalgic curiosity.
Last month, during a look at some non-alcoholic beers, I tried Sapporo NA. I was impressed and was left wondering if the “real thing” was as good. The simple answer is yes. In fact, I liked it even more. Poured into my glass from a stylish and extremely sturdy 22-ounce can, it had the same crispness, floral hops note and hint of sweetness as the non-alcoholic version. But it seemed a little drier than its N/A counterpart and reminded me a lot of a German pilsner with its noticeable, but not overbearing, bitter finish. It turns out that Sapporo is very good—and now I find myself wanting to try the Black and Reserve versions I saw alongside this one.
Pacifico Mexican lager is a beer that, unlike Sapporo, was a staple of my late teens and early 20s. My taste in beer by that point had moved beyond the American mass-produced lagers, and I deeply disliked Corona, with its clear bottles and skunky flavor. Pacifico, however, never needed a lime and didn’t cost very much, so I always appreciated it. I don’t remember having a one for a couple of decades, so I was long overdue.
Lo and behold, it tastes exactly the way I remember it. It, too, is a lot like a German pilsner (from which the Mexican lager originated, although Mexicans were brewing beer before that), with a moderate bitter backbone balanced by a slight sweetness from the corn. To commemorate the occasion, I drank it out of the can as I would have then (except it would have been a bottle). I was worried this wouldn’t be the same—and I was very glad my worries were for naught.
I went from two German-like beers to an actual German beer. Erdinger Dunkel Weißbier was probably one of the first dunkelweizens, or dark wheat ales, I ever tried. I don’t remember the last time I had any Erdinger, and after I poured the dark brown beer with a creamy head into my glass and tried it, I realized what a fool I’d been for eschewing it. I got some fruity, plum-like notes, with nuttiness, a hint of chocolate and a nice, dry finish. I will be looking to return to the beers from Erdinger again soon.
I was worried Pacifico wouldn’t be the same—and I was very glad my worries were for naught.
Lindemans Brewery in Belgium has been a source of beautifully crafted lambics widely available since I began my beer journey long ago. They are known for their fruited beers, and I’ve often given one over the years to people who say they hate beer—exploding their minds wide open.
This time, I went with the Cassis (black currant), which I also haven’t tried in many years. Slightly funky with a vinous character, this one is jammy and slightly sweet, but well-balanced by the tartness and carbonation. It’s packed with currant flavor; there is even a touch of oak. What makes this all work: The lovely beer underneath supports the flavor explosion. Do yourself a favor, and pair this with something as simple as a quality vanilla ice cream (or even make a beer float out of it). Lindemans is outstanding and well worth trying in all of its varieties.
I could not be serious about the theme of this column if I hadn’t also included Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. This grandfather of craft beer was a simultaneous shock and delight to my palate when it first crossed my lips, and I have checked in with it many times in the intervening years. Truth be told, if they still brewed and bottled what used to be sold as their stout and porter, I would have gone for those instead, because I adored those full-flavored, bold dark ales. But alas, the classic pale ale would have to do.
You may not believe me when I tell you that it is still what I remember, with grapefruit, pine, a biscuity malt base, and a stiff bitterness to finish. It might not be as cool to reach for anymore—but who cares about cool when you’re a classic?
In the mid ’90s, the Vons supermarket in La Quinta was a sort of gold mine for beer. I would grab a couple of bottles containing beers from all over the world and be transported—everything from German, English, Belgian, Scottish, Welsh and Japanese brews, along with the emerging American “microbrews.” I tried everything here, and much more, thanks to that beer selection. There was a magic to what I found there, and while some beers have disappeared, I’m heartened by the fact that at least some of them still exist, and that their quality has remained high.
The craft-beer aisles at liquor stores are shrinking—but at least I can still visit with my old friends.
