I've been here before with exhortations about Russian River's Blind Pig. But here goes again.

Hoppy beers invariably taste better when fresh. When you get the chance to drink hoppy beers that have tucked away a few air miles, you ought to drink them at your earliest convenience.

So tonight, I will mostly be revelling in the humulus lupulus overload delivered by two US brewers; 21st Amendment's Brew Free! Or Die IPA and Captain Lawrence's Captain's Reserve Imperial IPA. The latter I had at the Great British Beer festival last year, indeed I drank it until I was decidedly wobbly. The former - well, Nico and Shaun's 'tasty crack can' has been something I've lusted after ever since hearing their Brewing Network ads. It's IPA, chock-full of six lush hops, all in a can. In fact, I'm chugging it back right now.

You got hoppy beer? Drink the mother-suckers. Your palate will thank you for doing so.

ps - the fresh fresh fresh bottles of Viven IIPA and Brewdog Punk IPA earlier on were all rather fine and dandy too. Thanks to Phil Lowry for the Belgo-US hop shocks and a yay! to Asda for stocking Punk and making my early morning shopping worthwhile. >

Wye College has become synonymous with English hop research and development. Which makes its recent decline seem ever more bitter.

It has an impressive academic pedigree. It was formed as a College of Secular Clergy in the mid fifteenth century. In 1894 the South Eastern Agricultural College was established there and soon became a beacon of agricultural science with the staff's publication of research papers and seminal textbooks. By 1896, Wye had become part of the University of London and began its first research into hops ten years later.

Through the pioneering work of staff such as Professor E S Salmon, Doctor Ray Neve and Doctor Peter Darby, Wye made both critical and innovative advances in hop development. The wild Manitoban hop known as BB1 was cross-bred with English partners to produce seminal hop varieties such as Brewers Gold, Bullion and Northern Brewer. Bramling Cross, Challenger, Northdown, Target and Yeoman all trace their roots back to Wye.

The college was also at the forefront of research into dwarf hop varieties. Seen as a way of revitalising the English hop industry through the flexibilities of scale they offer, early varieties such as First Gold and Boadicea were developed there.

But recent years have not been good for Wye College. Having lost its college status in 2000 it merged with Imperial. Financial shortfalls and an abandoned bid to build a science park at the college followed. In 2004 the agricultural sciences department was marked for closure, ending almost a century of hop research on the site. When management courses ceased in 2009 as student numbers collapsed, five hundred-plus years of education at Wye came to a close.

Still, Wye's hop legacy lives on. With land and buildings donated by Tony Redsell at China Farm and local brewers Shepherd Neame at Queens Court Farm, Doctor Peter Darby continues to innovate. A new dwarf variety, the first result of the National Hop Association's breeding programme, featured in a beer presented to members of the Society of Independent Brewers earlier this year.

The college itself faces an uncertain future. A covenant stipulates that part of the campus can only be used for academic purposes; the University of Buckingham is rumoured to have expressed an interest. Meanwhile, whilst some of the farmland and property has been tenented, the historic college buildings lay empty.

It's taken barely ten years to dismantle a resource that thrived for a century. It seems that plans to rekindle learning at Wye are serious - the phoenixwyecollege initiative looks to be moving in the right direction. Here's hoping that agricultural research at Wye can look forward to a new chapter rather than the Imperial years becoming an ignominious postscript in the college's proud hop history. >

It's one thing to have heaps of sticky lupulin to cram into a beer. It's something else to get the right amount of bitterness in there - and keep it there.

The isomerisation of alpha-acids we've talked about earlier isn't a straightforward equation. In fact, it's a fairly inefficient process. If a brewer achieved 50% utilisation - that is, 50% of the alpha-acids present in the hops were isomerised and made present in the beer - that would be outstanding. A utilisation rate of 25-40% is more usual.

There are a whole number of factors that a brewer has to consider when trying to optimise the utilisation rate:

Type of hop product used?
- pellets and shredded cones utilise better than whole flowers

Rate of hopping
- More hops lead to less utilisation

Length of boil
- a vigorous boil for 60 mins at 100c helps disperse the alpha better, but eventually the longer the boil, the more the alpha-acids degrade

Nature of the wort
- higher gravity and lower pH worts reduce utilisation

Fermentation conditions
- a flocculant yeast reduces utilisation as it drags iso-alphas from the beer

Maturation and filtration
- the time and temperature of maturation, twinned with the level of filtration, will affect the level of iso-alphas surviving in the finished beer.

What fascinates me about utilisation is the coming-together of science and art. There are a whole host of tables that analyse the utilisation rate in terms of bitterness units, boil times and original gravity. Knowing the utilisation rate and the alpha of the hops used, you can calculate the bitterness of the beer. Knowing the bitterness level you want, you can do the maths backward to understand the utilisation rate needed and therefore the boil time required for the beer's gravity.

But there's a touchy-feely side to all of this that I didn't fully appreciate until I worked with commercial brewers. How the equation is changed by the shape of the copper, the combination of hops, fluctuations in the crop, tired yeasts, which side of bed the brewer got out of that morning...

If it was all about the maths, utilisation would be easy. Brewing would be easy. Thankfully, there's enough organic stuff in the equation to make the process far from predictable. As macro-brewed, numbers-driven beer proves all too often, exacting maths can lead to dependably boring beer. >

It's a variety that's produced in a greater quantity than all the hops in the Czech Republic. It's found in many of the beers brewed by the country that produces more beer than any other in the world. You may not have heard of it until now. And I may be spelling it wrongly.

There's precious little information available about China's number one hop variety. That may be down to the fact that the multiple spellings I've encountered which have hampered my research. It could be Qindao, Qintao or Tsingtao but I'll plump for Tsingdao - what's good enough for the Barth-Hass group is good enough for me. An aromatic and bitter hop - essentially dual purpose - Tsingdao Flower has been grown in China since the mid-1960s. Cultivated in the key hop producing North West provinces of Gansu and Xinjiang, it dominates the Chinese hop industry with over two-thirds of total acreage and production.

The Chinese are making a lot of beer, too. In 2008 they were the largest producer in the world and, at the same time, recorded the highest output increase year-on-year. 22 percent of the world's beer was brewed in China - more than the USA and Germany combined. So with a booming market, Tsingdao Flower ought to be running rampant to meet demand. Right?

Wrong. For starters, Chinese beers aren't hugely hopped. Secondly, beer output may have risen but not by the incredible estimates suggested. Brewers were therefore able to brew less beer with even fewer hops than usual. At the end of 2008, hop traders had agreed a buying price for Tsingdao Flower from the growers - but hadn't secured a selling price to the breweries. When demand fell, so did the market price and the traders only recouped around 75% of their outlay. As the Barth-Hass Hop Report 2008 states, "the resulting losses on the part of the hop traders must have been stunningly high".

Some farms have ripped out Tsingdao Flower in response to the retreating hop market and planted other non-hop crops instead. The Xinjiang region has already reduced acreage by 20%. As the original root crop ages, becoming further prone to infection and reducing yields, China is faced with revitalising the variety in the face of declining market demand.

The answer may be to shift the balance of the Chinese hop portfolio and stimulate an export market of quality aroma hops. Tsingdao Flower may not disappear completely, but it may have to be out-blossomed by new varieties if the industry is to be sustained. >

The region is the fourth largest producer in the world. The hop defines a classic beer style. Since the mid-thirteenth century, Saaz has sat at the top table of European hop nobility. But for how much longer?

Some things change; what was the city of Saaz, Austria is now Zatec in the Czech Republic. Some things stay the same; the aromatic hop that became synonymous with the city still thrives. Exploiting the climatic conditions, sheltered from heavy rainfall my the mountains to the north, the Saaz region and hop have a true sense of terroir. Indeed, the European Union granted Protected Designation of Origin to hops grown in the region, under the mark Zatecky Chmel. So what’s so special about Saaz?

For starters, it has more beta-acid than alpha-acid with a low cohumulone count, so imparting a gentle bitterness. A higher than average proportion of the hop oils farnesene to myrcene results in its characteristic earthy-spicy aroma. It’s also been suggested that a higher than average level of polyphenols improve stability and enhance the body of the finished beer.

And it’s those characteristics that result in Saaz defining a style of beer – Bohemian Pilsner. Often described as having a ‘clean’ taste, examples such as Pilsner Urquell are often copied around the world but never really equalled. No wonder, then, that two-thirds of Czech hop production is devoted to Saaz, making the region the fourth largest hop producer in the world after the output of Germany, USA and China.

But it’s not all rosy in the Czech hop gardens. Saaz isn’t a high yield crop and is prone to mildew. In recent years, its acreage has started to decline as higher-yield, higher-alpha varieties such as Sladek and Premiant take its place. These hops have nowhere near the same levels of farnesene, though – Sladek contains almost none – so are we witnessing the beginning of the end for this particular family of hop royalty?

I’d like to think not. New varieties have been developed around the world in an attempt to marry the characteristic high-farnesene aroma with higher alpha yield (such as Sterling in the USA) but…. it’s still not Saaz. There’s a certain something about a proper pilsner; delicate, light, a glissando across the tastebuds. I hope there’s a market for the ‘real thing’ for generations to come. And this really ought to be the year that I haul my reluctant bones over to Zatec and try the beer on its home turf. It’s the least that a hop with such an immutable sense of history and place deserves. >

Word association time. If I say 'the defining taste of beer is...' you would say...?

'Hoppy'? (if so, are you Gazza in disguise?)
'Bleurgh'! (if so, why are you still reading?)
'Malty'? (if so, please leave now and don't forget to take your whippet with you)

Beer is bitter. Well, perhaps not all beer, but bitterness is usually there at some level whether it's a gentle tingle or an excoriating pucker. That bitterness is put there by the bittering fairy with a swoosh of her magic dipstick - sorry, I meant to say it's put there by a dash of biochemistry. Acids, to be exact. Which are found in the soft resins.

The beta-acids are often ignored in discussions of hop chemistry, so let's pay them their dues. Lupulone, colupulone and adlupulone all contribute to the bitterness of beer, but towards the end of the process. They oxidise during fermentation and/or storage, so adding bitterness into the beer as it ages. They also run the risk of adding a vegetal tinge.

Most of the bitterness results from the presence of alpha acids. Humulone offers a soft - for many drinkers, desirable - bitterness. Cohumulone adds a harsher bitter taste; US hops such as Cascade and Centennial have proportionally high levels. Adhumulone does... something. But it's rather under-understood.

But those alpha-acids are poorly soluble in water. To get them into the wort, their chemistry needs altering. That's what boiling does; changing the acid's structure to allow water molecules to attach in a process known as isomerisation. Thus, some of the acids dissolve in the water.

Getting that bitterness into beer takes some doing. Hops lose alpha-acids in storage; only a percentage are taken up by the wort (the utilisation rate). More resin, more alpha-acid, isn't the easy answer. Optimisation of the resin's qualities, developed through research in both biochemistry and agriculture, seems to be the way to ensure that beer has a pleasantly bitter future. >

As with any crop, agri-economics demands a reasonable rate of return for every hop hectare farmed. Anticipating the level of demand, managing climate and disease factors, optimising production and researching improvements allows hop farmers to maximise yield. Two key questions are; what quantity to produce? And how can quality be optimised?

Let's skip back through recent history. The acreage under hop crop worldwide fell by almost half between 1992 and 2006. Yields declined in the last five years of that period. Hop prices increased and acreage expanded. But then demand fell, leaving a hop surplus in a market whose expected growth has been called 'over-optimisitic' by the hop product and service supplier Barth-Hass. What led to the quantity of hops produced becoming out of sync with market demand?

Germany offers a salutary tale in understanding the hop market's capricious nature. in 2008 the country recorded a record hop harvest, up almost a fifth on the previous year. It made it the largest producer in the world; a third of world hop acreage and almost 40% of alpha-acid production. Over 80% of German hop production is found in the Hallertau region, making it the hop powerhouse of the world - responsible for a quarter of all hops harvested worldwide.

But the demand for such quantity didn't materialise, despite market predictions that hops were 'green gold'. Beer production worldwide has slowed, growing only 1.6% between 2007 and 2008, whilst acreage increased by 13% and crop production by 21%. The trend towards consumers demanding milder beers continued; milder beers need fewer hops. Increased use of isomerised hop products (pellets or extract), which reduce brewer's production costs, reduced the need for whole hops even further.

There's an element of 'more for less' too; if you can increase the quality of a hop variety - more alpha-acid or a consistent quality of aroma - from a crop less susceptible to disease and pests then you need fewer of them.

As the 2008-9 Barth-Hass report says, "there is no point in producing hops for a market that no longer requires them in the quantities anticipated". World hop acreage has started to decline. But whilst growers have one eye on the market, they need to keep an eye on the sky too. In 2009, severe hailstorms tore into the Hallertau region, affecting around 25% of the hop acreage and destroying 5% of it. Given the reduced availability, spot market price rises were seen as inevitable. It's a stark reminder that you can plan and model the market and still be surprised by its actions, but Mother Nature sometimes delivers the greatest shock of all. >

I know five things about Pliny the Elder.

1) Gaius Plinius Secundus, Pliny the Elder to his mates, wrote a twenty volume History of the German Wars which by all accounts wasn't exactly a barnstorming page turner. But he did write Naturalis Historia, an encyclopaedic work encompassing topics such as mathematics, geography and botany.

2) He didn't create a botanical name for hops. In the book, he refers to "Lupus salictarius" (meaning 'wolf of the willow', I think) which has been translated as hop, but the name Humulus Lupulus is (I believe) one conjured up by the 'father of modern taxonomy', Carl Linnaeus.

3) And it wasn't the first mention of hop usage in beer. In fact, unless I've missed something stunningly obvious, Pliny doesn't mention hops in relation to beer at all. Abbess Hildegarde of St. Ruprechtsberg, Germany, wrote about them in 1079. Or in 1067, depending on which source you consult. Which is pretty remarkable, given that she's said to have been born in 1098. But her work 'Physica, sive Subtilitatum' from 1151-1158(ish) makes reference to making beer without using hops and that spoilage in a drink can be inhibited by hop bitterness. But that's still drinks, not beer. And brewing without hops, not with them.

So perhaps the honour goes to Abbot Adalhardus of the Corvey/Corbie monastery, Germany, in 822. Ian Spencer Horney in A history of beer and brewing says that Adalhardus refers to a tithe given to the monastery on the collection of wild hops gathered for the brewing of beer. Still seems slim evidence, mind.

Then there's always Pepin II, whose charter in 768 mentioned the cultivation of hop gardens at the abbey of St Denis, Paris. Crop cultivation, for a purpose, but... not specifically for brewing.

4) It's a damn fine hoppy beer. Beer polymath Phil Lowry shared a bottle of Russian River Pliny The Elder with me last year and I can honestly say that it lived up to expectations.

5) Pliny rhymes with 'tiny' because Vinnie Cilurzo from the brewery says so. End of.

(and now I've noticed that Zythophile, the beer-blog equivalent of Protafloc, cleans up some of the clagging balderdash about Pliny and hops in this post. And in this one too) >

As an exercise in starting with little, losing most of what's left yet still making a huge impact, hop oil utilisation is an A+ example.

There's precious little to start with - the oil fraction makes up perhaps three to five percent of a cone's weight and sometimes substantially less. Then the brewing process reduces the oil content even further as much of the oil is vaporised in the boil and exits swiftly up the chimney.

Great background aroma for the brewhouse, not so promising though for the nascent beer. So, late additions (so less boil time) and/or dry hopping (mid or post-fermentation) are the solution to oil retention and takeup, delivering the specific aromas that certain hops are renowned for.

The majority of the oil's content (80-90%) is the hydrocarbon fraction; that is, consisting of hydrogen and carbon. It's made up mostly of terpenes (such as myrcene) and sesquiterpenes (alpha-humulene and beta-caryophyllene). Yes, there's a difference between the two. No, I'm not going to try and explain it. This is an irreverent guide to hops, not Biochemistry 101.

High levels of myrcene, as found in varieties such as Cascade and Amarillo, give pungent citrics. Not surprising, perhaps, given that citric fruit has myrcene in there as well. High levels of humulene, present in the 'noble' hops such as Hallertau, provide a characteristic spicy note. As the ratio of humulene to beta-caryophyllene increases, so does the spiciness (compare the fuller spice flavour of Hallertau Tradition with a 6:1 ratio with the slighter effect offered by Willamette at 2:1).

The oxygenated fraction (hydrogen, carbon and oxygen) is where perhaps most of the standout aromas reside. Geraniol has an obvious floral scent. Eugeneol offers spicy, clove-like notes. Beta-ionone carries a complex woody touch. The delightfully named linalool is reminiscent of mint, cinnamon and rosewood. And then there's limonene with - yep, you guessed it - the great smell of oranges.

I'll dwell on that last paragraph a little longer. Because beer writers, reviewers, brewers and fat-mouthed topers often have the piss ripped out of them for suggesting that beers taste of certain herbs, spices and fruits. That it's just florid hyperbole. It's not. Because it's not just a happy coincidence that certain flavours and aromas land in beer. They weren't put there by the beer fairy. Hops share basic biochemisty blocks,including those oxygenated terpenes, with other plants. So nobody should be surprised that a hop imparts a particular fruit or spice flavour. It's the same chemical. It *is* the same flavour.

Here endeth the lesson ;-) >

It only produces 0.7 per cent of the world's hops. Two varieties that have been barnstorming the British beer scene make up less than ten per cent of that crop. So how the hell did New Zealand begin to punch way above its weight in the hop world?

Hops have been in-country since arriving with European settlers in the mid-nineteenth century. Nelson province on the South Island became the industry's cradle, benefiting from a temperate climate, high number of sunshine hours, regular rainfall and relatively wind free conditions. The imported varieties were moderately successful, but the industry was transformed by the introduction of an West Coast American hop in the 1920's.

'Late Cluster', known in NZ as 'Cali', offered better growth and greater yields and became the hop crop of choice. But twenty years later, Cali was crippled by a soilborne root rotting disease, phytophthora, and the country's hop industry was in dire straits.

The response was the establishment of the Hop Research Station at Riwaka in 1949. Tasked with breeding new high-yield varieties resistant to phytophthora, three cultivars were developed (Smoothcone, First Choice and Calicross). By the mid-sixties when these hops were well established, the industry faced a new challenge.

Lager's growing popularity boosted the worldwide requirement for seedless aromatic hops. Whilst Europe was busy eliminating the seeded male hop plant, New Zealand took a different tack. They developed a virtually sterile seedless plant that still retained the aroma and bitterness characteristics of its lineage. The varieties produced (Green Bullet, Harley's Fullbright, Sticklebract and Super Alpha) became the world's first commercially produced triploid hops (ones having three chromosomes).

Further developments saw New Zealand carry out extensive research into aroma cultivars that were adapted to the country's growing conditions. Out of that program came New Zealand Hallertau, currently the most-produced hop in the country at 42% of the total acreage.

Hop production trebled through the eighties and nineties, and today over 80 percent of the crop is exported. But it's still responsible for less than one percent of the world hop trade. Perhaps the true value of its contribution can be found in two unique offerings.

Less than four percent of New Zealand hop production is of the varietal Nelson Sauvin. But, what a hop it is. Released in 2000, it offers an unmistakable aroma of gooseberries that's almost identical to that of the Sauvignon Blanc grape (hence the varietal's name). It's used by British brewers such as Brewdog to enhance the complexity of pale hoppy beers such as Punk IPA. Thornbridge showcase the hop to incredible effect in their South Pacific Pale Ale, Kipling. It's a hop whose impact can only widen as more drinkers experience it and fall in love with it.

There's also major potential for the production of organic hops. With typical viral and fungal hop diseases not an issue and the only significant pest (the two-spotted mite) controlled by a predator, no pesticide use is needed. Nor are herbicides - instead there's a well-engineered solution that both clears foliage around the hop bines whilst depositing natural organic fertiliser at the same time. It's called sheep grazing.

Unique varieties and organic credentials ought to make New Zealand an expanding player in the world hop market. The cost of freighting the end product out internationally may be the major obstacle to rapid returns on export. But when it results in beer that offers a real 'wow!' factor, perhaps it's a price well worth paying. >

It could have been Mittlefrau, could have been Magnum. But hops ain't all about aroma and bitterness. Sometimes it's about death.

Like any agricultural crop, hops suffer from disease. Mildew has had a devastating effect on hop production worldwide; crop management and breeding plays a key role in mitigating mildew's adverse effects.

So, what are we dealing with? Powdery mildew (Sphaerotheca macularis) can infest the bud over the winter season and spread into early shoots. Infecting the leaves (and the cone directly in susceptible varieties) the dusty-grey fungus deforms the cone's formation or even prevents it from forming. If not spotted in the early stages, powdery mildew can reduce yields by around 80% even when pesticidal treatment is given.

Downy mildew (pseudoperonspora humuli) thrives in damp, humid environments. Spreading out from infected shoots, it infects the leaves with a blanket-like fungus leading to root rot, stunted leaves, blighted cones and ultimately the death of the bine.

Both kinds of mildew have wrought havoc with hop production. Downy mildew almost destroyed German hop production in the 1920's. An outbreak of powdery mildew in the USA's Yakima Valley in 1997 cost the native hop business around 15% of total crop revenue for several years after. Both kinds contributed to the US hop industry shifting westwards as New York-based production failed comprehensively after mildew took hold in the early 1900's.

The industry's response has been to develop hop varieties that are more resistant to disease and infestation. Cultivars such as Willamette, Cascade and Perle have been developed with resistance to mildew in mind. Given that low levels of leaf disease can still lead to unacceptable reductions in cone quality, plant development and management remain high priorities for growers to secure a disease-free, high-yield, high-quality crop. >

The Common Hop: species of the genus Humulus, the family Cannabaceae and the order Rosales. A native plant to Britain, Humulus lupulus var. lupulus is a perennial herbaceous plant with fast growing shoots, course-toothed leaves and flower clusters known as strobiles or cones. Inside those cones are bracts; in those bracts are glands covered in a powdery substance that are resinous and bitter and just what the brewer needs - lupulin.

Growing anywhere up to fifty feet, the hop bine is a stiff stem with hooked hairs enabling it to clutch and grow. It places roots up to four feet deep to allow for rapid vertical growth, often trained around poles to guide its growth. The flowers on each plant are either male or female (making it a dioecious species); it's the female plant that carries the sought-after cone.

As for that name - some say it derives from 'humus' as in rich, moist ground (not the dip that tastes like wallpaper paste). Lupulus is said to derive from the Latin for would (lupus); Pliny the Elder may or may not have said that it was named such because the plant 'strangled osiers like a wolf does to a sheep'. The word 'hop' itself seems to have a tortured etymology; perhaps Old English/Middle Dutch hoppe (or not), perhaps Anglo-Saxon hoppon (given as meaning 'to climb', so I'd like to believe it. Sounds too twee to me, though).

However it got its name, humulus lupulus is a plant that has been put to many uses, such as eating the shoots as if it were asparagus, dyeing cloth or as a herbalist remedy. I'm just glad that some bright spark had the idea of chucking a few into beer just so see what happens. As for who that was - that's another story. >

The right kind of bitterness. Not the kind that we associate with toxic substances, nothing bordering on the taste sensation of denatonium. It's about the bite, the edge, the sudden sharp finish or the lingering itch.

It's all about the alpha acids again. The thermal isomerisation of the humulones produces the intensely-bitter iso-alpha acids; they're modified by the residual sugars present in beer to balance out the bitterness.

But how bitter do you want your beer to be? International Bitterness Units (IBU) provide a guide, with a classic English bitter rating around 25-35 IBUs on a scale where 100 IBUs is regarded as the threshold of taste. Not that such limits hold back extreme beers by experimental brewers - Brewdog, Pitstop and Mikkeller have all sought to produce beers with a theoretical bitterness way in excess of what the palate can discern.

Perhaps that's good PR but bordering on developing a denatonium approach to brewing. As Brooklyn brewmaster Garratt Oliver says, "It’s a fairly idiotic pursuit, like a chef saying, ‘This is the saltiest dish'. Anyone can toss hops in a pot, but can you make it beautiful?” >

Think about the first time you lifted a beer to your nose and felt its bouquet pervade your nostrils. Or when you've held hop flowers in your hands, rubbed them between your fingers and released their sticky scent. When you've walked into a brewery and the air was filled with flowers and fruits. The sheer joy of hop aroma.

It's a volatile commodity, though. The essential oils in a hop cone have a hydrocarbon fraction comprised mainly of the aromatic monoterpene, myrcene. Broken down by the boiling wort in a process called thermal isomerisation, only a minority percentage of those oils remain present.

So the aroma profile of beer is bolstered by adding hops towards the end of the brewing process. That could be either directly into the copper (late hopping), infusing the hot wort as it travels to the cooler (via a hop back) or adding them direct to the fermenter or barrel (dry hopping).

The result can be a harmonious gathering of ripe citric fruits or summer meadow flowers. Or it could be a big fat nose-stinging-oh-my-god-I'm-having-a-nose-bleed mess. Sometimes brewers can be heavy-handed, albeit with the best intentions. I like a beer's aroma to be alluring - a fleeting glimpse of bra strap rather than a flash of boobs. Subtle aroma isn't yet an endangered species in craft brewing and I'm hoping that it'll stay that way. >