Where's the head?

 Why IPA Foam Ain’t What It Used to Be

After spending two years nestled in the warm tortilla-fold of Michoacan, Mexico, I returned to California expecting certain things: traffic, overpriced avocados, and IPAs with foam — you know, the normal stuff. But no. The craft beer I once knew had changed — like an old friend who used to be the life of the party but now sighs a lot and wears Hokas.

What struck me most — and yes, it felt personal — was the absence of head. Not mine, though arguably that’s long gone, but the kind that used to crown a pint glass with snowy, cloud-like dignity. These days, every IPA I’m handed at the bar or I pour from a can has the low carbonation of a forgotten bottle of sparkling water that’s been sitting in the back of the fridge since last Christmas, and the lack of foam that makes me question everything I thought I knew about what a good IPA should be. There it sits in front of me, hoppy as hell, yes — but also just liquid disappointment and the faint echo of better times.

Flat: My Sudsy Disappointment

Modern West coast IPA's have a way of showing up at your table looking like they’ve already been sipped. One big culprit is dry hopping. Great for aroma — really, it’s why your beer smells like a bag of grapefruit peels and why you love it, but when brewers load it in late, they also add oils and compounds that kill foam. It still smells amazing, but the head takes the hit.

A lot of these West coast beers also use low-protein malts, or even adjuncts like rice or corn to keep things light and crisp. That works for keeping the malt flavor low to highlight the hops, sure, but it means there’s less structure to hold any foam in place. And then you’ve got all the filtering and fining — the stuff that makes the beer clear and pretty, but strips out the proteins that help with head retention. Crystal clear often means no drama in the glass. That said, there are many that are unfiltered or purposely hazy that still present headless and low in carbonation.

Some yeast strains don’t help either. They’re chosen for a clean finish, or bio-transformation but don’t bring much to the table when it comes to foam. So the beer drinks smooth and fruity, but looks like someone forgot to finish pouring it.

I want to take the lessons I've learned from my sad experience with many of the current Ipa's I've drunk here and utilize them in my home brewery in Mexico when I return. I still want some of those hop bombs but may make some ajustments to my grain bill to mitigate this negative hop oil effect. I think most effective would be an increase in dextrin malt. My thought is that the added body may help. But I'm also willing to try tossing in some wheat or chit malt to help build that foam. I may ease up on the dry hops, I still want that aroma, but maybe I won’t go overboard. A lighter touch can mean better head retention and still get the point across that it's a hoppy beer. Finally, I'll try to dial in my carbonation levels to 2.5 volumes. I suspect that some of the canned beers I've had are low in carbonation out of fear of over-carbonation from a refermentation in the can due to hop creep. That's just me guessing.

In the mean time there are some West Coast breweries I would recommend that still build an Ipa with proper foam:

• Beachwood Brewing (Long Beach): West Coast bangers with killer head retention.
• Russian River Brewing (Santa Rosa): “Pliny the Elder” still crushes it with stable foam and big hops.
• Sierra Nevada Brewing Co. (Chico): Classic brewery, textbook foam quality.

Cheers!

Josephsbrau Hefeweizen Review

 The beer was called Josephsbrau. It sat on the shelf at Trader Joe’s with a label faded and forgettable, a name like a whisper in a language I used to know. There were no Boatswain lagers that day. No proof for the theory I’d come to test. Only this wheat beer. Amber and solemn. A thing waiting to be chosen.

I took it home.

It poured the color of dusted brass. Too dark, maybe. Heavy in the glass. The smell rose up like something old and honest—clove and banana and grain. A wheat beer from the old world. Or the ghost of one. I drank it and it was good. Not perfect. But good in the way something can be when it surprises you and asks nothing more than that you notice.

I believed it was brewed by Gordon Biersch, down in San Jose. And the name brought something back.

A restaurant in Aptos the Brittania Arms, years ago. A man behind a bar. Dan Gordon. There was a promotion, some cheap celebration. Buy a pint and get a mug. A man like me doesn’t turn down a mug. So I did. And the brewer signed it. A scrawl across the ceramic like a trail in snow. Illegible.

I looked at it awhile. Then returned.

I’m sorry, I said. I hate to ask. But I can’t read it.

He looked at me. The silence came like smoke from a train too far away to hear. Then he reached beneath the bar and signed another. Slow and careful. Like it mattered. And it did.

I kept that mug for a while. Then not. Things go. They vanish. But the memory stayed.

So now I drink the beer. The hefeweizen with the quiet label and the long shadow of a better day. And I think maybe this is what kindness looks like. Maybe this is what memory tastes like.

And maybe that’s enough.

Boatswain IPA Review

 

Do you remember that old Smucker’s jam commercial? “With a name like Smucker’s, it has to be good.” I suppose the idea was that no one would dare saddle a product with such an unfortunate name unless it had something redeeming inside the jar. I thought about that as I stared down a six-pack of Boatswain IPA at Trader Joe’s—the beer equivalent of an off-brand cereal trying its best to look earnest. At $5.99, it practically leapt into my cart, whispering, “I won’t hurt you... much.”

I wanted it to be good. Not out of optimism, exactly, but out of necessity. A beer that cheap has to be good, otherwise what’s the point of capitalism? But the name—Twin Screw Steamer—sounded less like an India Pale Ale and more like a nautical mishap. And sure enough, it drank like one. Imagine a rusty barge moored in a Wisconsin inlet, full of malt syrup, the scent of cardboard, and the gentle fizz of regret.

From what I could gather in the 37 seconds I spent Googling it, Rhinelander Brewing Co.—named after a town nestled somewhere north of Green Bay—contract brews this for Trader Joe’s. And while I’d like to believe they meant well, this beer has all the charm of a Midwestern uncle who tells you IPAs are "too bitter" but then hands you one that tastes like oxidized raisin bread.

It’s dark, overly sweet, low in carbonation, and bears all the head retention of a root beer left out overnight. As for the hops? I sniffed. I swirled. I wondered briefly if I’d lost my sense of smell. Nothing. It's not that it lacks bitterness entirely—it's just that it's the kind of bitterness you get when you’ve bitten into a stale dinner roll expecting it to be warm.

I understand that taste is regional. People in the Midwest, bless their hearts, think a dollop of cottage cheese on a ring of lime Jell-O counts as salad. But this? This was less an IPA and more a cry for help from someone who’s only read about hops in books. Damp books.

Now, to be fair—and I do believe in fairness—it does contain alcohol. And if that’s your metric, then Boatswain IPA is technically a success. You will get buzzed, eventually. But so will sipping antifreeze, and I’d argue the flavor profile’s not terribly different.

I visited Untappd, the beer-rating app where strangers tell lies to each other. “Hoppy!” several reviewers crowed. I considered writing back, but decided that politely disagreeing with strangers online is only slightly more pointless than drinking the beer itself.

That said, I haven’t fully written off Rhinelander. Their lighter offerings might hold more promise. The American light lager, after all, is their region’s legacy—right up there with cheese curds and passive-aggressive small talk. And at this price point, disappointment is practically built into the business model.

In summary: too sweet, too malty, too flat, too Midwestern. But hey—it was cheap.