Review: Samuel Adams (Boston Beer Co) | Boston Lager

Boston Lager is a gentle suggestion that some folks out there still fondly appreciate the “mystery” of scramble porn.

In 1984, while we were plagued with Orwellian symptoms of the apocalypse (see: Reaganomics, power ballads and the Smurfs), Jim Koch was resurrecting an old recipe from the late gilded age. The necromancer he was, Samuel Adams Boston Lager came to be the flagship brew of the Boston Beer Company, setting a popular precedent and a face to the then emerging craft beer scene.

It was revolutionary,
It was daring,

It wasn’t yellow.

Boston Lager is a rather sessionable Vienna lager at 4.9% ABV. You can slug back three or four as guiltlessly as being able to beat the crap out of your 10-year old cousin because he challenged you to a wrestling match.

You crush the can
Like you crush his sternum

(Does Sam Adams even can?)


                 had it



Boston Lager is a tribute to the George Thorogood midlife crises out there fueled by Maxim magazine back issues and Laconia Bike Week.

Boston Lager: the Tom Brady of the of the beer world—the kind of “eh, we get it”—kind of beer.

             Know what I mean?
                       You know what I mean.
             I don’t think I know what I mean…
                           Why am I here?


What is my purpose?
Inch of head, white to off white, it laces perfectly on the glass.
It’s like a G.D. Olympic free-skier, or something.

Amber to tangerine in color, with hints of ruby red, it is vivaciously carbonated and most definitely filtered.

Blah blah blah—

The aroma is faint. It has this bitchy, crackery, light bread crust kind of thing going for it. There’s this loose German hop spiciness on the nose, like an accent. It’s slightly lemony, in the sense of a lemony kitchen cleaner.

Could I get away with saying, “medium orange and slight roasty chocolate”?

I’m saying it anyway.

So, it tastes like toffee. That’s pretty clear. It has that supermarket-store-bought light wheat bread kind of grainy flavor.

When I was young I used to fascinate myself with the idea of staying overnight at a grocery store. Eating everything I wanted, I would engorge myself until I passed out, covered in sweat and vomit.

They’d have to wheel me out in a stretcher to have my stomach pumped

My parents would be deemed ill fit to raise me

I’d live in a wayward foster home

and pick up a nervous tick

and a dependency on Eggo waffles

bouncing from house

to house

until my tuberculosis

got the best of me

my dying breath














Right in the middle of the mouth, it gets slightly metallic.


There is that sweet, salty, soapy, chewy,


quality in every Sam Adams beer, which I am assuming must be a work of the yeast itself.

It has an almost umami quality to it.

That’s right,

I know what umami is.

It’s rare, elusive, and hard to describe

                                                                                                                               Like the female orgasm


There’s a delightfully light, noble-hopped, lemony finish.

The feeling upon the tongue shoots right down the middle. It sticks around for a moment, and slides down easy. It’s thicker than water, thinner than juice. (GOD, I fucking love juice) The carbonation washes down well, and it ends dry and clean.

I don’t know—

People quibble over Boston Lager like it’s some poseur in the craft beer scene. Sure, it’s kind of like the front man gone solo after a successful music career. You have a sort of acknowledged respect for their work, given their pedigree, but you rather feel bad for them.

I feel bad for you, Morrissey.


Samuel Adams Boston Lager is a bit more than that. Sure, there are tons and tons of better beers that have come about since this beer’s conception. Sure, this beer is kind of the nearest thing to the macro-lagers of our day.


that’s kind of the point.

You bring me a handful of beer geeks—true beer enthusiasts—and you tell them to tell me what their gateway drug was?

I’m telling you, if they say anything besides “Boston Lager,” they’re either too cool or a fuckin’ liar.

I guarantee it.

*8.0 out of 10*

(No Eggo waffles were harmed or consumed in the making of this review)




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