In our rather desultory efforts to try different brews, we have been enjoying the products of Samuel Smith’s Brewery in Yorkshire, founded in 1758 and the only independent brewery remaining in that northern county in England. I wrote about Samuel Smith’s Lager and Winter Welcome Ale at the end of November, but today I want to mention the company’s Oatmeal Stout, made not only from the traditional malted barley but from oats, which Dr. Johnson wittily and disparagingly defined in his dictionary as a “grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland appears to support the people.” What, did the Great Lexicographer never indulge in a comforting bowl of hot oatmeal with brown sugar and milk? (Or, as LL consumes it, with milk and salt and butter?)

Anyway, we were quite taken with Samuel Smith’s Oatmeal Stout. I popped the lid on an 18.7-ounce “Victorian pint” bottle, perfect for two to share at lunch, when I was rewarming (a few days later) a pot of the blackeyed peas, smoked hog jowl and turnip greens prepared on New Year’s. The stout is the blackest of black ambers, as opaque as motor oil, though the generous head is a lovely pale ivory color. Flavors of smoky toffee, rye bread, spiced walnuts and soy-glazed roast beef finish with resounding rooty bitterness, like some medicinal tea concocted by hooded monks in 1143 or thereabouts. The earthiness of the stout, its fleshiness and hint of sweetness worked beautifully with the immensely savory blackeyed peas.

Samuel Smith’s Oatmeal Stout runs $4.59 to $4.99 at specialty grocery stores like Whole Foods or Fresh Market.
Imported by Merchant du Vin, Tukmila, Wash.

One night last week, LL said, “Do we have a beer that’s not dark?” I understood her question. Sometimes one wants a beer that doesn’t partake of the full-bodied, lushly expressive, brusquely bitter character of a dark ale but something lighter, more immediately engaging; one want a lager.

I had purchased a couple of beers at Whole Foods from the Samuel Smith’s line, including the Organic Lager. Samuel Smith’s, founded in 1758 in the ancient market town of Tadcaster, is the oldest brewery in Yorkshire. Based on our experience with these examples of their craft, we’ll try more of Sam’s products.

I don’t remember what we drank the Samuel Smith’s Organic Lager with, but the beer was delicious. The color was a radiant light gold-amber, and it smelled cleanly and mildly of toasted oats (or barley, I suppose) and faintly of mint and roasted apples. This lager was beautifully fresh and clean in the mouth, a little earthy, and of course it finished with a bite of bracing, invigorating bitterness. It came in an 18.7-ounce bottle, which was perfect for two to share.

On Thanksgiving day, while we were cooking and cleaning, I said, “Let’s take a little lunch break.” I laid out a board with good British cheddar cheese, brown bread and some slices of salami and opened one of those big bottles of Samuel Smith’s Winter Welcome Ale, 2009-2010. Ah, what a reminder of simple pleasures and their ability to bring satisfaction to our lives, and with an ale that I would happily consume year-round. The color is medium-burnished amber, and after pouring, the head leaves a nice filigree around the rim of the glass. Properly robust and full-bodied, this ale partakes of a yeasty earthy wheaty/barley effect, with a touch of nutty spice cake and orange rind halfway through the mouth. The bitterness is deep and smooth and inviting. Yes, we liked this one, but as a brew neophyte, am I being too lenient? Myriad bloggers and posters to blogs are not so impressed.

LL made an interesting point, which she usually does in these matters.

When we think of the earthly effect and extent of wine, metaphorically speaking, we tend to visualize the depth of the vineyard, the soil, the subsoil, the reaching of roots underground toward rock-strewn strata. With beer and ale (and also with scotch) one thinks of surface extent, of vast fields, of wind and rain. Perhaps one could say that wine is a product of geology, while beer and ale are products of geography. Anyway, it all feels like that. As the late Levi-Strauss would say, “It tastes good to think that way.”

Samuel Smith’s products are imported by Merchant du Vin, Tukmila, Wash.

LL and I don’t drink a lot of beer, and when we do, it usually fits a pattern: Negro Modelo in Mexican restaurants, Sierra Nevada at our favorite burger joint, Tsingtao for Chinese and Southeast Asian.

I know. That’s pretty boring.

I like to read about beer, though, and always learn something when wine-writers like Eric Asimov or Benito, who are knowledgeable about the sudsy realm, digress into that topic. The passionate responses to their posts indicate that there are whole tribes of fanatic beer-drinkers out there for whom a term like I.P.A. is equivalent to drawing a line in the sand. And of course there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of blogs devoted to hand-crafted brews.

Recently we cooked a Mark Bittman recipe — Panfried Trout with Bacon and Red Onions — (come on, Mark, where else would you fry a trout except in a pan? Oh, right, an engine manifold) that called for “a strong ale” as part of the sauce; it’s an incredibly easy and delicious dish. Anyway, I went to a retail wine and liquor store, where so-called “big beers” are sold in our city, and bought nine bottles of various ales and such, including five examples from Dogfish Head, about which many writers, including Benito, wax eloquently and rapturously.

Most of a bottle of Hennepin Saison Farmhouse Ale went into the skillet, but we each sipped a small glass and found it very crisp, vibrant and refreshing, with a lovely ruddy copper-amber color and a distinct bouquet of apples and wheat. This is made by Brewery Ommegang in Cooperstown, N.Y. Looking more closely at the label, I see that the brewery is “Part of the Duvel Family of Fine Ales.” Is that like saying, Crane Lake is “Part of the Bronco Family of Fine Wines”? I dunno.

With beer in the dish, I thought that we should have beer in the glass, so I popped the cap on a bottle of Coopers Vintage Ale 2008, from South Australia. This was tasty stuff, full-bodied yet light on its feet, smooth, a little “malty” (is that the right word? “hoppy” sounds trite), with a touch of caramel and orange rind. Very nice with the trout. I was surprised at the amount of sediment in the glass, though the back label mentions the sediment as a natural by-product of top fermentation and bottle conditioning. Who knew?

Well, that’s not much of an excursion into the arcane world of specialty, artisanal ale, but I have a feeling that the Dogfish Head products will be revelations of craftsmanship and individualism, and I’m all in favor of those qualities, in ale and in wine. I’ll post about those examples soon.