The British half turned out very well, indeed. The crystal malt played nice with subdued esters to lend a sweet fruitiness that was balanced by the hops and second-running tannins. Served on the lower end of the carbonation range, this was a very nice beer. The body wasn't quite what I like to see in these beers, but I'm not complaining about something so minor in what was, essentially, a free beer.
The reason I don't have a nice picture of this extremely pleasant pale ale is that it all went down the gullets of my loving family and a few choice friends in a single day. We had a party for my youngest daughter's second birthday with a pinata and some cake for the kids, and smoked pork tacos and beer for the grownups. (Quick note: kid's birthdays are best before they realize they have birthdays). I put this beer on tap around noon, and had to hook the Bitter Francophile before 5. Maybe I have an alcoholic family, but I believe that these beers are crowd pleasers.
To me, English pales (or British bitters, whatever) are the platonic ideal of beer. This is my white-can-with-the-word-beer-stenciled-in-black-spray-paint beer, the beer that weaned me off the macro-lagers of my misbegotten youth, the house beer at my house beer. There's not much better—doesn't matter if it's hot, cold, wet, dry, with food, or just a lonely pint—than an easy-drinking, well-balanced English Pale (although its Irish, Scots, and American cousins all come pretty darned close). The only problem is that they go fast.
And now I'm out again. Think I need to get brewing.
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