Sometimes, a new food-related idea is so bizarre, so out there, and just so strange that it overcomes all odds and winds up being incredible.  However, it usually just winds up being gross.  When an idea such as a can of beer mixed with Clamato comes along, which category will it fall into? 

Anheuser-Busch seems to think it has its finger on the pulse of society, what with their poignant advertising and general “Hell yeah, America!” attitude.  To think this is all they are about would be to miss just how open minded they really are.  For instance, did you know that Budweiser products are being marketed to other cultures?

It’s true.  Not only does Budweiser want to be the main source of ice cold refreshment at your next party, it also wants to be the main source of ice cold refreshment at your next fiesta.  That means “party” in Spanish!

In order to get its foot in the fiesta door, they have just released (okay they did this a long time ago but I’m writing about it now, so for our purposes it is “just released”) their take on a classical Mexican beverage. 

I did my research (browsed Wikipedia) on the drink known as the Michelada, and it seems to have a rich history (the Wikipedia entry had more words than I was expecting).  The bottom line is mixing beer with tomato juice is the base for making a Michelada, but apparently they can’t be considered a true Michelada unless it contains Worcestershire sauce.  It goes into some grey areas at that point which is when, admittedly, I started to tune out.

What it all boils down to is that the extremely simplified version of a Michelada is beer and tomato juice.  I couldn’t decide how I felt about that concept.  I do like Bloody Marys, and this seemed like some sort of inbred cousin of that concept.  The only way to find out would be to taste it for myself.  Of course, this could only mean one thing: do nothing about it until one day, months and months later, I saw it in the supermarket by chance and said “Eh, I guess so.”

When I saw the can on the shelf I remembered why I was so hesitant to try it.  It wasn’t just beer mixed with tomato juice, it was beer mixed with Clamato.  The very concept of Clamato creeps me out.  What is it, tomato juice with clams in it?  That was always my assumption of what it actually was, although I have also heard that it was basically just tomato juice, and happened to have “clam” in its name. 

This is not meant to give you the impression that the vast majority of my conversations with people are about tomato juice (only about half of my conversations are).  This is more meant to show that my opinions about something I don’t really care about can be easily swayed by hearsay and conjecture.

Finally, I decided to research what Clamato actually is.  According to my findings (source: Wikipedia.org), the main ingredients of Clamato are: tomato juice and reconstituted dried clam broth.  There you have it.  Clamato is not just a disturbing product name, it actually does contain clams.  And yes, I do feel a bit stupid being shocked by that fact.  Since the product does indeed have “clam” in its name, it should be assumed.  I simply wanted to believe that something like that just couldn’t exist.

Wikipedia also alerted me to another interesting Clamato-related controversy.  According to the article:

The success of Clamato has led to the introduction of several imitation beverages, usually marketed as tomato-clam cocktail. The generic beverages are often considerably cheaper than Clamato and have cut into Mott’s market share.

Mott’s has taken steps to protect its trademark, running print, radio and television advertisements which attempt to distinguish Mott’s Clamato from generic tomato-clam beverages.

Apparently, getting in on the tomato-clam beverage market is such a lucrative opportunity, some companies are committing clam-based subterfuge to trick people into buying their non-Clamato clam-based beverage!  Scandalous.

Also, if you can not think of a single piece of advertising to come from Mott’s Clamato ad campaign, you are not alone.

On a related note, I think adding the phrase “clam-based” before any noun instantly makes it more intriguing. 

Finally, the waiting was over.  Armed with my can of Bud Light & Clamato “Chelada”, along with my now surprisingly large amount of Clamato knowledge, I was ready.

Despite the fact that pouring anything Bud Light related into a glass seems like a waste of a clean glass, I decided that was the proper testing method.  Mostly because I wanted to get a picture of it.

As you can see, my photography skills are as strong as ever.  With the flash, the Chelada looks like some sort of carbonated, watered down tomato juice.  So hey, my picture gets the point across.

Although without the flash, it looks like a Shirley Temple (which would be one huge shock to the system if that’s what you were expecting when you took a sip).

The beverage’s smell was what you might expect: watered down tomato juice.  I feel bad for possibly overusing the phrase “watered down tomato juice”, unfortunately when I looked that up in the thesaurus, no synonyms could be found. 

Even though the drink didn’t smell that good, the important part is the taste.  And the Chelada’s taste was… surprisingly bad.  Not bad in the way you might be expecting.  It didn’t taste like Manhattan clam chowder, nor did it taste like rancid beer.  It just tasted like (wait for it) watered down tomato juice, with some carbonation and strange background flavors to round out the unpleasant mix. 

I may have been expecting a thicker texture going into it, and the more beer-like consistency threw me off.  I guess the thinner texture of the drink would make it more “refreshing”, but it just seemed strange to me.  Although I don’t know what ratio of tomato juice to carbonation wouldn’t be strange.

The end result of the taste is that it didn’t seem to be enough of anything.  There wasn’t much tomato flavor, and there wasn’t much beer flavor.  It was just sort of there.

If Anheuser-Busch is looking to push Cheladas for the upcoming summer season, I would be open to listening to deals to use my “Just sort of there.” review in their advertising.  I would even be willing to allow them artistic license and add an exclamation point at the end of the quotation.

For your next fiesta, I don’t think I can recommend a Budweiser Chelada.  I can, however, recommend a much cheaper alternative: ketchup, beef bullion, and Fresca.  Its zestiness will blow you away.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am not consciously striving to turn this site into some bastard spawn of bevnet.com.  It should be understandable that when you spend most of your time sitting down and doing next to nothing, or even during the extremely rare times when you’re actually doing something productive (and by “you” I mean “me”) a beverage is never far from hand.

At the same time, jeez, I really need some new topics.

My latest discovery came as a result of a recent wild house party my friends and I are notorious for.  And by wild, I mean we watch TV and play team Scattergories.  Not that I’m knocking it; board games are bad ass, except when people roll the worst possible letters when it’s your turn to go.

We had gone to Waldbaum’s to get something to drink, but because of Passover and the craziness that goes along with it, the beer selection was sub par.  And by sub par, I mean they didn’t have Tequiza. 

Due to this (what I originally thought was an) unfortunate event, we left the store and went to the local beverage distributor.  We would later realize that “distributor” is an industry term for “grossly overpriced.”  They had what we were looking for, but we looked around for a bit.  My goth friend Dersh had picked out a beer called Hobgoblin, because he is into spooky things and creatures of the night and all that.  While that was going on, I had spotted a mildly dusty pack of Chili Beer hiding in the back of one of the refrigerators. 

The strangest part about that was that the first few spots in the front of the cooler were empty, as if someone had recently purchased some Chili Beer.  However, the pack I picked up was noticeably dusty (as was much of the selection, come to think of it,) which would indicate that there wasn’t much interest in this variety.  The logical answer is that the employees just couldn’t be bothered to move the old selection forward, since the flavor was not popular.  Although it seems that given the pricing and peculiar selection, logic was something you check at the door when shopping at this distributor.

Amy was still deciding which Starburst flavored drink she wanted, so Dersh and I examined the Chili Beer even further.  The package was eye catching; it had the southwestern color motif, and abstract, square-ish shapes all over the packaging.  Abstract art is big in the southwest, judging by the beer packaging and the old Phoenix Coyotes logo.  And since I gave two examples, that means it’s true. 

Stretching almost the entire handle area is the beer’s motto: “Lime is for Wimps.”  Alright.  I don’t really understand why they are so adamant about this; it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you would construct a manifesto around.  Regardless, it was an issue that they felt strongly about, and weren’t afraid to make their opinion known.

Under their slogan was a picture of a crossed out lime, with NFL written inside it.  We figured out that the N stood for “No” and the L stood for “Lime,” but we couldn’t quite understand what the F stood for.  Oh well.

The beer looked like beer.  Nothing special.

What was inside the beer is what made it interesting.  Floating inside the bottle was a rather grotesque looking chili pepper.  Although when you think of all the similarly shaped items that could be floating inside your drink, a chili pepper is definitely one of the best options.

That sealed the deal; we had to buy it.  And by “we” I mean “Dersh.”  I had troubles of my own; my six pack of Tequiza cost like $9.

The first thing that hits you about the chili beer (I’m no longer capitalizing the term) is the smell.  Before you can get it to your lips to take a sip, a strong salsa aroma hits you.  Smelling this, I discovered what I assumed was the inspiration behind chili beer.  What goes together better than beer, tortilla chips and salsa, right?  The beer already has yeast in it (I learned that at Beer School) so we can eliminate the chips, and just combine it with the salsa for the ultimate party drink.

Taking a sip, the thing that shocks you is that your initial reaction is: it’s actually pretty good.  Then that reaction is immediately replaced by a combination of horror, confusion, and revulsion.  The actual taste of the beer is very strong and fairly spicy.  I can handle spicy food very well; I love it.  The level of spice in the beer was just awkward; it was too strong to be a mild aftertaste, and not strong enough to be a decent novelty spicy beer.

And, last but not least, is the absolute worst part of drinking it: the chili pepper.  Every sip you take, the chili lunges at your lips, sending shivers down your spine every time it touches you.  You could have your eyes focused on the chili, bracing for impact; but it would do no  good.  It will still creep you out.  It feels like reenacting an urban legend or some similar Snopes-debunked story where there is a human finger packaged in a bottle, and it is poking you in the mouth with every sip you take.  Horrifying.

I was ready to stop drinking it about three sips in, but I decided to finish it for God knows why.  After this, I realized that Tequiza is actually really gross and I have no idea why I thought I liked it.