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" We don&amp;#039;t like to spend a lot of time thinking about &amp;quot;pairing&amp;quot; \u2014 that is, matching what we&amp;#039;re eating with what we&amp;#039;re drinking. Wine? Yes, please, so long as it&amp;#039;s good and not so intense that it&amp;#039;ll beat up on what we&amp;#039;re eating. But we&amp;#039;re as likely to have a little chilled vodka if it&amp;#039;s that kind of place (see Esquire&amp;#039;s January issue) or, of course, a glass of beer \u2014 but not just any beer. Some work better than others. We yield to no one in our appreciation of crisp, refreshing lagers, but alongside, say, diver scallops flash-braised in a reduction of Benton&amp;#039;s bacon and sorrel stock, they do seem rather humdrum. And, as wonderful as they might be, the thick-bodied hop bombs \u2014 the IPAs and imperial stouts and whatnot \u2014 that American microbreweries are turning out in such profusion will wrestle anything subtler than a shillelagh of charred ox meat to the ground and stamp all over it.  There is, however, one sort of beer that might as well have been engineered to go with fine dining. It comes in a few, closely related styles, all originally from Belgium and northern France. &amp;quot;Farmhouse ales&amp;quot; or &amp;quot;saisons,&amp;quot; as they&amp;#039;re called, usually undergo a second fermentation inside the bottle, which eats up a lot of the residual sugar that makes IPAs so heavy, but at the same time they&amp;#039;re much more complex in flavor than a simple lager (in part because they&amp;#039;re often brewed with added spices). And they generally come in wine-sized bottles, which allows you to share one around the table and make clever conversation about how your beer is interacting with the various foodstuffs on your plate. Here are five of our current favorites \u2014 two benchmark Belgians and three domestics (saison may be the next great American microbrew style), and all in bottles big enough to share. 1. Brooklyn Local 1 ($10). This should be shelved with the champagne. It could be the most elegant beer ever made. Dry, crisp, and floral, it&amp;#039;s so well-balanced, you could drink it with anything. 2. The Bruery&amp;#039;s Saison Rue ($12) comes from Placentia, California, a bit of semiurban sprawl southeast of L.A. It doesn&amp;#039;t taste like it. Made from rye, it&amp;#039;s wildly individualistic, bold, rich, spicy, but lean enough not to manhandle an entr\u00E9e. 3. Saison Dupont ($12), from Belgium, is widely considered to be the classic saison. Bone-dry, grassy, and lightly acidic, it&amp;#039;s clean and refreshing without being bland. 4. Chimay Grande R\u00E9serve ($15) is brewed by monks near the Ardennes forest and therefore is actually an &amp;quot;abbey ale.&amp;quot; It&amp;#039;s also as big, bold, and rich as the Dupont is subtle. If that one&amp;#039;s for fish, this one&amp;#039;s for meat \u2014 it almost tastes like meat. 5. Hennepin Farmhouse Saison ($9) is from the Belgian-owned Ommegang brewery in upstate New York. A little sweeter and heavier than the Dupont, it&amp;#039;s nonetheless a thoroughly pleasant brew. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/food-drink/drinks/a8924/best-saison-ales-1210/?click=main_sr>