He didn’t so much ‘walk in’ from the bullpen. He wandered in, almost as if haphazardly looking for the men’s department at J.C. Penney, unfamiliar with the store, heading past the cookware-section and then suddenly finding it. Paul Assenmacher looked like the guy who comes by your house
to fix that weird noise that the refrigerator started making, or resembles, perhaps, a down-sized sales rep who now has a job at the airport with TSA, sitting at the booth making sure your boarding-pass has the same name on it as your drivers license.
He wasn’t a physical specimen. His windup was a bit sloppy. When he landed in front of the rubber, he sometimes looked like he would fall over. And if Indians fans were looking for a lefty to come in and throw some heat, he wasn’t your man. If he clocked in the mid-80’s, he was having a great afternoon.
But he could be counted on. Meat and potatoes. One out with a guy on first and the visitors were threatening. They needed to be shut down, the damage contained. And the guy who looked like the TSA agent was just the guy to do it.
The first half-dozen gulps of Left Hand Brewing’s Sawtooth Ale, like watching Paul 
Assenmacher warm up in the bullpen, made very little impact on me. Honestly, I didn’t get it. This? Really? It’s how I felt when I first saw number 45. This is the guy who’s going to send Ken Griffey, Jr. back to the dugout by getting him to swing at one low and outside? I mean, Jay Buhner is going to stare at the ump, exasperated, over a called third-strike….from him?
I adored the color. Fairly admirable head-retention. I liked looking at it, and I continued to do so after draining half of of the contents from my pint-glass. But my gaze became mingled with a raised eyebrow and a mild sigh, almost the exact response I gave Assenmacher as I witnessed his soft-toss from my cheap seats in right-center. “Uh….ok.”
So, Sawtooth Ale looked all gussied-up in uniform. It was cool and refreshing, with acceptable carbonation and mouthfeel. Good control, but the initial delivery produced almost nothing. I couldn’t taste a damn thing! And I was worried. How could a beer this good-looking not have better command? Left Hand’s 400 Pound Monkey just climbs all over you with some wicked velocity.
They claim Sawtooth Ale to be an American-style ESB. I’ll buy that, although I prefer my
ESB’s (a favorite style of mine) to have a bit more of a ‘burned’ edge to it. Sort of like my left-handed set-up men. But, suddenly, the early September humidity was beginning to bring out some of the charred character. When lefties warm up, some good things can happen.
I sense the Willamette and Cascade hops in the brew-kettle, but the latter predominates. They add some juicy texture, especially as some of the condensation on the glass gets wiped away. Yep, it takes awhile for this beer to get limber. But once it does, it gets the job done.
And that’s my point. Or, rather, Paul Assenmacher’s. Some elements in the line-up are designed for just that purpose: to get it done. Like him, this southpaw impresses with finesse, nibbling at the corners of your taste-buds. There are no “holy crap!” moments of bewildered head-shaking. With a bit of teasing, control, veteran shrewdness, and some help from the elements (and maybe a generous strike-zone), Sawtooth Ale ambles off the mound without flurry or fanfare, just like Assenmacher, leaving the patrons with nothing more than its intention: satisfaction.
Like most of the fans, I, too, like to pay homage to the lightning bolt, the one who can jack 
up the radar-gun with mitt-popping volume. But, secretly, I really appreciate the humble, the one who’s paid to perform the task and completes it without much need for adulation. And, like most fans, I don’t always see the mound through the bullpen; I can be fickle and quick to judge. My bad. Sawtooth Ale throws a good session, even if this righty doesn’t always see what the left hand’s doing.
-30-
Beer Epistle 