AT MIDNIGHT on Sunday, thousands of otherwise clear-thinking citizens will resolve to stop drinking beer in a vain attempt to lose a few pounds. Beer, they’re certain, is the reason they’re walking around with a spare tire.

Some will swear off it forever. Or worse, many will switch to light beer.

Bradley Scott Cailor says they’re almost certain to fail. “It’s not the alcohol that’s making them gain weight,” the author of “The Beer Drinkers ‘Diet’ ” (BookSurge, $14.95) proclaims. “It’s the munchies they’re eating and their sedentary lifestyle.”

Yes, you read that right: “The Beer Drinkers ‘Diet.’ ” It sounds like a dream come true, even if you read the subtitle: “The weight-loss plan that allows for the responsible consumption of alcoholic beverages!”

Responsible? I’m not sure what that means, but it’s gotta be better than those other diets that tell you to give up everything – beer, wine, whiskey, even sugar-free Jell-O shooters – if you have any hope of losing those extra pounds.

“That’s exactly why they don’t work,” Cailor told me in an interview. “You’ve got to let people do what they want to do and incorporate it into a health plan that’s going to work for them. You can’t tell them to stop drinking beer, because that’s not what they want to do.”

Cailor describes himself as a lifelong yo-yo dieter who lost 593 pounds (and gained them all back) over the years. He went into each weight-loss plan with the necessary commitment but, every time, stress sidetracked him into drinking excessively and munching on fast food.

Then he discovered that the secret to losing weight was to just stop dieting. Instead, he taught himself to incorporate healthy eating and exercise into his everyday lifestyle.

He exercises a little more and cuts out a few beers in the middle of the week. He’s also eliminated junk food and weekend bingeing. No Atkins, no grapefruit diets – nothing too complex. He eats up to six small-portion meals a day.

The result: He lost 114 pounds of fat in about a year; the 5-foot-8-inch author’s down to 165.

“This ‘diet’ was actually very easy to follow because I never felt that I was actually on a ‘diet,’ ” he writes.

Indeed, the key to his plan is to treat himself to the thing he loves most: “I like to drink beer! I am not an alcoholic; I just enjoy hard-earned beers, in moderation, as a reward for working hard during the week.”

He said: “The bottom line is that I did nothing that could be considered depriving or frustrating. I ate what I wanted and drank what I wanted.”

Refusing to give up beer not only made it easier to stick to his weight-loss regimen, Cailor points out in his easy-to-read memoir, it also proved that beer ain’t all that bad.

Take that dreaded light beer. Beer companies spend millions advertising the calories in that watered-down crud. But the difference between the 110 calories in Bud Light and the 135 calories in Yuengling Lager is only about a handful of potato chips. Instead of taking one less bite of all that saturated fat, beer drinkers subject themselves to tasteless yellow swill.

Another thing: Beer doesn’t automatically go to your gut. That’s an urban legend. In fact, among women, studies have shown an inverse relationship between alcohol consumption and body mass. Beer bellies go away when you put down the Doritos and pick up a dumbbell.

So, how much does Cailor drink? He won’t tell.

“I admit to drinking in spirited moderation,” he said. “Most diet books tell you to drink, at most, two to four beers per week. I assure you that I exceed that. The point is, you have to decide for yourself what moderation is… . There’s no sacrifice in this book. I just give you some boundaries.”

Tips on diets & drinking

Here are a few of Cailor’s guidelines:

• Beware of umbrella drinks. They may contain 600 to 800 calories each.
• Instead of just sitting, burn a few calories playing bar games.
• Drink a glass of water every few drinks.
• Eat a balanced meal before going out for drinks. Avoid late-night munchies. Your body burns alcohol calories first, then stores your food calories as fat.
• Try to limit partying to weekends.

For more info, visit www.TheBeerdrinkersDiet.com.

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WHAT BEER WOULD Rocky drink?

It’s mere idle speculation, as the Philly fighter’s new movie, “Rocky Balboa,” fills theater screens this weekend. But the question did provoke a small storm of discontent on the Internet earlier this month when Sylvester Stallone himself weighed in with an answer.

The setting was a terrific, far-reaching Q&A between Stallone and his fans posted at Ain’t it Cool News, an entertainment news Web site. Among other things, the actor revealed his worst movie (“Stop! Or My Mom will Shoot!”) and why he’d like to box Hitler.

The beer topic was raised when one fan wrote:

“I am throwing a Rocky party to celebrate ‘Rocky Balboa’s’ release and I need to know what kind of beer Rocky would drink so I can buy it for the party.”

“No question about it,” Stallone replied. “Rocky drinks Rolling Rock, especially in the ‘pony’ bottles, which are the small bottles.”

Rolling Rock!?

OK, I guess that might make sense as a pun: Rocky, the Italian Stallion, drinking Rock out of ponies.

But it raised a quick stink among fans.

Some howled it should be more of a Philly beer, perhaps Yuengling. Others cried $1 cans of PBR. And at least one suggested a beer to honor his trainer, Mickey’s.

Rolling Rock had its defenders. The beer is (or, at least it was when “Rocky” was filmed) a Pennsylvania beer. And one fan reasoned, “… the pony size was probably specified because Rocky needs to stay in shape.”

As I say, it’s only harmless speculation, but the debate does underscore one obvious point about fictional (and real) characters: Choice of beer goes a long way toward defining a person.

For starters, note that the question is, what kind of beer Rocky prefers. It’s obvious the kid from Kensington isn’t sipping Chardonnay – white wine just wouldn’t work for a rowhouse pug who chugs raw eggs for breakfast.

Beer, even in an age when it can cost you a hundred bucks for a case, still has an image of being the lowbrow working man’s beverage. It’s what Hank Hill and his redneck neighbors guzzle in the alley. It’s what Tenacious D sucks down between sets.

Wine? That implies highbrow culture (“My Dinner with Andre”) or midlife angst (“Sideways”). Or maybe cannibalism. Who can forget Hannibal Lecter in “Silence of the Lambs,” salivating over the flavor of a victim’s liver, served with “fava beans and a nice Chianti”?

Screenwriters often turn to specific brands as shorthand to establish place – say, Guinness ads on double-decker buses in London, or Old Style in pretty much every movie ever staged in Chicago. Rolling Rock famously appeared much closer to home in a classic western Pennsylvania tavern scene in “The Deer Hunter.”

Sometimes they get it wrong. In “A History of Violence,” Viggo Mortensen walks into a Philly bar (actually filmed in Canada) appropriately decorated with Schmidt’s and Yuengling signs – and then orders a thoroughly un-Philly brew, Genesee Cream.

In “Boys Don’t Cry,” the wrong choice of beer undermines the effort to create a believable character. In one scene, Hilary Swank and the rest of her aimless Nebraskan friends crack open a case of Celis Pale Rider – an expensive (now defunct) microbrew that would’ve been too expensive and too trendy for that bunch.

OK, so Hilary won an Oscar in spite of the gaffe.

I’ll pick on the new James Bond instead. In “Casino Royale,” Bond switches from martinis to beer – Heineken beer. Somehow that’s supposed to imply he’s sophisticated yet manly. To me, it just means he has extra cash to waste on skunky imported lager.

I can’t help but imagine him running into a crazed, amyl-nitrate-snorting Dennis Hopper in the movie “Blue Velvet.”

“Heineken? F— that s—-! Pabst Blue Ribbon!”

As for Rocky, it depends on which one you’re talking about.

The Rocky who battled Clubber Lang in “III” had already sold his soul and was doing Budweiser endorsements.

The original Rocky? Let’s go to the tape:

You remember, it opens with a bloody fight in a rundown club. Rocky’s defeated opponent is sucking on a can of Schlitz.

The wounded Rocky limps into the cold then grabs a quick swig of, nope, not beer – rotgut wine from the guys on the corner. I never noticed it before, but he actually spits it out.

A little later, Rocky strides into the Lucky Seven Tavern and… what’s that bottle the bartender slides him?

Rolling Rock?

Nah, bleep that bleep. Schmidt’s of Philadelphia!

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IT’S EASY to get into a rut when you’re drinking: The same old beer, the same old joints. Who can blame you when the suds are so good in this town?

This year, I made a resolution to visit some new places, especially out in the scary ‘burbs, and darned if I didn’t discover some primo watering holes. If you’re traveling in uncharted waters this holiday season, you might find yourself near one of these. Stop in – and get out of that rut.

Mesquito Grille (128 W. State St., Doylestown).

The menu boasts 150 bottled beers, and none of them is run-of-the-mill. Last week, I had a draft Harviestown Old Engine Oil, the first time I’ve seen this inky-black old ale on tap anywhere. The bar’s World Beer Tour focuses on beer and cuisine of a different country each month. Oh, and that incredible beer selection is available for takeout.

Half Moon Saloon (108 W. State St., Kennett Square).

If your significant other drags you to the holiday light display at Longwood Gardens, insist on a visit here for lunch or dinner. The former Kennett Kandy Kitchen is now a 27-tap, tin-ceiling tavern with three hand pumps serving cask-conditioned ale, and a Belgian-heavy bottle list. Check out the wild game selection (yak, kangaroo) and rooftop dining room.

Flying Pig Saloon (121 E. King St., Malvern).

I’m going to make a bold statement here and say this is the best beer bar in the Philadelphia suburbs. And that’s saying a lot, because right down the road in Exton is the Drafting Room, which many beer freaks tout as one of the best on the entire East Coast.

The Flying Pig is so good, it would fit right into any neighborhood in the city. Twenty taps with plenty of locals and Belgians, a hand pump, decent bar food, TVs, a couch and the one thing that pushes it over the top: a cellar of vintage bottles. Even for this inveterate city boy, it’s worth the drive out Lancaster Avenue.

Crabby Larry’s Brewpub Steak & Seafood House (237 W. Butler Ave., Chalfont).

Undoubtedly the least-heralded brewpub in the Philadelphia vicinity, this tiny joint never built much of a reputation for its suds. But recently it hired a new brewer (from nearby Keystone Homebrew Supply) who is rounding the styles into shape. I enjoyed a very nice dry stout, and even the unusual raspberry lambic was a good sip.

Spinnerstown Hotel (2195 Spinnerstown Road, Spinnerstown).

No, this is not one of those blue-hair dining rooms that seem to plague the region’s historic taverns. This circa 1750 hotel has more of the feel of a rambling road house, with a fine menu and excellent service. But you’re here for the beer, and for that you have to turn to the 34-page (yes, thirty-four) beer guide that’s strong on Belgians and American micros.

Great Divide, Jolly Pumpkin, Southampton, Three Floyds, Ommegang, St. Bernardus, Rochefort, Urthel, Fantome – it’s the 1927 Yankees lineup of beer makers. And, I hear the restaurant just added a hand pump to its tap list.

Union Jack’s on the Manatawny (546 Manatawny Road, Boyertown).

Remember that time you got lost on purpose, tooling around the backwoods of Berks County, stopping in at whatever joint looked interesting? And then you lucked into an old tavern with outdoor seating right next to a quiet stream, where the kitchen specialized in fresh grilled food? And, the bar had something like 20 taps and 300 bottles? This is that place.

Closer to home

Not to leave the city uncovered, briefly here’s six more joints you may not have discovered yet. (Note to suburbanites: These places are worth the trip, if only to get your butt into a real city tavern.)

Three Monkeys (9645 James St., Torresdale).

Finally, Northeast Philly has a decent beer bar (other than the superb Grey Lodge in Frankford). Located directly across from the Torresdale train station, it offers outdoor seating in the Monkey Court, a better-than-average kitchen featuring Asian-fusion, a beautiful antique back bar and a house beer by Stoudt’s.

Old Eagle Tavern (177 Markle St., Manayunk).

This is real Manayunk, not Main Street, which means no valets and, unfortunately, no parking spots. But once inside, you’ll find an outstanding tap selection, real bar food and frequent beer dinners that focus on regional craft brews.

Pub on Passyunk East (1501 E. Passyunk Ave., South Philadelphia).

That’s P.O.P.E. to the locals, who increasingly seem to be bicycle messengers and tattoo artists. Check out the variety from area breweries during the Wednesday night Crawl with Claus during the Christmas season; it drops in on all the Passyunk Avenue taprooms.

Mermaid Inn (Mermaid and Germantown avenues, Chestnut Hill).

This beloved dive always offers a surprise or two on tap, but I’m happy to stick with the Dogfish Head while enjoying live acoustic (e.g., not ear-splitting) jams. Maybe I’m just getting old.

Southwark (4th and Bainbridge streets, South Street area).

This might’ve been the single best restaurant dinner I enjoyed in ’06. But you don’t come to Joe Sixpack for the food, so let me add that the beer selection more than holds its own against the wine list.

Bar Ferdinand (1030 N. 2nd St., Northern Liberties).

OK, maybe everyone in the city already knows about this excellent tapas bar. But if you’re behind the curve, try the sauteed mussels and the Allahambra Negra.

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VORCHDORF, Austria – Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus beer.

It lives in the stainless steel vats of Castle Eggenberg Brewery.

On Wednesday, I watched the birth of the next grand batch of Samichlaus. The renowned beer, whose name is the Swiss-German word for Santa Claus, is made only one day each year, St. Nicholas Day.

It will ferment for 20 or more days, then sit, and sit, and sit for 10 months, aging slowly in a cold cellar, rounding itself into the small wonder that beer lovers have come to cherish each holiday season:

The Strongest Lager in the World.

It’s a miracle that it even exists.

Samichlaus nearly went kaput 10 years ago when Hurlimann, the Swiss brewery that had made it starting in 1980, was bought by the Feldschlosschen conglomerate. The big brewery had no use for the niche product. I remember panicking, then hurrying to scoop up as many bottles as possible, savoring each one like it was the last.

An international campaign to save Samichlaus was launched. Petitions were signed.

And to the grateful thanks of the beer’s devoted fans, Castle Eggenberg stepped in a couple of years later through an unusual license agreement to resuscitate the lost brand.

It uses the same ingredients and the same recipe. The only difference is the water – pure, spring-fed H20 from the preserved grounds surrounding the brewery at the base of the Alps.

Built on the site of a 10th-century castle, Eggenberg is an oddity among Austrian breweries. Most produce standard pilsners and mildly malty lagers served in frothy half-liter mugs.

But this small brewery decided 25 years ago that if it was going to survive, it would have to develop its export products.

“There was no chance to compete against the big groups,” said Karl Stohr, the managing director whose family has owned the brewery since 1803. “We knew that we had to do something special.”

That would be Urbock, a famously strong (9.6 percent alcohol) bock that is now distributed in 35 countries. Other strong beers followed, including a whiskey-malt beer called Nessie, a double bock and, of course, Samichlaus.

Curiously, though these big beers have attracted praise and fame around the world, inside Austria they are hardly known.

“It’s the mentality of the Austrian people,” Stohr said. “They’re conservative, they’re not used to drinking strong beer. They drink a lot of the traditional beer, but they don’t have any idea that the world of beer is bigger than lager and pils… It’s not like America, where people are open to more tastes.”

Eggenberg, where beer has been brewed since the 1300s, treats Samichlaus with utter respect.

On brewing day, it invited a handful of clients and journalists to attend the ceremonial tasting of the wort – the warm, malty unfermented liquid that is the basis of all beer. Tall pilsner glasses of the murky porridge were poured directly from a huge copper lauter tun.

It looked threatening, like a witch’s brew, but it went down like a mouth-warming mulled cider.

Normally, the parish priest would bless the sacred juice with a prayer before it headed to the fermentation tank. This year, the clergy had to attend to a funeral, so it was up to Stohr to offer the blessing at the brewery’s own chapel.

He spoke in German, Italian, Dutch and Romanian, but by the time he got around to translating it into English we were all too thirsty to continue listening.

Onward to a tasting room, where dozens of antler racks from past hunting expeditions hung over rows of glassware.

Last year’s brew was uncapped, its bottle boldly proclaiming it as the Guinness Book of World Records’ “strongest lager in the world.” It’s a label that is banned in America, where uptight regulators prohibit beer-makers from making any claims about the strength of their product.

It poured into the goblet like a light whiskey, and took no prisoners on the way down my throat.

Across the room, an Italian woman tried a sip and grimaced – no translation needed. The Romanian next to me shrugged and said, “You either love this beer or you hate it.”

But Samichlaus reveals itself more intimately after years of maturation. Older bottles were presented and compared.

Where the ’05 was still full of malt flavor, the ’04 was fruitier, with esters that remind you of peach brandy. The ’01 was even more delicate, its edges smoothed over with time. What started as a loud, head-banging lager finally settled down and allowed you to see its softer side.

On St. Nicholas Day in Europe, small children are told that if they look hard enough, they’ll see the Krampus – fun little devils that dance around in masks.

After many glasses of Samichlaus, I think I know where that legend got its start.

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IF IT’S December, it must mean the Shelton Brothers are in trouble again.

Last Christmas, authorities in Connecticut nailed the Massachusetts specialty beer importers for their bottles of Ridgeway Seriously Bad Elf, which depicted one S. Claus on the label.

This year, same thing, different state, as New York authorities warned they wouldn’t OK Shelton’s labels for several other beers, including Warm Welcome Nut-Browned Ale. The label, which depicts Santa dangling above fireplace flames, might appeal to underage drinkers, the State Liquor Authority said.

The Sheltons quickly filed a lawsuit, claiming a violation of their free speech rights.

Turns out, the label rejection was only a preliminary decision. The New York agency reversed itself Tuesday and OK’d the label.

So never mind, the Clausmeister is safe for another Christmas.

But the label hoo-hah did get me thinking about the current state of Christmas – er, holiday – beers. Many brewers produce special beers for the season, but often they’re hesitant to put anything Christmas-y on the label.

This isn’t a Fox News-style War on Christmas brouhaha. Mainly, the breweries are worried that after Dec. 25, nobody’s going to want to buy a beer with Santa on label – even if it’s perfectly drinkable in January and February.

The shame is that the tradition of brewing a special wintertime beer is clearly tied to the holidays. The monks of medieval Europe, the world’s first professional brewers, celebrated Christmas with these special beers. And before Christianity, ancient pagans observed the winter solstice festival, Saturnalia, with special ales that were strengthened to keep them warm till spring.

Two thousand years later, you can put together a case of Saturnalia beers, from a shelf near you.

Good-looking Santas

These breweries aren’t afraid to put Kris Kringle on their labels:

1. George Gale Christmas Ale (England). A winter warmer with a very jolly Old St. Nick.
2. Penn St. Nikolaus Bock (Pittsburgh). Technically that isn’t Santa, it’s the fourth-century saint who started all this fun.
3. Petrus Winterbeer (Belgium). I think this is the same Santa who used to sled on that Norelco razor.
4. Ridgeway Santa’s Butt (England). They were going to call this “Heinie,” but that one’s already copyrighted.
5. Delirium Noel (Belgium). Look closely. Yes, that’s Santa and his eight tiny pink elephants.
6. Rogue Santa’s Private Reserve (Oregon). With his fist raised in the air, Claus is hailing the extreme hops in this ale.

Politically (and seasonally) correct

Beers you can give to non-(Santa) believers:

1. Saranac Season’s Best (New York). A nut brown lager with a snowy Adirondack mountain scene, in case you were confused about which season we’re talking about.
2. Smuttynose Winter Ale (New Hampshire). That’s not Santa on the label of this pale ale, it’s Mom carrying home the presents.
3. Avec les Bon Voeux de la Brasserie Dupont (Belgium). With the brewery’s best wishes, it’s a spicier version of its famous Saison.
4. Samuel Adams Old Fezziwig (Boston). You’d know who he was if you hadn’t been dozing in 10th-grade English literature class, Scrooge.
5. He’Brew Monumental Jewbelation (California). “The most award-winning Hanukkah beer ever created,” the brewer boasts. And, perhaps, the only Hanukkah beer ever created.
6. Left Hand XXXmas (Colorado). “X” is shorthand for “Christ,” but I don’t think they’re talking about Baby Jesus here.

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FOR THE PAST month, I’ve been examining the evolving union of beer and food – a marriage that’s enhancing the image of our favorite adult beverage.

But there is one downside to this evolution, a nasty trend that needs to be nipped in the bud.

I speak of the dreaded “beer sommelier.”

Yes, there already is such an animal – an expert who manages a restaurant’s beer list and advises diners on the proper selection to match the evening’s meal. Several U.S. restaurants (none in Philadelphia, as far as I know) now boast one, and there have been informal talks to begin a professional training program in America.

Now, I don’t think any of us have a problem with restaurants providing expert beer advice, some guidance on choosing the best beer for your meal. It’s an overdue improvement over this familiar tableside dialogue:

You: “What kind of beer do you have?”

Clueless waitron: “Everything.”

No, it’s the term itself – sommelier – that’s sticking in my craw.

A sommelier by definition is the employee who maintains the restaurant’s wine list. A “beer sommelier” is like calling someone a “baseball quarterback.”

Worse than the clunky vocabulary, the use of the term is a misguided step toward what you might call the winofication of beer.

We’ve been seeing it coming for some time now: corked ales, aged casks of barleywine, lavish dinners that pair beer with haute cuisine. I winced a bit the first time I spent a very winelike $15 for a single bottle of domestic beer but excused it as the necessary cost of high-priced ingredients and labor.

Yet as beer continues to upscale itself, winofication spreads. Wine adjectives (“elegant,” “seductive”) have begun to creep into beer descriptions. There’s even one pricey ale made by methode champenoise.

I don’t fear a blurring of the traditional lines that have always separated the two (wine is expensive, beer is cheap; wine is for art galleries, beer is for tailgaters). Beer can safely cross these lines and retain its principles.

Truth is, I’m mainly worried that folks will start calling me Monsieur Sixpack.

OK, I’m overreacting. But I say we stop it here at “beer sommelier.”

We need a different term.

One suggestion I heard recently was “cervosier.” That’s an old French word for brewer, which means it should be ruled out for the simple reason that it is, in fact, French. (I mean, c’mon, name three French beers.)

We could just call him or her a “bartender,” only I’m having a hard time imagining a 12-year-old Thomas Hardy Ale poured by Moe Szyslak.

Here’s a better one: Cellarman.

Besides being a pronounceable English word, it boasts a proud lineage. A cellarman in Britain was the guy responsible for properly maintaining a pub’s casks, pumps and lines. It’s a nearly lost craft nowadays because most kegged beer is pasteurized and artificially carbonated. Aside from its temperature, factory beer doesn’t require a lot of attention.

Reviving the old term would bring new importance to the care and selection of beer.

The restaurant cellarman (or cellarwoman, of course) would be a well-versed expert who could tap a keg and select the perfect lager for that blanquette de veau. He or she would research and order new beers, oversee the coolers, maintain and update the bottle list and glassware, consult with the kitchen on food pairings, write the beer menu, train the servers and suggest appropriate bottles to patrons.

The cellarman might also play a role in bringing back those old casks of “real ale,” naturally carbonated and conditioned in the cool, dark corners of the cellar.

A restaurant that hires a cellarman would be telling its customers that its beer is special, not some second-rate adjunct it’s obligated to stock for the philistines who don’t know a Chablis from a Chardonnay. That it’s an important part of the restaurant’s cuisine – as important as the ingredients in the kitchen, as important as the wine.

Calling the position cellarman, not beer sommelier, would maintain beer’s proud tradition as a distinct and worthy alternative to wine.

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WHEN I WAS growing up, Ma Sixpack had a great, old recipe for pork chops cooked in beer. It was as simple as browning the chops with some thick-cut onions and brown sugar, covering them with beer and simmering for a half-hour, until the liquid thickened into a sweet gravy.

Simple and just full of flavor.

A few years ago, I asked her what kind of beer she used. “Oh, whatever was the cheapest,” she laughed. Probably Ortlieb’s, but it didn’t matter.

To her – and, until recently, most any home cook – beer was beer, and you just poured in a bottle of Brand X.

No longer.

In these post-Betty Crocker days of celebrity chefs and 24-hour food channels, the pork would be organic, the onions would be Vidalia, and the beer would be a smoked porter.

Would it taste any better? I don’t know. But the point is the evolution of beer from a simple adult refreshment to gourmet cuisine is already taking place in many American kitchens.

Page through cookbooks and surf the Internet, and you’ll find scores of recipes that specify exotic ales and lagers as an important ingredient. I’ve seen recipes that call for such unusual (and expensive) specialties as Weihenstephan Korbinian doppelbock in beef stew, Unibroue La Terrible abbey ale in marinated venison brochette and Rodenbach Grand Cru in steamed mussels.

When you pour a $15 bottle of barrel-aged Belgian ale into a $5 pot of shellfish, you begin to see how far beer has come.

Some of this is a calculated strategy by the very people who make these new varieties, to re-cast their product as a suitable alternative to wine. Some brewers now offer beer-and-food suggestions right on the bottle: light lagers with fish, strong ales with red meat. And how about spiced ale with that slice of pumpkin pie this Thanksgiving?

That’s one of the suggestions from the Brewers Association at www.beerandturkey.com, where you’re encouraged to put down the Burgundy and try an Oktoberfest or brown ale with that drumstick.

Selecting the proper beer as an ingredient in a meal is not just some artificial conceit – not when the shelves are filled with a new generation of so-called “extreme” beers made with so many different, wondrous ingredients.

You get a sense of the range of flavors paging through the recipes in Dogfish Head brewer Sam Calagione’s new book, “Extreme Brewing” (Quarry Books, $24.99). He defines these hugely flavored ales and lagers as “beers made with extreme amounts of traditional ingredients or beers made extremely well with nontraditional ingredients.”

Examples?

How about a pilsner made with two or three times the amount of barley and hops of a standard European import? Or a bock made with black and green peppercorns and flaked rye?

From that perspective, you understand why that onion soup might taste even better if, instead of an amber ale, you pour in a stout made with chocolate malt.

“The possibilities that come with cooking with beer,” Calagione writes, “are as infinite as the styles of beer that can be brewed.”

Maybe, but I’m not screwing with Ma Sixpack’s recipe for pork chops in beer. If only I could get my hands on a quart of Ortlieb’s.

Here’s a recipe for you to try, from Calagione’s book.

VID-ALE-YA SOUP

• 2 pounds Vidalia onions
• 2 ounces butter
• 3 cloves garlic
• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 pint chicken stock
• 12 ounces imperial stout or porter
• 4 ounces half-and-half
• 4 egg yolks
• 2 tablespoons crushed black pepper
• 1 ounce shaved Parmesan cheese.

1. Clean and cut onions into quarters, then slice into half-inch chunks. Melt butter and olive oil in cast-iron skillet until simmering, then add onion and saute until translucent. Add garlic and continue to saute until onions and garlic begin to brown.
2. Add chicken stock and beer, cover skillet and continue to cook over medium heat for 20 minutes.
3. Shut off heat, stir in half-and-half and egg yolks. Reheat soup and portion into bowls. Top each bowl with cheese and black pepper and serve hot with a glass of stout. Serves four.

Stone brewing

Bob Skilnik, author of the “Beer & Food: An American History” (to be published next spring by Jefferson Press), reports that matching extreme beer and food is not such a recent development. Down at Krebs Brewing in Oklahoma, they serve up a classic dish that goes back more than 100 years.

It’s Choc Beer & lamb fries.

Choc is a wheat beer that originates from an old Indian Territory recipe that was passed on to the community of Italian immigrants who settled in Krebs, Okla., to work the local mines, Skilnik reports.

And the lamb fries? Well, those are deep-fried sheep testicles. For you home cooks: Remove the skin (ouch!), slice them thin (yikes!), marinate them in the beer, powder them with fine cracker mean and fry ‘em.

As Skilnik said, the nuts “pair” nicely with Choc Beer.

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SALMON and Dortmunder lager, Parmiggiano Reggiano and pale ale, lobster and porter – fine dining and beer, how positively exquisite!

And it’s all brought to you by the same folks who gave us farting horses and Spuds MacKenzie, party animal.

That’s right, Anheuser-Busch – the company whose fortune was built on mass, occasionally crass consumption of its inexpensive, easy-to-drink lager – is taking its cues from snooty, high-priced wine.

It’s part of the company’s well-tuned “Here’s to Beer” advertising and promotional campaign that seeks nothing less than to enhance the image of beer and reposition it as America’s leading “social” beverage.

You’ve already seen those gauzy Budweiser ads featuring the likes of movie director Spike Lee rhapsodizing on who he’d like to share a beer with.

Those ads, along with a national print campaign, point you to an A-B Web site that talks up the role of beer in American history, the use of proper glassware and, yes, those fine beer-and-food combos above.

Here we learn “… the trick to great beer and food combinations is letting your palate guide you.” Oysters are paired with dry stout, cod with pilsner, beef stew with Scottish ale. There’s even a recipe for Bock Truffle Tart from celebrity chef Todd English.

According to Tom Shipley, A-B’s director of global industry development, the campaign was inspired by some bad news back in 2005 over flattened beer sales. One trade magazine declared, “Beer is dead,” while a Gallup poll reported more consumers were choosing wine over beer.

“We saw an opportunity to get in front and set things straight,” Shipley said. Like, ignore all that talk about California red: Beer still accounts for about 60 percent of all booze sales.

The way A-B sees it, wine has co-opted some of the turf that once was exclusively beer’s, from shelf space at the grocery store to the dining table at home. Now it’s time to grab it back, using the same tricks wine exploited to enhance its own image.

A separate Web site for distributors and retailers, with downloadable advertisements, point-of-sale brochures and even letter-to-the-editor templates, stresses the social aspects of beer.

Much of it is the same propaganda American brewers have spouted since the 19th century: the proposition that beer is a “less concentrated” and “more appropriate” form of alcohol than wine or spirits. Adolphus Busch was making the same argument when Carrie Nation was busting up saloons in the name of temperance.

The food-and-beer tack, though, is a new one, and it might just work.

An A-B exec notes in a message to distributors that, as Boomers age, “they go out to eat, and wine owns that position, that area of food… There’s no reason in the world that beer shouldn’t try to get into that space as well.”

So, Shipley said, the company is encouraging its distributors to suggest beer-and-food pairings to restaurants, both high-end bistros and mainstream ones like Applebee’s. “We have to remind consumers that it’s not just wine that pairs with food, but there are so many varieties of beer that pair well, too,” he said.

“Twenty years ago, when the average consumer thought of wine, they thought of either red wine or white wine,” Shipley said. “Over the years, the wine industry did a good job of making other terms familiar – chardonnay, Chablis and so on… Getting people to understand there are a lot of different varieties of wine made people more aware of wine.

“If you make people understand that there’s more variety of beer available, that tends to ratchet up their overall image of beer.”

That’s ironic (and maybe even hypocritical) coming from a company that has spent billions squashing all those other varieties while promoting its bland, industrial, light lager as the so-called “King of Beers.” True, the St. Louis brewery now produces a handful of all-malt and flavored styles. But skeptics in the craft beer sector charge that the behemoth is only trying to glom onto a fast-growing trend that was ignited as a backlash to the lowest-common-denominator marketing engineered by A-B itself.

Indeed, 10 years ago microbrewers were already talking about the joys of, say, beef carbonade and Belgian brown ale, even as Budweiser was still asking, “Whazzzup?”

“Here’s to Beer” finally answers that question, with a refined, image-changing nod to beer lovers who increasingly understand that beer goes so well with food because beer is food.

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BEER AND hot dogs, beer and pizza, beer and stuffed cabbage… The classic beer and food combos are not exactly out of Bon Appetit.

Even as craft brewers and restaurants push the cuisine envelope, most of us still see beer as something to wash down a $1.89 bag of pretzels. No problem with that, except that when we finally do chow down on decent grub, why is it we habitually uncork the wine?

Just look at what diners pull out of those Thermos bags at your neighborhood BYO. Half of ’em are beer-drinkers, I’ll bet, who wouldn’t know pinot noir from peanut chews. But sit ’em down at a white tablecloth and they go all “vin du blah-blah, s’il vous plait” on ya.

Part of the reason, I think, is our still-narrow view of beer: a frosty pitcher of Coors Light. Somehow the suds you knocked back while enjoying the game at the corner bar seem uncouth in one of those places where they put an extra fork in front of you.

Dinner is a perfect opportunity to try one of those freaky, upscale bottles you’ve been avoiding all these years. A Belgian lambic, an American imperial stout – these are unusual, hugely flavored beers that a Yuengling drinker might not touch with a 10-foot pole. Maybe the first time you cracked one open, it blew out your taste buds and sent you limping home to the safety of your boring macro.

But pour a glass of Stone Double Bastard – a strong ale that even the most devout hophead swallows with caution – then enjoy it with a grilled filet in a red wine shallot sauce. Both the food and the drink improve. The mouth-puckering bitterness of the beer is softened by the sweetness of the beef’s glaze, even as the spiciness of the hops brings out the meatiness of the steak.

Finding the right match is not brain surgery.

The lighter the dish, the lighter the beer. A pilsner or blonde ale goes well with seafood, a heavier stout or double bock complements beef or Mexican. (There’s a great cheat sheet from beer writer Stan Hieronymous in “The Beer Guide by RateBeer.com,” to be released next week by Savory House Press.)

Experiment a bit. At their best, beer and the food complement each other so well, as Milwaukee chef Sanford D’Amato told me, “You come up with a third flavor where the sum is greater than its parts.”

Here are some beer and food experts’ suggestions for combos that do just that:

Sanford D’Amato, chef, Coquette Café, Milwaukee: St. Amaud French Country Ale with smoked, oven-dried tomato and chevre tart with fresh thyme.

“This beer has a rich, deep red, ripe fruitiness with anise licorice hints that is quite delicious, but a bit heavy and cloying with some foods. With the tart, the smoked tomatoes swallowed up a good part of the sweetness of the beer, standing right up to it, and the combination of the slightly bitter smokiness of the tomatoes and the goat cheese’s acidity brought out a mid-range of delicious flavors in the beer that were barely detectable before. The beer tasted much spicier and the tart’s flavors were brought together. For my taste, each made the other better.”

Adam Glickman, chef, Monk’s Café, Center City: Duvel with mussels and fries.

“Moules frites, that’s the master of all combos. All fish and Duvel go really well together. You’re taking the fruity characteristics and the light hops of the Duvel and matching them with the sweetness of the mussels. It brings out a great balance in flavor.”

Stephen Beaumont, author and co-owner, beerbistro, Toronto: Cochonnette and pate de foie gras.

“In its sweetness, the Cochonnette has a sauterne-like affinity to the foie gras, but the beer’s spiciness adds an extra dimension to the pairing. In a sense, then, it’s both complement [the richness of the foie with the luxurious sweetness of the beer] and contrast [the spice of the beer with the denser, fatty flavors of the foie].”

Lucy Saunders, author of the upcoming “Best of American Beer & Food” (Brewers Publications): Brewery Creek Ebony Porter and espresso-rubbed grilled rib-eye steak with horseradish cream and corn pudding.

“A deliciously super-dark, malty porter with a tangy hop note that extended all the way through the bite of the horseradish and roasty flavor of the espresso rub. The sweetness of the corn pudding offset the bitterness of the ale… just an amazing combination.”

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FOR THOSE who are utterly convinced that it doesn’t get any better than beer and pretzels, allow me to point you in the direction of Twenty21, the modern-looking bistro hidden at the base of one of those ugly office buildings on West Market Street in Center City.

This is a tony joint that was once known primarily for its 15-foot-high bar, a rather silly inconvenience that occasionally provided the exciting glimpse of barmaids climbing a ladder to fetch top-shelf whiskeys.

The ladder’s still there, but these days the tastier treat can be found at floor level, in the form of a fresh glass of Old Rasputin, the Russian imperial stout from Northern California, and chocolate-covered espresso beans. We’re talking reams of mouth-watering, bittersweet arousal.

The beer-and-chocolate pairing is part of a well-conceived $20 appetizer plate that matches a flight of premium beers with a variety of finger foods. This is just the ticket for discovering, for example, how the aromatic wheat in Bells Oberon Ale is enhanced by a slice of fresh fig.

It’s a long way from Old Milwaukee and Doritos.

And it’s just the tip of the iceberg.

This simple serving of drink and appetizers is part of an important evolution that could redefine how Americans regard beer. Take a look around town, and you’ll see the glass of suds we always thought was there only for pure, youthful refreshment is growing up.

In Northern Liberties, the new Bar Ferdinand (1030 N. 2nd St.) – exactly the kind of fashionable place that would’ve ignored beer 10 years ago – has the imagination to pair Petrus Oud Bruin, a sour brown ale from Belgium, with its mussels and chorizo tapas.

At Philadelphia International Airport, the Four Points by Sheraton Hotel has joined the chain’s nationwide beer cuisine program, offering a wide-ranging menu that pairs its entrees with imported and local beers.

Interest has been building for years, largely on the back of the craft-beer movement, which from the start sought to link good beer with good food.

The earliest beer guides by author Michael Jackson, for example, included traditional recipes with beer as a focal ingredient. Then, in 2003, Brooklyn Brewery’s Garrett Oliver published “The Brewmaster’s Table” (Ecco), which argued forcefully that beer is a better accompaniment to good cuisine than wine.

Once you discover great beer, Oliver wrote, “your ‘food life’ will be transformed into something fascinating, fun and infinitely more enjoyable.”

If you’ve been paying attention to the craft brew scene, the evolution is old news. It’s so old, in fact, that beer freaks hammered the Inquirer in online forums earlier this month when it published a clueless travel story that seemed astonished to find beer being served in stemmed glassware.

But the transition is only now spreading into the mainstream. And by mainstream, I mean Budweiser.

In the face of flat-lined sales and pressure from anti-alcohol groups, the beermaker that once depended on talking lizards and farting horses is looking for help from chicken cordon bleu.

Earlier this year, Anheuser-Busch launched its “Here’s to Beer” campaign, which seeks to do nothing less than redefine the kegger. Its Web site touts the social value of beer and suggests food-and-beer pairings.

This is very reminiscent of the campaign that elevated California’s wine industry 30 years ago from rotgut Boone’s Farm to $100 bottles of Napa Valley red.

Back at Twenty21 (2005 Market St., Center City), sommelier and general manager Gordana Kostovski started seeing the change in the last year.

“Just recently, beer has been just exploding the way the wine world did years ago,” said Kostovski. “All of a sudden, people are more attuned to listening to what kinds of interesting beers we have.”

Rather than mindlessly pour from a line of trendy, expensive drafts that might languish from inattention, the restaurant promotes the diversity of its short but unique beer list – German kolsch beer, blueberry ale from Maine and more – by pairing samples with a fun selection of starters.

Sitting in the bar, I was awed at the beer flight in front of me. It’s a smart, lip-smacking combination of flavors that shows off the kitchen and the beer taps: Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale and spiced almonds with pumpkin seeds, for example, or Blue Point Hoptical Illusion with seven-spice Togarashi chips.

Beer Nuts will always have their place at Joe Sixpack’s bar, but the times are a-changing. Over the next month, I’m going to take a look – and a taste – at this evolution. Stay tuned.

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