Several years ago, back when I’d only tried cheap, mass-produced lagers like a Corona Light — most of which merely convinced me that some freaky cult had hypnotized humanity into thinking “BEER IS AWESOME” when it was actually an odd, bland beverage and nobody really liked it but rather forced it down to make new friends — anyway, a few years back I sampled an ale named Blue Moon (which, to be fair, is also cheap and mass produced), and that taste changed my life. With one sip my inquisitive side went berserk, and questions poured out. What made this beer unique? How could one taste so different from another? And what in the flying hell was a “witbier” anyway?

Short answer: It’s a Belgian-style wheat ale. During the past decade or two, the style has exploded across North America. But, despite its recent popularity, the wit extends as far back into history as the 1400s, when monks in Belgium’s Brabant region first recorded a recipe for this delicious brew. At some point people started calling the style “wit,” which means “white” in Dutch, because of the pale, cloudy contrast it created among the popular dark beers of the era. Witbiers nearly went extinct after the wars and big-business lagering of the 1900s, but in 1966 a Belgian man named Pierre Celis revived it by starting a little brewery in his hometown east of Brussels. The name of that town? Hoegaarden. And now you know — the rest of the story.

So, Celis resurrected the fabled wit, and now it’s nearly conquered the world. A lucky turn of events if you ask me; the witbier boom has introduced thousands to the world of exotic foreign beers (yours truly included). I blame the style’s light, crisp body and unique flavor profile for its comeback. All witbiers have hints of sweet oranges and zesty herbs. But only the best witbiers offer a nuanced blend of citrus, vanilla, and spicy wheat; a golden hue, pale yet vibrant, and mysteriously cloudy; a creamy medium body with a pillowy head; and a dry, sometimes tart finish. When brewed with care and skill, a witbier can defeat even the crispest lager in a contest of refreshment.

OK, I’ve mentioned the word wheat a time or two, so if you’re familiar with wheat beers, you might be wondering about the difference between a wibier and a hefeweizen. Damn good question. Hefeweizen is the name for a German-style wheat beer. It means “wheat with yeast,” which can be a tad misleading, as wheat beers usually employ a ratio of 50:50 wheat to barley. But those familiar hefe flavors — banana, cloves, etc. – are a product of the yeast strain used during fermentation. Witbiers employ different strains but also derive their citric spiciness from adjuncts such as orange peel and coriander. So they both have wheat in ‘em, but aside from that, they’re pretty different. Same goes for the numerous other types of wheat beers. But I don’t have time to get into that.

Instead, I’ll offer my top three favorite witbiers as recommendations. If you encounter any of the following beers, purchase one or more immediately:

Allagash White

St. Bernardus Witbier (Pierre Celis helped develop the recipe for this one!)

Hitachino Nest White Ale

And here’s one to avoid as though it’s got swine flu of the SARS:

Sherwood Forest’s Friar’s Belgian-Style White Ale. Don’t let the B fool you; it tastes like cigarettes.

Before we stop, let’s take a moment to finish the tragic tale of old Pierre Celis, founder of Hoegaarden brewery. In 1985, the original Hoegaarden brewery burned down. The building was uninsured. Celis received a loan from Interbrew (now Anheuser-Busch InBev) to rebuild it, but, after they pressured him to change his recipe, he sold them the brewery and began planning a move to Texas. Although he never actually relocated, he did start Celis Brewery in Austin (his daughter ran it), and for a while they brewed Celis White without any brewing conglomerates offering “suggestions” about ways to “enhance” the beer.

But all things must end: Miller Brewing bought Celis Brewery, ruined it with faulty business practices, and then shut it down and stripped it for scrap. Fortunately, no recipes were harmed; Michigan Brewing Company bought them up in 2002 and now produces Celis beers. Celis himself, 81, is living in Hoegaarden and planning his return to brewing. But, according to Beer-Pages.com, “This time there will be no pacts or deals with big brewers. ‘They’re bankers, not brewers,’ Pierre insists. ‘They buy you out and then they kill you.’” Something to consider next time you reach for a can of Coors.

Note: I make no claims that the following list represents the end-all-be-all best craft breweries in America, as I haven’t sampled offerings from each of the 1,300 currently in operation, because many of them only distribute locally. (But, as long as I continue breathing, I will keep trying to try them all — it’s like Pokémon for grownups!) Instead, this list comprises my favorite “big” craft breweries; the cream ales of the crop, if you will; the ones that provide a perfect balance of quality, variety, and availability. Any beer store or Bevmo in the states should offer something from at least one of these breweries.

5. Deschutes Brewery
Location: Bend, Oregon
Where to Start: Black Butte Porter, Inversion IPA, The Abyss

I once got into an argument with a man about Deschutes. The scholar informed me that he was from Bend, Oregon, so naturally I said in response, “Oh! I love Deschutes.” He replied, “I can’t stand them. I hate whatever it is they put in their beer.” We glared at each other for several minutes. Then I broke out my fiddle and sent him back to hell. (OK, it didn’t go down quite like that, but whenever I picture him now, he’s wearing red tights and holding a pitchfork, so I say it’s close enough.) Regardless of what idiots may tell you, Deschutes is heavenly. They make fresh, tasty beers for a reasonable price. Check out their Black Butte Porter, which can usually be acquired for $6-7 a six pack. They also have some stellar seasonals, such as The Abyss, an imperial stout that I describe here.

4. Brewery Ommegang
Location: Cooperstown, New York
Where to Start: Rare Vos, Hennepin

If Belgium were a magnifying glass focused on a single spot in America, it would probably set Ommegang brewery ablaze. Why? Well, for one, founder Don Feinberg erected a Belgian farmhouse to contain the original brewery, and old farmhouses burn like gasoline-soaked fire. But the act of building the farmhouse shows respect for the source — respect that’s reflected in each of their subtle, flavorful beers. From the potent dark fruits of their blended quad, Three Philosophers, to the easy-drinking elegance of their amber, Rare Vos, this brewery is difficult to beat — which says something about the next three.

3. Bell’s Brewery, Inc.
Location: Kalamazoo, Michigan
Where to Start: Kalamazoo Stout, Two-Hearted Ale

For the longest time, finding a Bell’s beer in Arizona was like finding money in my wallet: damn near impossible. But not anymore! They recently expanded their shipping reach into my home state, which means for the past month I’ve been drinking nothin’ but Bell’s. Try their Hopslam double IPA, which will hit your nose with floral hops harder than a face-plant in a flower bed, or their smokey-smooth Kalamazoo Stout, which I drank on tap recently and nearly pooped myself. This brewery’s lineup features a wide array of delicious yet reasonably-priced beers. And I’m talking wide. They even make something called a Cherry Stout. I need to try that one.

2. Allagash Brewing Company
Location: Portland, Maine
Where to Start: Allagash White, Allagash Curieux

Allagash is still an Arizona holdout. As if that weren’t sad enough, something tragic happened recently: I saw a liquor mart ad in a local paper that read, “Allagash on sale: four varieties!” After surviving 17 simultaneous heart attacks, I ran to the store in search of those four varieties, only to find, gird yourself — none. I guess the ad had accidentally slipped in from another state. But I hope to rectify my Allagashlessness soon (remember my New Beer Resolutions?). If you’re confused about my affection, I’ll explain: Allagash makes Belgian-style beers that somehow taste distinctly Belgian and American. And I love Belgian ales. That’s why I buy Allagash whenever I’m out of state.

1. Dogfish Head Craft Brewed Ales
Location: Milton, Delaware
Where to Start: 90 Minute IPA, Burton Baton, Indian Brown Ale

I have many reasons for placing Dogfish Head at the top of my list. No other brewery in America (nor, perhaps, in the world) provides such a compelling mix of experimentation and consistency. Their beers span many drinker experience levels and price ranges. You can find their 90 Minute IPA (a personal favorite that’s a fantastic choice for IPA lovers and haters alike) or their Indian Brown Ale (a great starter ale to prepare for their Palo Santo Marron) in most stores for a reasonable price. But, if you’re feeling more adventurous, you can pick up Red & White, an extreme witbier aged in oak with pinot noir juice, or Pangea, a cinammon- and cloves-laced ambrosia made with ingredients from every continent, for $10-20 per 750 ml bottle. And I haven’t even broached the in-between stuff like Burton Baton. If you haven’t yet tried a Dogfish Head beer, I’d recommend picking up one (or six) as soon as possible.

And, because I feel weird about under-representing the west coast on this list (considering that Colorado, California, and Oregon are craft brewery meccas), here are 15 honorable mentions, many of which barely missed the top five:

6. Rogue
7. Oskar Blues
8. Great Divide
9. New Belgium
10. Anchor
11. Avery
12. North Coast Brewery
13. Russian River
14. Brooklyn Brewery
15. Bear Republic
16. The Lost Abbey
17. Alesmith
18. Founders
19. Stone
20. Breckenridge

On the can you’ll find a POV illustration of some desperate soul attempting one last gulp from his coconut mug before succumbing to a beer-tsunami (I refuse to create the word “brewnami” … crap). Very Hawaiian! Well, the colors and stuff seem tropical at least. And aluminum cans are becoming popular with craft breweries right now, but I’ll leave that discussion for another article.

The porter exits its armor like a shadow edged in bronze and burgundy. Its mocha head lets loose a bouquet of dark chocolate and roasted malt—but only hints of coconuts, which seems odd for a beer named after coconuts. Moving on.

My first sip almost lives up to the smell. Later, as it warms, bolder flavors develop: bushels of bitter chocolate; sharp, sweet toffee and burnt sugar; a sudden surplus of the namesake nut. Pair these smooth flavors with a creamy body, moderate carbonation, and a barely noticeable 5.7% ABV, and you have an extremely drinkable non-traditional dessert beer. I prefer my porters a bit more potent, but I wouldn’t decline another can if it showed up on Arizona shelves.

Author’s Note: If you’re looking for another good Hawaiian porter, I recommend Kona’s Pipeline Porter. It’s a slightly better value for the money.

At home, I tear my trophy from its brown paper coat. The cork pops, and mist burbles out. Definitely a Belgian-style tripel; it paints my goblet amber and gold and coats the rim with creamy foam. The head exhales vanilla (a result of oak aging) along with hints of bright fruit and white wine. One sip reveals a hefty alcohol presence—understandable at 11% ABV—but spicy fruit, caramel, and the omnipresent vanilla balance things out. On the palate the brew feels full and creamy, even a bit buttery, like drinking carbonated silk. As it warms, the vanilla makes way for smoky bourbon, an unusual transition that sets my buds ablaze. This one’s a sipper.

OK, I drink Belgian ales like nobody’s beeswax, but Curieux surprised me. It pummeled my tongue with sugar and smoke, and with it Allagash has given me a new favorite among tripels. Did paying half the price make the beer seem twice as tasty? No idea. But I savored every sip, because at $16.49 a bottle, my next taste might have to wait until flying pigs make the cows come home.