We see the word all the time in beer reviews, especially in those of hop-forward beers: “lemongrass.” It’s a useful descriptor, and it lazily comes to mind when your senses are sending your brain signals that say “lemony” but also “grassy.” It’s easy to mash those words together into one.
And, to be fair, real lemongrass can be both of those things. I have a stalk of it in front of me now—we had a few in the fridge—so I twist and tear it open. This is what I smell: definitely sweet lemon, like pleasant lemon-drop candies; also perfume-like, reminding me of furniture polish or car wax; there’s also a ginger note, but it’s soft and not sharp; finally there’s a wilder, weedier aspect to the aroma, like an unmowed field baking in the summer sun.
It is a grass, after all. Notably, grains come from grasses, too. And this particular grass happens to smell something like hops—or vice versa. It’s no wonder that some brewers use it as an ingredient in beer. What’s a bigger wonder is that more of us haven’t done so.