Well after a brief respite, we are back on the grizzy, young brewing bring it back.
Dogfish Head Pangaea Ale, Belgian strong pale ale 7%
A: very little carbonation, thin light yellow color, slightly dark blonde at top with pilsner apple juice clarity at thinner side of glass, this 1/2 finger head that subsides quickly, light lacing. It could be anything, but only God’s ontological plan knows the true nature of this hateful potation.
S: sweet with notes of breads and ginger, candied rice notes, sugary aromas, ginger, ginger, ginger, sugar, and ginger. Also, notes of ginger.
T: The taste is sweet, overridingly so, the sweet notes dominate any maltiness and gives it an almost sugar/malted beverage character, like cider with cane sugar instead of wine/grape notes. its like biting into a gingerbread pastry with the vapor of ginger that lingers long after swallow. It doesn’t get much easier with temp increase, the sugar notes cancel any alcohol or maltiness, there’s very little hops to balance it out, it reminds me almost of the sweetness of mead when it is transferred from the primary to secondary. If it wasn’t so fucking strange, it would seem to be unbalanced or unintentional.
M: the mouthfeel is very thin, it would be better if there was some maltiness to balance out the indomitable sweetness. ginger does not belong in beer in this manner. Its like a gingerbread man stomps on the tip of my tongue and scurries down my throat, noting that I will be unable to catch him, true to form.
D: This is exceptionally undrinkable, very rarely do I open a 22oz and wish that it was only a 12oz. I cannot see someone sitting through more than 2 of these, if not sharing the single bottle. It taints my entire palate and makes me welcome something more balanced. If this were a Mario Kart racer, it would be Bowser, but instead of speed, a syrupy sweetness would be his overloaded statistic, much to my chagrin.
Narrative: That son of a bitch, how dare he show his face in here. “Welcome to Anthropologie” you grit through your teeth. looking at his pastel pink suit, that candyman child molesting son of a bitch. “Don’t I…hey dont I know you from somewhere?” He smells like candied gauze and his scent is gagging sweetness. “Didn’t you used to come to my candy shop all the ti-” he accidentally knocks a vase from the shelf with his gaudy cane. Oh great, now this sweet ginger asshole is ruining your merchandise. “No must be another…sir please, dont drink soda on the rugs” What an inconsiderate prick, getting his syrupy hands all over your things, regailing you with stories of his old candy shop. “NO OK STOP JUST NO, you arent welcome here” “WHY I WAS JUST TRYING T-” NO DONT LISTEN TO HIM. He is grating on your nerves and smells like a Central Valley carnival with saccharine sweetness choking you. “I tried ok…I really tried, there’s nothing here for you, just leave.” And like that, he left, only, that was only the first sip of this gentleman, and you see the tourbus idling in the parking lot. The series of pastel suits filing into the store is not unopressive.