Armand’4 Oude Geuze Winter, Now is the Winter of Our Geuzecontent

So, whenever one of these seasons come out I sigh to myself and know that I am going to have to get a complete ass reaming to land one of these expensive, rare bottles. Thanks a lot Belgium, WAY TO BE A HOMIE. Anyway, so this is the last in the series, but I am Tarrantinoing this shit and you will get FALL later on, to keep you guessing how this shit ends. CLIFFHANGER LIKE STEVEN SEGAL.

It must be winter because my nips are blasting.

Brouwerij Drie Fonteinen, Geuze, 6.00% ABV

I know who Sylvester Stallone is. Let’s get down to business.

Bump this shit:

A: This beer has a murky orange depth to it that isn’t like the other happy seasons, this is a pissed off geuze that is suffering through a winter of discontent. The carbonation is out of control, in a literal sense. When I pulled the foil off, there was a bit of white residue on the cage and as I was examining the c- BOOM! The cork hit my ceiling and then bounced off the floor. Something about being shipped thousands of miles to be greeted by my disfigured grill just set this season off. The carbonation looks like a malfunctioning dishwasher, suds for days, huge frothy bubbles, baristas getting mad winter boners up in this piece.

It's winter but this beer is unnaturally darker than the others, paradoxes abound.

S: There’s a mild musk and I get notes of persimmon, lemon notes, there’s a kinda char like smoked turkey, and decomposing leaves. For such strange elements, it works. It isn’t the most uplifting season in the series but it seems refined and poised in a way that energetic ass Zomer couldn’t satisfy this mature tastezone.

T: This doesn’t have the huge citrus acidity blast and feels more like the “older” season of the four. There’s this strange pumpkin/allspice aspect to it that lingers with the huge apricot aspect and finishes with a strange metallic allspice aspect. I have a hard time organizing all the elements because they seem to be shouting over one another and clamoring for attention.

They sent me geuze from Belgium, I sent my credit card to the grave.

M: I don’t know if it’s this beer or trying to figure out who A is on Pretty Little Liars but this shit is confusing. I get the normal goozie aspect with the acidity and delicious dryness you’d expect from Armand but the barrel comes in and imparts a deep icy touch that comes off with a mild bitterness and makes it rain with a cascade of adjectives. Ultimately, it is less drinkable than the other ones in the way that a Rush album is less listenable than a Pennywise album in that the complexity is mind boggling.

D: This goozue is my least favorite of the seasons but that is like saying that the Ferrari California is the most underwhelming in their supercar lineup. Still destroys so many other contenders and stands out with an awesome original taste and finish. It was thoroughly enjoyable but didn’t get drained as quickly as I don’t remember the other variants disappearing but it is still phenomenal and worth that…uh…$80…(34 euros,…plus shipping from belgium…carry the zero…uh…) fuck it. It is beer and this was certainly worth the cost of entry. What else are you gonna do? See 21 Jump Street with 4 different chicks? Fuck that, buy goozeu.

It's a slow gentle realization to come to terms with how good this beer is.

Narrative: Frostbarrow Helmchill was a noble Nordic lord who watched over his icicle harvesting operation with impunity and scorn. He hated the family business that he was born into but with the Norwegian economy being what it was, who could afford to earn less than 50,000 krones a year what with the 83% income tax and all. All of his finest workers had left to start black metal bands, shred metal, gothcore, post-indigo shred, or speed subhammeroncore bands. In the mountains of Norway, the work ethic was tempered by months and months of relentless winter and Frostbarrow lived within his cold shell. He retired to his chilly flat and looked upon his unicycle, classical guitar, purple tae kwon do belt, and fruit dehydrators. Inside the gentle repose of his stoic ice cabin, he could enjoy winter in the manner that he saw fit: a litany of strange pursuits. Outside it was cold and bitter, replete with pale women and shameful dentistry. Inside this haven, he could embrace the steady drip of the icicles and look upon his 8 string guitar and know that a colder winter will soon descend upon the masses, sending the need for pristine icicles through the roof. Economics were not Mr. Helmchill’s strong suit.

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