This is an elusive and strange beer that I have been seeking since last year and FINALLY I met a kind soul from Minnesota who hooked this gem up. It’s an imperial porter and then, get this, THEY PUT SPRUCE TIPS INTO IT. Some of you haters might be like “yucks, I prefer beechwood aging” and that’s cool, more of this scarce porter for me. Also the bottle is a swingtop growler, which I think is a nice touch, something all those dead shipwrights would appreciate.

Soulja boy knows about ODE

Ode to a Russian Shipwright, Olvalde Farm and Brewing Company, American Porter, ABV who the fuck knows

A: The carbonation on this beer looks like a foamy ball pit of khaki balls, some cleaning is warranted. The lacing takes its sweet ass time but finally lays out some trench warfare and the stalemate is set firmly with the advancing deep blackness. The inky depths aren’t took elaborate, but if the coating was too nuts, I would pull the imperial stout card and then everyone loses.

S: Initially I get a weird belgian sweetness with a nutty backend like the third act of an Eddie Murphy movie. Seriously, the nose reminds me of a weird belgian dubbel or a fruity zest from a tripel. This is a total trojan horse and those liver walls that Poseidon lovingly created topple effortlessly.

T: The taste has the initial Belgian clove and yeasty delight, but then it turns to a strange herbal raisin aspect. The toasted malts are like a zesty lighthearted porter but then all of a sudden shit gets all herbal and Evergreen really quickly. I am not talking about a hoppy aspect, I am talking like literally, trees, Conifers, kisses from lichens. Especially then this warms, I feel at one with the forest and harness the verdant fields and fennel with relentless tenacity. It’s like mouth kissing a vegan girl that only uses Burt’s bees mouthwash or whateverthefuck stand-in products those buzzkills use.

M: The mouthfeel is refreshing and leaves this sweet zesty, fruity, but confusing finish. The malts themselves don’t coat aggressively, it isn’t overly sticky or overbearing, but the crazy yeasty character coupled with the exceptional leafy tundra all up in my grill. I have no idea how to compare this to other porters, but I like it, I don’t know how to compare Golgo 13 to other NES games, but, I think it was pretty bad ass, through 8 year old eyes. Now I need to find an 8 year old and feed him this rare ass porter.

D: This is actually exceptionally drinkable and totally changed the game on porters. I have no idea on “bottle” counts on this strange Manticor. It has a fragrant strange ester to the taste, a nutty finish and finally a great herbal character that sutures the wound. On paper it doesn’t seem like something that would work, like the Pontiac Aztek, but then, this actually does work, unlike the Pontiac Aztek.

Narrative: After just three years in the woods, David Thoreau VI was sick of this imposing legacy. He did not abandon an unfulfilling job at a pencil factory, he worked at See’s Candy, which by the accounts of the Claymates (fanclub of Clay Aiken) this is the best job ever. David or, D3, as his friends used to call him, kicked a rock and sighed as he ambulated through the woods looking at the conifers, softwoods, Tamaracks, and even the lowly Deciduous trees. “If only there were a way to enjoy sweet decadent candy, and still commune with the forest and not look like a total sellout hypocrite, like my ancestors.” A pinecone tumbled down a mossy bank and he felt a chilling air wrap around him- “Minneeesoooootaaaaa-” the trees softly beckoned to him. “Must just be the last of those Toffee-ettes, messing with my blood sugar.” A series of quills spelled our the word “SRSLY MN” and he could feel a grave communion with the wild, a sort of link from the chocolate and the woods themselves. He remembered a quote from his boring, sellout, unfocused, rambling ancestor, ” D3, I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” D3 knew that this was a hollow shell of a life system and a baseless life philosophy, but this was not Walden Pond revelation, this was a call to the glorious land of Minnesota. D3 had what alcoholics call, a moment of clarity, and remembered so fondly all of those episodes of “Coach” that he watched when he was younger and realized that only in the coldest, most evergreen conditions, could he attain that sweet balance of See’s candy, and being a pedantic, closeminded sellout like his great great great grandfather.