Brouwerij Het Alternatief The Bitter Truth Tripel IPA, You Can’t Handel The Truf

I don’t remember ever having this beer, and I lost the picture that I took of it. This tells me that this 10% heater did its job. Anyway, let’s sip this esoteric gem in today’s review, THIS BEER BE THE TRUTH.

This isn’t my picture, but since we are telling the truth, truthfully you probably don’t give a shit.

Brouwerij Het Alternatief
Belgium
Belgian IPA | 10.00% ABV

The Bitter Truth, Tripel 10% 70 ibu

A: Faint chardonnay yellowish faint gold with very thin character similar to a thin lager. HUGE head with carbonation throughout. The carbonation might be my favorite part of this beer, which sounds strange but it is executed perfectly.

This beer is a little strange, BUT YOU SECRETLY LIKE IT.

S: Lots of pepper and spice, some clove, mild sugars and tart white grapes. This isn’t your standard Triple IPA offering, but I enjoy it.

T: A sweet white wine savignon blanc taste opens with a tart grape that fades into a peppery finish. Great mild hops round out the profile.

This beer, like Latonja, don’t give a fuck.

M: This has a great mouthfeel between the constant carbonation and thin mouthfeel it equates to a strangely balanced and original Tripel that almost leans toward the Gueuze. Very tasty and seems more west-coast than Belgian in character. Love the tart dryness that it imparts.

D: This is an exceptionally drinkable beer with great lasting appeal. The price is a bit too much to make it a session beer but the 10% abv makes it a contender for a great well-rounded beer. I would love to bring this along for a hot weather activity and other venues. The more that I drink it the smoother and milder it gets, I love the tart character that is akin to a sour cuvee.

Picture unrelated.

Narrative: Tipper Poppington was born a proletariat merchant assistant with a secret . He worked hard all his days, overseeing the notary, making sure the itemized bundles were packaged correctly, sealing all the correspondence with the hot wax seal. He wasn’t the best in the office, or the brightest, or even the most amiable. However, young Tipper was born under a conditional will from his great great grandfather which stated that if Tipper could become a fencing master by the age of 21, he would take his grandfather’s large estate, heretofore unbeknownst to him, and win the heart and mind of the winsome female interest in the clerking office. He was alerted on his 20th birthday with a knock on a rich mahogany door. The package contained a terse note wrapped around a perfectly balanced Epee, “train you will, take you shall,” with a copy of the holographic will attached. “God speed, Young Poppington” the clerk master whispered to himself as he watch Tipper practice fervishly in the courtyard, each parry a daunting swipe at greatness, and the heart of his beholden.

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