Russian River Supplication BATCH ONE REVIEW, For those times when you need to prove you straight whaling.

Here’s a top 100 that I have lovingly overlooked for a while, like that sweet middle child whom you neglect the shit out of. Anyway, I am sure all of my readers have had this beer so I decided to bust a straight up GALEN OLD SCIENCE TWIST ON YOU: BATCH 1. That’s right, we dusted off the genie bottle for today’s review. You are welcome.

I hope you enjoy my instagramme` photo. I have had Supplication plenty of times, but I washed out this photo to show that I had it before it was cool. Back then wild ales were just called beers, you wouldn’t understand their early work

Russian River Supplication
American Wild Ale – 7% abv

A: Thick three finger head wit a red character to it, light amber with plenty of carbonation, well at first, then it reduces down to nothing. Age has not treated the beauty of this beer favorably and the saggy lactic malt tits are in need of a lift. There is sediment bouncing lazily throughout the glass, but it’s like old salty grandma from the 2008’s, you just nod and smile.

Berries be banging. Just wanna get my face all up in it.

S: There are tart sour notes of bitter cherry and merlot. there’s a funk to it, a bit of wet dog, but a sweet wet dog, in taste, not disposition. There is a nice lactic backbone to this but it has obviously mellowed quite a bit into a gentle juiciness with light oxidation on the nose. There is a bit of oxidation, but not straight up breakdancer levels. I can only imagine how fucking geriatric Depuration is at this point if this beer smells like this. Send me a bottle, be a homie.

T: Sweet introductory flavor with a strong wave of bitter tartness that is resonant of a sour patch kid, but refined with an aged pinot noir, the taste moves swift with incredible balance, the hops are so minor that they serve more as an escort to serperate the flavors than to impart authority, again the main perk is the incredible balance of sour with the underlying sweet. Above when I mentioned the hops, understand that to mean the straight up poltergeist of where the hops used to be. It is like their presence is the shattered shell of tame wild ale tempered in Hephaestus’s cool cauldron of time. This is incredibly gentle and subtle. It reminds me of muted elder vintages of Rodenbach that have funny stories to tell about the depression and when gas used to cost $1.45.

I popped this old ass vintage at Beer Revolution in Oakland and just straight posted up like a boss. I later opened Behemoth and BA Behemoth and people started taking pics of my trash. Fucking casuals.

M: The mouthfeel is just malty enough to carry the sediment and sweet dryness of the beer, any more and it would become a decadent fruit overload, any less and it would travel to a forgettable cider, the perfect balances makes this beer fantastic without overstaying its welcome. The taste imparts a swift jab of sour notes and then quickly resides, like a berry sniper. Compared to fresh Supplication, this is downright neighborly.

D: Some people may feel that the sweet notes are not high enough and the sour creates a poor man’s wine experience, I couldn’t disagree more. This is incredibly drinkable, not in the power hour sense, in a strictly delightful sense, the type that makes you wish for a couple bombers of, or a huge wallet to acquire these gems. This would find itself equally at home on a boat in the sun, or after a ski trip in the lodge. Incredibly drinkable. Then again, finding several bottles of this batch 1 gem would be a feat in itself. When this was sitting on shelves you were still perfecting your fingerbanging technique. At least Russian River got somewhere with their discipline.

Some vintage beverages are too dank for forget.

Narrative: The clicking roll and an L2 against an L3 vertebrae makes a percussive click clack with a certain panache that only Briscoe Wellingstone, berryspy extraordinaire can evoke. Some errant sour juice dribbles from the guard’s mouth, but Kiwis weren’t fit to guard a hostile embassy. He was hired as a young tart currant, trained in the most hostile vineyards, and was raised a pedigree in solitude for 15 months. Only this sour aging could create an agent of such brackish authority, such swiftly petulany candor, bitterly imparting a smooth sourness to the political fruit world. He rounds the foyer of the Tropicanaria, resolute to steal the famed cherry pit of Largesse. A hardened fruit son of a bitch, but with a slippery smoothe discountenance, lovable, yet stern in his demeanor. Mr. Wellingstone peppers the security cameras during an arching slide across the marble flooring. The pit was obtained, a sour finish left in the museum curator’s mouth.

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