Wyerbacher Seventeen Saison. Orange Peel Lemon Peel Grapefruit Peel- NOW YOU KNOW IT IS REAL

Man there is a ton going on with this beer, yes I know, yet another saison from Pennsylvania. Wahwahwah, “my state did not get enough love” well maybe your state and my liver have a disconnect. I will get to every saison…EVENTUALLY. Ok the first thing that raised my eyebrow is the label, this shit has more going on than a Bruce Gillian movie. “Brewed with orange peel, lemon peel, grapefruit peel and pink peppercorns.” That is quite a bit of things, and usually when there is that much going on my bullshit detectors go off and wonder “what happened to the base beer that they needed all this shit?” But I approach everything with a Fair and Balanced approach, like Fox News, so let’s get this shit.

It is like Sunny D made in a farmhouse. Purple drank omitted.

Weyerbacher Brewing Co.
Pennsylvania, United States
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 10.50% ABV

A: Holy hell, just take a look at that, it looks like straight up Tampico or Sunny D. I have seen my fair share of orangey orange but this is dead on and pours almost like a wild ale or a gueuze in appearance. There is zero carbonation, zero lacing, zero head: this beer is not fucking around. Maybe the 10.5% abv had something to do with that, but it looks more like a hardass who just posts up on the wall at school dances and doesn’t even like Tony Rich Project. Saisons are supposed to be relaxing, this beer makes me feel tense and worry about the state of my farm.

This saison just goes apeshit and ends up being unimpressive as a result. Chill out bro.

S: Holy fucking fusel. This sets its high octane foot forward more like a poorly integrated belgian tripel and lets you know that it is here you rape your nostrils and your mouth is next. The peppercorn and clove spice is there but it is like a bunch of Liliputians pulling down the hugh abv monster. I don’t think that this is de facto supposed to smell like this, Fantome Extra Sour had 10% abv and drank like a sweet summer day. This just smells boozy and completely off style for something I am supposed to be able to drink in a Big Gulp cup while I take my ex-wife to the clinic.

T: This continues the painful narrative from the last section and busts open your lip with a hot booziness at the outset that subsides into an artificial tasting citrus element and a weird lemon pledge sort of finish to it. Like a naive 14 year old girl, I keep returning to this loser at 19 year old saison boyfriend. The citrus elements are there to balance out all of the madness going on with the booze, lemon, and Pine Sol aspects going on in the background. It is like when your “most sober” friend stands at the door to talk to the cops, but smells like gin and rocket fuel. Everyone’s parents are getting called.

Because I love saisons, I would reluctantly accept this again. Discretely.

M: This is sticky and sweet, then boozy and hot, then dry and awkward. It is basically like high school sex. If this is a saison, then I can hang up the saison mantle and retire knowing that I have been dunked in the River of Styx and reborn. I suspect that they made this, added a fuckload of produce and then Mr. Weyerbacher (or whatever) was like “alright, someone’s ass is on the line, we tried to do a saison like Avery, now we have this” and then did dude was like “hey my housekeeper knows a produce guy (potentially racist)” and then the added some pepper.

D: This is not at all drinkable, I mean, unless you just got into beer and high ABV still gives you a fat chub, but why would Dogfish Head patrons read this site? I am not stoked to finish this 12oz bottle and I sure as shit would not be jonesing to put up some awesome bottles to land moar of this. I guess if you wanted to teach your kids not to drink saisons like Uncle Donald did with the triplets, you would serve them this and they’d get hella sick and avow to stay away from farmhouse ales. That is what this beer is for, teaching baby ducks a lesson.

Don’t crack this open expecting any amazing surprises.

Narrative: In between harvests, Jacob Miller sat in lower Harlem peddling for change. His ill fitting overalls and straw hat were almost anachronistic in the area. He would clank his scythe against the sidewalk and scream obscenities about tilling the land and crop rotation, much to the dismay of the passing masses. He was an outspoken farmer, seeking to ride the coattails of farms he had not tilled, wanting harvests he had not planted. Jacob had a thing or two to learn about the gentle agrarian ways. It wasn’t always about being a loud asshole and pestering people by convincing them that he at one time was somehow involved in agriculture. Most people questioned whether he was a real farmer at all, particularly since the nearest farm was nowhere near Manhattan. One day Jacob found a worn out kazoo and began to rail at onlookers with hit base pageantry. None present were impressed. Splattering mud all over Tommy Hilfiger overalls does not make you an artisan farmer and being loud and overbearing hardly helps one’s cause.

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