Yearly Archives: 2012

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Allagash Vagabond, A Beer for All Those Highbrow Jack Kerouac Ne’er-Do-Wells

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Not unlike the Allagash Ghoulschip, I had been seeking this beer out for quite some time as well, what with its fancy packaging and paper and whozeits and whatsits galore. This beer is a complex hydra and I will attempt to cut off some heads in today’s review.

Vagabond Ale is right, details inside.

Allagash Vagabond Wild Ale, 10% abv,

A: This beer has really charming deep plum and mahogany, the radiant hue invokes melodies rhapsodical and fair. The carbonation is gentle and lackluster, the lacing phones it in and does not show up for work, even though you know it was partying the night before in the bottle. Figures.

At first I was all jazzed based on the appearance and smell, but then-

S: Holy complexity Batman. I get a caramel, plum, merlot, syrah grape, and a mild hint of wet hay funk on the backend. I have no idea how this will taste with an olfactory offering this complex. It’s like the Pontiac Aztek where you don’t know exactly what to do with it.

T: This really pains me to say this, but the taste is really intolerable. I traded big to land this and I want to power through this but I feel that I may have received an off bottle. The initial taste is a light plum crispness like a farmers market- wait, it is passing over my other zones and wow. It goes to a strange place of old halloween Rolos, then finishes with a huge strange salinity like soy sauce. I dont want it to be the case and I respect Allagash immensely but as I sit here waiting for the beer to warm I am left wondering if it is my fault, did I lead the beer on? Was it what I was wearing? You get a deep tartness initially and a red wine aspect that is incredibly pleasurable and then it just goes Thelma and Louise out of nowhere.

In this beer's defense, it is very intredasting.

M: The mouthfeel is light and crisp like biting into a juicy, albeit very salty fruit. The mouthfeel has a bit of acidity on the backend of the palate, but overridingly the taste of weird phenols or something. Again, if this bottle is off, disregard this review but man, this feels like the Aston Kutcher of the beer world punking the shit out of my palate. It reminds me of this one time when I went to Universal Studios and ate grape soda and chili and go too hyphy on the King Kong ride and ended up throwing up in the backseat of my dad’s Cutlass Supreme. The taste in my mouth after throwing up, that is what this reminds me of. Not even mad tho.

D: Well given the foregoing, take a quick guess as to how gung ho I was to knock off a 12.9 oz bottle of this. As it warmed the stakes became higher with more delicious fruit and currant aspects and even more hateful salty aspects. I came into this thinking it would be akin to Consecration or the ilk, but, this was quite different. Not my favorite beer of all time. “But you don’t have to take my word for it” – Reading Rainbow.

You don't fuck with the Wu, and you don't fuck with Vagabond ale.

Narrative: I do not want to cobble together an offensive narrative for this beer because Allagash deserves better than that. Instead, I will provide you with a Lil B’ video. Allagash Aint Got No Felonies, Brews Like Bill Bellamy.

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Portsmouth Brewing Wheat Wine, When You Can Make Wine This Good With Wheat, I Ain’t Even Trifling With Grapes

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I wish I had a crazy anecdote to tell you about this one but, it was a sheer stroke of luck that this was sent to me. Mad props to Ryan S. for pulling this elusive beast into my cellar not unlike so many neighborhood children before it- I digress. So this is the famed Portsmouth brewery that rolls out the Greatest Kate that I am aware of (Mary-Kates dont count) and this is their beastly Wheat Wine. Let’s get it.

If all those mid-30s divorcees would drink wheat wines, maybe we would have something to discuss beyond Lane Bryant and Better than Ezra albums.

Portsmouth Wheat Wine, 11% abv

A: The appearance looks like a rubierer barleywhine with an almost deep orange at the edges. The carbonation was light and wispy with no lacing to speak of. The sheeting on the glass leaves this nice pallor of clear armor that you know protects the rageful abv deep inside. The microbubbles look inviting and you just want to split splash around in that co-ed foaminess. Braces kisses for all.

This beer was mesmerizing and complex.

S: I get a huge initial sweetness that reminds me of a candy coated date or a sticky caramel plum. The wheat is subdued and you could trick the shit out of someone and just tell them that it’s a barleywine with a ton of Maris Otter malts and THAT ASSHOLE WOULD PROBABLY BELIEVE YOU.

T: The taste has no wheat aspect to speak of and pulls the mask off and the big real is the barleywine sweetness and brandy character. The sweetness goes to work on your palate’s gentials while the sticky malt base restrains the ball gag. Secretly, you enjoy the abuse, but your palate has too much dignity to admit it. There’s some incredible sour notes in the middle that reminds me a bit of apricot and again, honeycomb, it finally finishes with a juicy clementine juiciness and the assault is over.

Once I found out that this was a barleywine in disguise, I was like-

M: The outside is candy but it aint sweet, the AR-15 is on the passenger seat. The coating isn’t intense and really the hops are the only notes who overstay their welcome when the party is clearly over. The lingering citrus notes almost make you forget the panoply of tastes you just took head on. Godspeed you Black Palate.

D: This is sticky, abusive, hoppy, and then gone. It is a bit too cacophonous to be a long term girlfriend as the fights just become too frequent and the periods of rest are just interludes wherein this beer will ask you what you REALLY meant concerning previous statements. As it warms, the beer gets more and more abrasive and complex, like each head of a hydra awakening, you, let’s just say your tongue is gonna need some fucking argonauts because this beer is not for the weak willed. Me and this beer are homies, but I def. put it on limited profile on Facebook.

They gave me a wheatwine, I TOOK THEIR FUCKING MINTS.

Narrative: “Hey, it’s me Devin, thought I felt a vibrate and, no? Ok, Metro PCS is weird, just call me back, it’s like a…15 to ZERO ratio haha so YOU’RE IT! BEEEEEP” God, just his voice harrows the core of your soul. Ever since you met Devin, he wouldn’t leave you alone. You were dropping your cousin off at a children’s martial arts tournament and of course, Devin approached you and wanted to show you the appropriate defense from someone with a scimitar. In between your bout, he stumbled into traffic and you saved his awkward gangly frame from being crushed by a street sweeper. Now this persistent asshole thinks you guys are best chums. But hell, he’s an eclectic guy, purple belts in several disciplines, extensive geode collection, a competent fencer, and lauded tobacconist. Sure he has told you all about himself but, you can’t shake that feeling that you secretly wish Devin would get run over by a Fiat, or drown in a swarm of beers. Something hilarious that would bookend his existence, but not make you too sad. You start to feel bad because really deep down he’s a-“HEY! It’s Devin again, YOU SHOULD CHECK OUT THIS LOSER ON CRUTCHES AT THE ICE RINK HE THI-” No. You’ve had enough of Devin.

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Smuttynose Julio’s Ry(e)an Ale, For All The Ryans In The Place With Style And Grace Allow Me To Lace-

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Imagine my unending surprise when, upon opening a box from the Northeast, already my favorite type of box to open, I GET THIS THROWN IN AS AN EXTRA. I remembered seeing people scampering to and fro attempting to lock these down previously and what divine providence brought this to California for my sampling pleasure.

If your boyfriend's name is "Ryan" and he drinks 3 bottles of this, he has a 47% increased chance of cheating on you.

Here’s the deal behind this gem:

Rye ale aged in Sazarec rye whiskey, Buffalo Trace bourbon, and Four Roses bourbon barrels, brewed exclusively for Julio’s Liquors in Westboro. This beer was on sale on Sunday, May 23, 2010, at their 8th Annual Spring Beer Fest.

Smuttynose Julio’s Ry(e)an Ale, 8% abv, bourbon barrel aged Rye Ale

A: This has a ruddy amber character that fades to a bright maroon in the center. It’s a cheerful sprite for having spent so much time in bourbon lockup. The lacing is impressive and doesn’t leave one wanting. It looks like a genial iced with with a mildly murky luster.

This beer is menacing, yet gentle.

S: The smell is a bit heavy handed, particularly for the age, with generous wafts of booze, bourbon, babes, and brewskis. The oak and scorched caramel notes are present as well, but in a pleasing way. It comes across like tulle, adding accents to an aggressive endeavor. The bourbon cleavage is present in a big way within this beer. It reminded me of a more aggressive barleywine in the nose, but less stable on the malt backing.

T: The taste initially gives this crackly rye bramble whip and the interlocutor makes it clear that heat and speed will be the malty weapon of choice. The beer opens up into a caramel, butterscotch (not in an infected manner), toffee, and finally a scratchy thistle heat to the finish. If the foregoing sounds harsh, it is, however, it is harsh in the way a day of drinking on the beach of Cabo leave you with a light sun burn. The entry costs are far outweighed by the benefits.

The key to this beer is not overthinking it, just exhale, embrace the moment and you'll level up shortly.

M: The bourbon barrels just creep up from behind with that “tell me what your palate interests are, who they be with?” It gives a nice caramel stickiness that is melted away with a heat and oakiness and ruminated in a woody barrely manner for a minute after I swallowed. I can finish an entire bottle of this, but I kinda feel like the kid who hogs the controller and doesn’t let anyone else play.

D: This is a seriously delicious beer, but it is a bit like Bowser in Mario Kart, a bit to unbalanced for long sessions, unless you know how to use BA Rye Ales, then you will completely tear shit up, figuratively and literally. I want to keep drinking more, but the complex finish makes me slow down and ruminate on Rilke poetry and existence and I JUST FINNA TRY TO BE DRINK ON. Its faults redouble like the walls of a mitochondria and impair the drinkability. FUCKING RIBOSOMES.

Despite what my friends say, this is my lifestyle and I think that this is perfectly acceptable to drink beers aged in 4 different barrels. You should see my Christmas cards.

Narrative: The trash pile had gotten out of control. Burlinger, North Carolina had encountered a problem that seemed to have no solution. The trash workers were on strike because they didn’t get health benefits, but if the health union had to treat the trash workers, they would go on strike, thereby cutting all the funding for the municipal waste workers. Yessir it was quite the Catch 22 and this sleepy southern town hadn’t seen the likes of this conflict since the antebellum south. “I cannot and will not stand to look at those looming piles of refuse any further, I say I say, I just simply cannot!” chimed in one Christian Southern Belle wearing sweatpants with the words “JUICY” across where her petticoat should have lain. A man in a salmon suit strode into the unventilated court room wiping his brow furiously, “now I say I aint no big city lahh yuhhh, but what if, I say what if we make all this into quality wares for all the Yanks to enjoy!” The crowd responded with resounding applause and all the townsfolk set out to turn those Waffle House wrappers and Bubba Gump refuse into nice baubles for others to enjoy. A video of these poor miscreants was posted on youtube and hipsters bought the town out of house and home overnight. Suddenly, the trash repurposing union was losing their jobs and refused to work with the health workers union and HERE WE GO AGAIN AM I RIGHT?

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Allagash Ghoulschip, Zuul is the Gatekeeper of this Ephemeral Brew

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I always seem to miss the boat on these highly sought-after Allagash beers. Just like when Sega Genesis came out with its bad ass BLAST PROCESSSING, my NES wasn’t blast processing shit. Now my liver finally gets the chance to blast process this sour and take the Pepsi challenge and see if these limited beers are worth the hype.

Who you gonna call? Alebusters. ::groans::

Allagash Ghoulschip, American Wild Ale, 6.9% abv

Oak Aged Ale Brewed with pumpkin, toasted pumpkin seeds and molasses.

A: This beer has a nice deep yellow hue that brightens at the edges like a sweet agave nectar. The center has a metallic copper color with GENEROUS carbonation. I had to pour a bit, come back, watch an episode of Battlestar Galactica, come back, learn stoichiometry, and finally it was ready to drink. The lacing for some reason wasn’t making a title starring role appearance, it had a brief cameo and some one liners and then peaced out.

The carbonation was so immense that I was like, quit playin. Srsly quit playin.

S: I was expecting a huge October treat with this one but I was worried it wouldn’t meld with the sour aspects of the beer but, they pulled it off with a precarious balance of the two, ultimately favoring the cobweb and smashed drywall muskiness with only a gentle gourd and nutmeg smell at the very outset. I get a big tart melon and kiwi aspect from this as well, but I think that might just be a byproduct of the acidity. Either way, this rocks the Hannah Montana act of sour/seasonal better than Jem.

T: The taste has a nice tartness with lemon, mild pumpkin, allspice, the acidity is huge and there’s a hint of molasses in the finish but ultimately this rocks an interesting swiss army knife barrage of funk, tartness, and autumn goodness.

I tasted it and at first you get some lambic notes, tartness and then sneaky pumpkin rolls in, wait what?

M: There’s a light lingering sweetness, like that administrative assistant whose name you can never remember but she knows you like the Pentec G2’s, and a huge acerbic tartness, more similar to that woman in payroll whom you can only assume hates you. The drying effect hits hard and leaves a raw sensation in your mouth like making out with a chick with bands/braces, but ultimately it is all worth it. I could have used some more pumpkin, but hey, in the land of beggars, the man with one chooser is king.

D: The drinkability is huge and it didn’t even hurt my tum tum. I really enjoyed the clean, full flavored gourdiness to it and it reminded me of fall in the way that Armand Herfst did, albeit in a completely different way as the beers are both unique. Again, making this beer exceptionally drinkable is the clever Allagash curse, particularly since they made like 1000 bottles of this. I got 99 bottles but this ale ain’t one.

I'm not sure how gracefully this beer will age, but I am sure it will still be a complete bad ass.

Narrative: “Wooooo, woooo, this is the Haunted Pumpkin pattchhh on 3rd and Cedarrrrr” Joe Clemson called to the children whose cold ignoring glances did little for his self esteem. “This is so lame, God why can’t we just pick out our pumpkin without that irritating owner hassling us?” one precocious 9 year old remarked while irritatingly smacking her gum. Joe kicked a pile of hay in front of him and took off his borderline racist “ghost” costume. “Ah shucks Joe, they know this ole lot aint no haunted punkin patch, shoot, 10 months out of the year it serves as an overflow lot for the adult book store across the street!” Joe thought back to the one time he actually did scare a child when one of the wares from that store was discovered in the hay. THEN SUDDENLY JOE HAD IT. “What’s missing from this lot is a sense of danger, that sort of imminent ghoulish sense of demise, dagummit!” The next day, Joe allowed the adult book store to commingle with the children. Authentic zombie looking prostitutes came and solicited candy from all patrons. One homeless man screamed into a Snapple bottle for 3 hours that “he couldn’t make all the DAMS” and the children seemed to believe this sentiment. It was a truly ghoulish Halloween indeed.

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Crooked Stave Fertile Soil, Casting Fertile Seeds on Even More Fertile Soil

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My friend Sean sent me this in a huge box of Colorado’s finest and I had to give a nod to this well-done beer. Got me feeling more fertile than a 32 chamber indoor growing system in Chico, California.

DIFFERENT SETTING, don't worry, you're still on the same shitty pedantic website, no cause for alarm.

Crooked Stave Fertile Soil, Dry Hopped Belgian Golden Ale, 7%

A: This has a nice golden sheen to it but the real star here is the carbonation, holy hell, so pleasing the the eye and palate. Nice wispy lacing like a Victorian antechamber.

This beer is strange, but complex. The level of refreshment indicates craftsmanship from serious ale healers.

S: There’s a great hop presence with aserose, pine, mild grassiness and some sweet honey backing from the malt. If I had a lawn, I would watch it grow while enjoying this beer.

T: This has a great woody/herbal character to it that doesn’t distract from the base beer. I dont know if the yeasty esters were supposed to shine through, because they don’t really, but it is still spectacular as a result.

I didn't expect a whole lot initially, but then this beer blew me away when it slapped my shit.

M: This has a nice crackly bubbliness to it that washes away clean only leaving some residual crackery notes and a huge pinecone for you to ruminate on. Extreme Mouth Makeover, your mouth is now a green house, enjoy.

D: This is incredibly drinkable and I wish I had another bottle, but oh well, mo brewin mo problems. I ain’t even mad though. The 750ml seems spot on and I don’t think this would be out of place in 6 packs. This was one of like 850 bottles so giving it unqualified praise is kinda a dick move but, seek it out I GUESS.

This beer is mature, yet light and refreshing at the same time. Adult tea party libations.


Narrative: The days at the Ring Pop factory were unremarkable. The ongoings of average plastic ring fabrication and the precious experience needed to craft saccharine jewels were something that lost its luster early in Waylon Winters’s terminally boring factory job. He always saw himself as more of a Pushpop sort of jeweler, or hell, he was musically inclined and Melody Pops were not entirely out of the question either. One day while performing his routine tank cleaning a case of watermelon gems spilled and he went about recollecting this precious bounty. One jewel rolled behind a corn syrup tank and, upon further reflection, he noticed a heavy door left ajar. Waylon walked with quiet reverence into this private chamber and looked in awe upon the sheer motherload of confectionary jewels adorning the chamber. It was like the Aladdin of diabetes and he looked with baited breath at a 7lbs blue raspberry Heart of the Ocean replica. “So you like what you see?” a voice boomed into the chamber and Waylon turned around to see the master jeweler, Ralph Stickery, sucking lazily upon a sticky candy broach on his shirt. “Well, you will probably want to know how all this is possible Waylon, this magic plant-” he produced a tiny bougainvellia-looking plant that was quickly budding and producing a series of candy gem buds. “It is the plants that make the sweetness and the herbs that control the craft, I trust this floral secret will remain between us.” Waylon nodded and licked a candy scepter in an unsuggestive manner.

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Hill Farmstead Damon, DAMON…Matt….Day…mon….

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Ok, so not to thoroughly beat this equine subject, but I love this brewery. They could bottle 4Loko with Hershey’s syrup in it and call it an imperial stout and I would still come running, Fedex account in hand. This beer is no exception. Let’s see what happen when the demigods in Vermont put that midas touch to one of my favorite styles: Huge Bourbon Barrel Imperial Stout. A new challenger appears…

This takes the prize as the most ridiculous bottle to open, dethroning that BA Shipwreck Porter. Dem wax. It had 5 coats like Lithuanian teenager sold into sex trafficking. Too soon.

Hill Farmstead Damon, Imperial Stout 10.5% abv

A: This looks beautiful like a fresh slab of obsidian that those rakish Hawaiians just harvested for kitschy jewelry creation. Nice deep black with roast mocha foam that is understated, yet classy, like a La Coste thong. The head takes a full 30 seconds to realize that it needs to get its shit together and finally rises to the surface reluctantly. The lacing looks incredible like that snarky liberal arts girl whose work you didn’t care much for but the substance lingered on. You know, her.

Matt....Day...Mon....Daymon.....MATT....Day....

S: The smell is like fresh brownie batter whipped up with grampa’s hooch. The smell has the note of fresh Tollhouse cookies, with a bittersweet toffee note. The whole smell reminds me of a See’s Candy Toffee Sucker. God damn, anthropomorphism makes me want to give this beer a big old smooch. Do you remember in Melrose Place where there was always a fire or amnesia or some shit always going down? Well this has that sweet and simple feel but with a ton of other elements in play and it is fucking excellent like a 50/50 lipslide into a fakie manual.

T: The taste is like licking the bowl from some sweet nana’s cookies, and nana has residual drinking problems from the great war. Also, the malts impart this subtle roastiness that nudge at you like that little voice that tells you it’s ok to drink because it is Flag Day. There’s this final finish where bourbon shows up in a flourish with confetti and cocoa coronation fanfare. The taste is like that Master P video Make Em Say Uhh, where there’s a great robust profile and cast of interesting events that you want to ruminate on its efficacy.

This is officially Moar Certified.

M: The mouthfeel just gets all carnival and sticky real quick. Someone went and scooped up some of the La Brea tar pits, jumped into Kentucky for some fine bourbon, hopped up to Pennsylvania for that aforementioned chocolate. The mouthfeel doesn’t overstay its welcome. It’s like a friend who stays, makes out with a chick on your couch and when you’re just about to get mad, BOOM, sheets folded and he’s gone. The shamiest of walks.

The proud lineage continues in this beer.

D: This is absurdly drinkable. It is outrageous in the classic sense of the word, causing outrage. I look at my bank account, then the trade forums, then my cellar, ad infinitum and it makes me staunchly aware of my needledick that I am swinging in the beer trade world for this amazing potation. I just want to post up with these all day long. This reminds me of a gentle version of BB Plead the Fifth, with hand holding and it pops the door locks for you. Now slap it on my ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass, and make that mother fucker Damontime.

This beer blows my mind. Damonception.

Narrative: Damon looked balefully upon his colleagues poised in a tight circle. Lunches on the quad never seemed so long he was ousted from the magic: The Gathering society. Those 43 minutes ticked by with a painful awareness of the liches that were being summoned, the artifacts utilized, and don’t even get Damon started on the sheer potential for enchanted creatures. “Hey Damon” a pigeontoed youth with a screen print shirt reading “5 Dollar Footlong” with a tasteful arrow pointing down approached Damon. “Hey so uh, some of us other guys were gonna start up a Yu-Gi-Oh league an-” “GOD DAMNIT Clarence! What do I look like? A CHILD. You dont have to start some RC COLA LEAGUE to supplicate my self esteem!” Clarence looked to the ground and sheepishly retreated, clutching his deck ruefully. Damon had a heart of darkness and several booster packs worth of rares. However, deep down there was a loving, entreating spirit who could guide others into something amazing. Damon walked over to the circle of disapproving glances and looked down at the match in progress. “Royal Assassin in a blue deck? Good luck with that,” Damon quipped as he dropped a Timewalk into the circle and the masses jubilantly cried out at the sight of a rare and banned card from earlier days. One headgeared, poxfaced individual placed a hand on Damon’s shoulder “Heysh Daymonsh, you’re and shalright guy, you know thasht?” he said, spitting on Damon’s Type O Negative shirt. Damon nodded and all was right again, he was free to summon his loving darkness upon the masses.

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Avery Recolte Sauvage, Oscar Wilde Ale, It is Tart; but Sassier

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Avery keeps rolling out these batches of tiny, super-esoteric batches of beer that people rate extremely highly and I feel like that fat kid pressing his face to the bakery window, just looming on the sweet treats foreboding inside. Finally a friend hooked me up and I gave some Kern River goodness and both parties had tasted the rockies, respectively. This is a beer aged with Cabernet Sauvignon Grapes and then aged in Cabernet Sauvignon barrels. Basically…wine.

An immature palate wanders into the world of wine reviews...


Avery, Recolte Sauvage, Barrel Aged Wild Ale, 11% abv

A: This seriously looks exactly like Juicy Juice. Just straight up grape juice from concentrate. I guess I could make a parallel to some Merlots but really, it looks like a deep purple, no maltiness or carbination, just juice through and through, like Tupac.

There seems to be a bit of a scheme going on here to dupe the beer consumer. Maybe I am the only one.

S: The waft is of a tannic astringency, it goes to the black cherry, then dark grape varietal and lands on an acetyl tartness at the end. It reminds me of a Consecration whose balls have been pressed fully to the wall. If you prefer your testicles wall-mounted, I have a beer for you.

T: Looks like a duck, smells like a duck, wait for it. . .tastes exactly like wine. like a beer that was made with grapes, very little malt and then aged in wine barrels without yeast. Seriously, this is basically a wine with a mild bread profile. I don’t like being tricked into being a mediocre 30 something talking about Nurse Jackie episodes. This shit went Cougartown really quickly. It has a huge acerbic finish not in the cool “oh like a Cantillon St. Lamvinus?” no, like drinking a straight up glass of Kendall Jackson Cab. I look at my one time friend, the beer looking all entreating, tricking me with its vinous foul play.

Above: one of the best RPG's of all time, if you ask me to list the best wines ever, I am at a loss unless Sephiroth is involved.

M: Have you ever tasted Cabernet Sauvignon? Well, shake it up a bit to gain some bubbles and there you go. This is literally 80% wine and 20% hateful potation. The entire glass has a deep violet hue, there’s no lacing, I am way out of my territory here and I fear wineblogs are closing in, airlock is opening, if anyone reads this space station message, just tell them, I have always hated wine. . .in every…way…

D: Well again, this is determined by the nature of your very existence. I feel like I am trapped at an educational mixer with the traditional red wines, those chuckles and heel rocking with the effusive gestures. It is a perpetual “cool” PTA meeting with the notes of tannins that dry a bit and I COULD drink a lot of this, but moreover, I dont want to. It isn’t because it is bad, far from this, it is well executed but…I have the palate of a 21 year old boy. If you give me nice things I will bury them and spike stock certificates in the ground and eat Kraft Macaroni. It is my own shortcoming, not this beer’s.

Ultimately, I have ran out of arguments against wine so I shelter myself with beer to appear more intellectual. This has never happened before.

Narrative: Janice Roth was a recent divorcee, proud in demeanor, light in expression lines, stern in demeanor. Her 6 year-old minx did not trouble her much and she still served respectfully within InGeniDyneDCorp. as a regional semi-vice-personnel overseeing director. A title she held in cold reverence. Janitors would tip their caps in an almost anachronistic reverence of Mrs. Roth and as she piled into her comfy leather highbacked chair she exhaled sharply. “Janey Janey, when did it come to this?” she ruminated to herself as she operated the corkscrew within her desk to open a Chateau Margeaux, not the ’95 the ’96. She sipped the tonic judiciously and looked out the window ingratiatingly upon the foot traffic below. “The man you loved ran away, you have two beautiful girls who adore you, but something feels so wrong-” she knocked the bottle over and watched the crimson liquid gather in stern liquid rivulets. The sum value of her being was collected in this trivial libation. She had been reduced to episodes of the Bachelor and listening to Jason Mraz mixtapes. This was her inherent value after years and years of sacrifice. And then- she gets hit in the crotch or takes a pie in the face to still make this a comedy narrative, right? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? WELL TOO BAD SAD DIVORCEE STORY IS TODAY’S NARRATIVE.

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Hill Farmstead, Arthur Saison, A Rustic Farmhouse Crusade

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Like a moth to a flame, I cannot resist any offering from this brewery for the simple fact that across all styles they always deliver. It’s like the sure thing, someone sets you up with a friend who is into pilates, chances are the stage is set for something unhorrific. Wait, wait, I am generalizing, I have never taken pilates nor have I tried the entire HF lineup, shucks.

Arthur and hundreds of crusaders died just to taste this sweet libation. Thanks a lot Mr. Hill.

Hill Farmstead, Arthur, saison, 6% abv

A: As usual, Hill Farmstead has turned out a beautiful beer with a deep golden radiance that has some brassy translucence. The carbonation is frothy like an egg drop sour with soapy lacing like when you bathing the chillums and they as lively as bedbugs.

There is a whimsical aspect to this beer, but deep down you know that it is all business.

S: There’s a distinct herbal notes almost like evergreens, light funkiness like a wet Jansport backpack, and finally some dry esters. The whole affair seems crisp and sterile like surgical gloves, each note is in its place and tagged. The mastery from this old farm is noteworthy.

T: The taste has a nice herbal snap to it like walking on twigs in the verdant Vermont pastures. There’s a super dry Belgian ester note that reminds me of clove or sage, must be the new yeast. It makes a light arid beer like this feel more at home in the wintertime. The lingering flavor is a light crackery finish, again, an entirely satisfying affair. It’s tough to make quips and cracks when a beer is just dead on, I have some serious first world beverage dilemmas going down here. Boo hoo, this limited saison is too delicious to make fun of on the internet. sob sob.

It is wildly inappropriate how refreshing this beer is. Why must Vermont be so far away?

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and light with a nice brackish feel to it. It isn’t salty in a gose way, but it certainly has its own salinity that I gather is from the Vermont well that I am so fond of. The mouthfeel is hard, much like the rest of their lineup and I love the mineral finish because it is muted but accents all of the acidity and hops going on. Like that tonguekiss from the local coal miner who is nice enough, but come on, all up in your mouth?

D: This beer is incredibly drinkable and even in this bitter winter where you can hardly sit outside for an hour in the stinging dull sunglight, I could still muster up the strength to request more of these. The alkaline finish and hop balance act in tandem and just push this saison over the top. I guess on a minor level, the 750ml format isn’t ideal but hey a beggar and his chooser are soon parted.

If you start knocking off liquor stores looking for this precious beer, there's a few things that you should know about dealing with police.

Narrative: The violet hibiscus flower swayed lazily in the breeze and hugged the ocean currents longingly. It was that charming interval in between the crest of winter and the break of spring with its life giving rains to satiate the soil of the land. And then those fucking white thistle buds moved in. Generally speaking, a “weed” is a subjective term, without any classification value, since a plant that is a weed in one context is not a weed when growing where it belongs or is wanted. But just the way that these stupid fucking thistles spread their tacky thorny brambles about the sediment bed seemed to rob the entirely majesty of the Lent season. As if that weren’t bad enough, the younger zygotes budding and making a mess all over the place, then invite those godforsaken dandelions to commune with them under the regal hibiscus branches. It was all fun and games of toleration until finally one of the children plucked the dandelion reproductive spore and blew it all over the the wanting peat. Now it was going to be nothing but lowbrow commoners and ticky tacky flora of all varieties. The hibiscus were racist as the day was long but, if one did not maintain purity in Genus, what was one reduced to, Order?

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Midnight Sun Arctic Devil Barleywine, . . .And the Devil Makes Three.

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Well it was only a matter of time before this angry beast showed up. It is a top 100 beer that took me a while to land but once I did, the maltgina was never the same. Initially I traded a 2011 Black Tuesday for the 2008 Arctic Devil and people were clowning me like I bought a Better than Ezra T shirt, acting like i got all ripped off. The 2008 was gentle and caressing, but that makes for boring ass reviews, let’s look explicitly at the asshole version: 2011.

Running with the Devil.

A: This has a nice wateriness to it like the beginnings of a boozy Arnold Palmer. It has some ruby hues at the edges but the center is all business heavy malt. The wispy carbonation falls off faster than Aubrey O’ Day. There is no lacing and it’s a fairly spartan affair as far as appearances go, unlike Aubrey O’ Day.

If you kill an entire bottle of this to yourself, be prepared to look and sound like this.

S: Wow this beer takes you to the candyshop. There is a deep burnt caramel and sweet brown sugar like mammy just made some cream of wheat for you to mash on. Mama lets me lick the spoon.

T: The sweetness pokes its head out for a moment and imparts a molasses, maple, and toffee flavor that quickly ducks back into its hole for the malty winter that sets in. This maltverine knows how to dish out the bitter and the sweet concurrantly. That wasn’t a typo, there’s a nice hoppy dryness and a currant note to it as well, not infection, but in the tannic manner. I previously had a 2008 bottle of this and I am now scrapping that entire review because this beer is COMPLETELY different like in an Urkel vs. Stefan way. The 2008 way boring, muted, smooth, and predictable. I like this crazy, boozy, erratic Urkel version way more, there’s a lot more Jaleel White malt up in this bitch.

It's tough to accurately describe how good this is, so, here's some pics of iguanas in sexy poses.

M: There’s a nice oakiness to this beer that dries but at the same time presents a pulpit for the saccharine notes to preach from in a perfunctory manner. I can’t really focus on how the carbonation or coating is because this is such a complicated ass beer, just from typing this sentence some new banana esters starting rolling in as the beer warms and they are welcome. The booziness is a bit intense but it is welcome to separate the men from the bitchly wines. It’s funny that, for a beer called Arctic Devil, it actually tastes way worse at colder temperatures. They should call this lukewarm devil and people will be more on the rails for how to serve it.

Mmm well my devil certainly isn't Arctic.

D: Well, take all of this in the context of a 13.4% beer: this is amazingly drinkable. It is not like a hef on a hot summer day after you just got done beating your children for leaving the hose on, not that level of refreshment, but for the cold 65 degree winter I am suffering through right now, it hit the spot better than a run on sentence.

This tease in his tiny bed.

Narrative: Clayton was raised in suburban Ohio and always dreamed that his mediocre bar chords and major melody driven pop tunes would catapult him to the same fame that Hootie and the Blowfish once enjoyed. But a Darius Rucker he was not and reality set in, in the particular Ohio way wherein he informed all his friends that he was going to make it in Los Angeles. Spoiler alert: his accoustic guitar was not on par with Puddle of Mudd and therefore, in the strict hierarchy or talent = success that is the music industry, he was resigned to work at Chili’s. Finally, in a night of desperation he left work after having a few too many hard Mango Ice Teas, and stumbled upon the Westwood streets, which was practically what they were designed for. In his moment of weakness an opaque badger appeared before Clayton. “Are you my spirit animal?” he muttered through the smell of cheap gin. “Clayton, long have I waited for this moment of desperation, your place is amongst the caribou in the upper reaches of this planet,” the badger noted remonstratively. “But why snow badger, on those times when I needed you most I saw only 2 sets of pawprints in the snow?” “You see Clayton, it was those times when you drank 4loko and were the most wasted, that I carried you.” Clayton nodded and knew that frostmourne hungered for arctic adventures. The Anchorage police retrieved his body from a Mitsubishi Mirage just weeks later and the autopsy report unprofessionally noted the cause of death as “Suicide, kinda?…X-D”