Sometimes we have to brush away the dust and look deep into ourselves and the past to analyze the deep perverse obsession with saisons. Only by confronting one’s own anechoic shortcomings can you really understand how good a saison is, feel me? If you know anything, you know about the revered Odonata Brewery, the hatchery that created the ultra famous Rorie’s (wh)Ale. So I figured I would excavate an old gem in today’s review to see where we have been, to figure out what the future will bring. As a side note, I went into Blue Palms Brew House and ordered the FW16 and the bartender asked me if I wanted 10 through 15 to go with that, not being a complete fucking idiot, I said yes as fast as my fat gluttal jowels could produce the sound. After I tried a few of that epic vertical, I spun some yarns with the cellar manager and he noted that he had “a really old saison” that I might enjoy. Next thing I know he busted out this archaic gem and shit got antediluvian faster than you could Ctrl+T that word. Thanks to Blue Palms for making a lil ticker’s dreams come true.

You can be the first to let me know that this is in fact a shitty picture. Be that guy.

Odonata Beer Company
California, United States
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 6.40% ABV

A: This beer has a nice radiance not unlike the fleece that some Argonauts once sought, a deep gold meets a sort of dull amber that is not exactly milky/turbid, nor is it as clear as some pasteurized saisons would let on. The carbonation for a 5+ year old bottle was so excessive, the bartender demonstrated this by agitating it after pouring it into the tulip and making a foamy malfunctioning dishwasher mess all over the bar. Shit was so cash.

This beer is a strange merger of old and new cultures, with fascinating results.

S: This rides side saddle largely due to its age and I can imagine that when this first came out it was a straightforward dry honey affair but the beer that it has evolved into is even more fantastic. I get a series of apple skins, anjou pear, biscuit malt, straw, the brett C is refined and seems to serve as a keystone for the ballustrade to support the hay aspects in a subtle way. Part of me wants to raise an eyebrow at the AWA aspects of this, but it gives me a gentle pat on the back and lets me know everything will be ok.

T: This is not as lactic as the nose would lead you to believe, but then again not all Mormon girls are as freaky as they say. Some things just need to be empirically confirmed. There is a light lemon aspect to this that works well with the wheaty chewy profile. I don’t get a whole series of fruits and tarts that I was hoping for but I will say that this beer will absolutely disappear from your glass like cologne and ipods from a high school party. There is a lingering aspect of chardonnay dryness but I suspect that was due to the cultures that I poured in later in the glass, there was no barrel work here and, as Dan Olson would say, “This shit did not even go into a barrel ©”

When someone hooks me up with an old ass saison just to see it reviewed, that pleases me.

M: This is chewy while it is in your mouth but immediately dries out the palate and makes room for larger flavors in the lingering aftertaste. If you are accustomed to the realm of Dupont offerings, imagine that but then add a white grape and tannic dryness to the backend that resonates like sobs in the dorm room of an overweight Starcraft fan. Construct additional pylons for your palate.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and I merked this bottle pretty quickly. There is absolutely no alcoholic presence to this and the only real “problem” with this beer is the dryness and the excessive carbonation. When you take a sip it expands like those “just add water” shitty toys in the cereal aisle. As a result you are constantly mowing through the foam, trying to keep the gas down like getting Indian food on a first date. It is hard to fault a beer for my own rampant alcoholism, but, here we are.

This is not the biggest saison, but it is tough and weathered from a half decade of farmhouse aging.

Narrative: In a new wave of hysteria afflicting the youth of Boca Raton, wealthy young people had taken to body modification to strange new heights. When plugs were no longer in vogue, and surface piercings seemed to be a throwback of the days of the tired old Taking Back Sunday, the freshman class of Lynn University took to dangerous new procedures. It was September and the first fraternity parties were in full swing, the redolent smell of earth and stomped wheat lingered in the air, amongst stale alcohol and teeming hormones. Will Jacobs was working the door of his fraternity, half drunk on wheatgrass and everclear shots, accepting the paltry donations to the house, keeping Asian people out, things of that nature. A stunning young woman walked up with a retinue of attractive friends, each with their hands outstretched for a wanting “X” of approval from the ducal sharpie, validating their existence. Something was amiss. Will branded each in turn with the mark and the blonde haired girl who smelled of DKNY delicious, apples, and waterpark afternoons. “I need your hand, give me it.” Will commanded with a light buzz and the sounds of Juicy J resonating from inside. “Will, just let it go, leave it,” one of the other girls protested, her ill fitting BCBG dress pushing up to awkward heights. “LISTEN, mi casa, mis reglas, I need to see that RIGHT HAND, nothing else will do-” Will demanded and gripped her cold wrist. He felt a sharp whirring and the crinkling of thick plastic. “GOD DAMNIT WILL-” her friends protested and she pulled away the sheath to show her newest bodily modification, a cybernatic hand, the newest model from Skynet, the rage of the post-hardcore/Suicide Girls scene. “IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED? DRAW THE X ON THE EXPOSED TRANSISTOR, you fucking assho-” she sobbed and wiped her face with a titanium finger that tasted of apple and honey lotion. The steps across the lawn and the whirring of a fresh penumatic compressor lingered in Will’s heart, and he knew that autumn was upon him, the past rushing forward, strangely developed in a new manner that he was unaccustomed to. He wanted to grip that hand and walk proudly with her on the promenade and win her prizes from a milk jug ball toss. That was all ruined now, as his failure to appreciate the past had denied his future. He seriously could not understand why a girl would think it was hot to have bionic implants, but this was Florida, a state where girls got countless stupid piercings and hummingbird tattoos.