Cascade Bottleworks XIV, The Barret .50 cal of the American Wild Ale world, dropping shells in that chiquita

Alright let’s knock out some more of the recent walez that have been clogging up the trade boards recently. This one is a glorious return from the complete Bottleworks nonsense that Stone offered up as last year’s anniversary beer. Every other year was like “hey let’s take our time and make a limited, amazing sour with almost zero distribution” and Stone was all like “how about we make a hoppy belgian strong with that same yeast strain that no one is stoked about? Ok now we will ship this to 34 states. Good.” So this was a breath of relief to see things getting back to normal. Let’s pound on this 14 year old in today’s review

You read that label correctly, almost 12% abv.  Dropping more Lane Bryant panties than a Chris Brown record.

You read that label correctly, almost 12% abv. Dropping more Lane Bryant panties than a Chris Brown record.

Cascade Brewing / Raccoon Lodge & Brewpub
Oregon, United States
American Wild Ale | 11.95% ABV

A: This is an outright beautiful beer with minimal lacing but substantial carbonation at the outset that sits in a sticky white cap (EUPHEMISM DETECTED) on the rim of a golden hue. Look at that, looking all like Nana’s broach, that sort of beauty you only see in your girlfriend’s eyes when she says “we lost the baby” or something like that. Tragic yet life altering. The sheeting is present in thick clear legs running down the glass like a Sir Mix A Lot video, NSFW stuff.

It is tough to imagine that massive 12% abv could have the fruits and grace of a complex american wild ale, but it pulls it off straight up Manticore style.

It is tough to imagine that massive 12% abv could have the fruits and grace of a complex american wild ale, but it pulls it off straight up Manticore style.

S: Holy hell, the traditional super lactic Cascade ultra acid bomb is present here, but he brought some ass beating friends to the school dance. In tow is Pineapple dipped in bourbon, Rum with some vanilla numchucks, and finally a Navel Orange with oak ninja stars. It is a formal fighting force that kicks ass on both tart and savory fronts.

This is a powerful hybrid of two things I love, maintaining power and beauty at the same time.

This is a powerful hybrid of two things I love, maintaining power and beauty at the same time.

T: This maintains at the outset the incredibly tart apricot and juicy tangerine acidity but languishes into this really strange sitting chair of caramel and mallow kisses. The rum aspects kinda remind me of 5 Golden Rings or a super lactic Belgian tripel. This is complex almost to a fault because right when you get grounded with all the tart characters, shit turns into some crazy old ale realm where you can’t follow the plot of this beer. Supporting characters be popping up all pell mell, offering handjobs and kicking out barrel aged secrets.

M: This is a heavy double barrel heater all up in your oralfacehole. The residual sugars roll around like substrate in a lava lamp and the heat is decidedly present for a strangely distracting beer. You’d think this beer would have plenty of other aspects to focus on with the sour and crazy barrel properties, but the alcohol burn is still there and at higher temps it is the femme fatale of the film noir that’s going on in your mouth.

D: This is just too heavy, too hot, too everything to enjoy on long stretches. That coupled with the fact that this is a 12% beast with tons of beeetus inducing final gravities, makes it a tough one to take down solo. If you went deep on this 750ml, keep it in the fridge between pours because the complexity it gains at the high 50 temps is not what you are seeking. These are not the flavor droids that you are seeking. The carb makes this easy to drink and unless you let this open up to room temps, it will be tame and treat you right. At colder temps that 12% abv is kept in tow like a Korean wife, but behind closed doors, makes you its bitch.

I LOVE BIG WILD ALES THEY BE SO BAD. Oscar Wilde bad.

I LOVE BIG WILD ALES THEY BE SO BAD. Oscar Wilde bad.

Narrative: Elvis Dumervil tossed his keys onto the rick mahogany table and lowered his head cautiously and skulked into the home, hoping that no one was awake. “SO GLAD YOU DECIDED TO COME HOME AT 2:34 in the morning, Elvis,” Latosha Dumervil remonstrated and flipped the light on in clear agitation. His massive frame shifted on his sore quads and he quickly set the bag in his arms down on the dark teak floor. “Baby please, you know it ain’t gotta be like that-” he pleaded and watched her pace back and forth shaking her head in disappointment. “Oh it aint gotta be like that? How it gotta be Elvis? You leave the Broncos and start living this double life, putting on more and more weight, more power, lifting barrels, eating strictly acidic fruits? WHO DO THAT? WHO BE DOING THAT ELVIS?” Elvis clenched his jaw and stared at her. “OH SO 63.5 SACKS WASNT GOOD ENOUGH HUH? NOW I GOTTA ANSWER TO THIS SHIT?” He kicked his duffle bag and horticulture equipment rolled out, among gardening supplies. “Oh so you WEREN’T AT RAVENS PRACTICE WAS YOU!” He turned crimson and gathered the items up. “I swear to God Elvis if you have been working on that orchard again and barreling preserves…WE JUST CAN’T GO THROUGH THIS AGAIN.” Just then his phone lit up with a text from Dink Martindale “YO ELVIS WE NEED THAT BRLED FRUITS NAO!!!” His wife began packing a suitcase.

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