Boy, you make a joke that you paid $700.00 for a bottle of beer and people lose their shit. Thankfully, I didn’t actually drop 7 bills to get some wood like some MBC ballers, but it did involve a trade that would turn your resctum inside out like a skinned snake. At any rate, cracking those top 10 speedwalez takes some doing, as anyone with shitty priorities will attest. In full midwest form, I only had ~4 ounces of this, so if my review sucks shit, point me to someone who has recently skulled a bomber solo, and I will ask that person why he has no friends.

Anyway, let’s make some more erection jokes predicated on wood puns in today’s review

Flossmoor Station Restaurant & Brewery
Illinois, United States
Style | ABV
English Barleywine | 9.50% ABV

A: Despite its age, this doesnt pour a muddy flacid lakewater, but it isn’t the picture of jubilant, pube-free youth either. The carb is gentle and wisps in light rings without much lacing to speak of. In goldilocks parlance, things are “just right.” It isn’t exactly radiant but there is a certain posture to it like sits somewhere between a quad and that deep almond brown with medium clarity that is inviting, but relatively thin looking for the style. If you have fuxxed with CW BBBW you’ll know that look tho.

S: This is easily my favorite part of this beer, the toffee, almond, creme brulee top, toasted caramel and vanilla just dance seamlessly. I was expecting an oxy sidecar, but it never came. Everyone high fives one another and press their hips together comparing cocks talking about cardboard and “THE GOOD OLD DAYS WHEN I TRIED IT ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS” but dick measuring aside, I don’t get that thrift store musk that everyone was jizzing their skinny jeans over. Trust me, later I had 2000 BA Leviathan, i know them oxies. The waft was awesome, no old comic books up in the mix.

T: The taste follows the nose pretty seamlessly albeit in a much more gentle fashion. Those kids in the mid to late 2000s must have had more nuanced palates, an appreciation for the balance and front porch lounging with boozy libations. I got toasted coconut, sugar daddies, a light touch of paper/oxy, and some mallowfoam. Again this is all within the scope of things being resonant and lightly executed. If you walk into this with a raging boner for a Mother of All Storms experience, you will probably clip your tip on the wooden doorway. Speaking of wood, this isn’t the barrel bomb or oaky monster the label would imply, and I think it is better as a result. Perhaps time mellowed it, but it was just and easy drinker that disappeared frustratingly fast.

M: This is on the thinner side of the BABW spectrum but the dovetailing of the gentle flavors makes it seem reasonable. By way of contrast, GI BCBBW has a shitload of raisin, chocolate, fig packed into a similarly thin body so it feels off balanced as a result. I really enjoyed the slick clean finish and sustain of the caramel notes rings like your child when you lock him in the poolhouse for running on the deck. Those sweet dulcet notes of enduring heat.

D: this is exceptionally drinkable and perhaps is a touch past its prime, depending on cellaring conditions. This is the same shithead section where I recommend you seek it out and you tell me to bang my asshole with a curling iron. The give and take of malty tides rolling in, taking hundreds of dollars in its wake. So the operative question is “should I put together a FT: with v007, Fou Foune, Pulling Nails, DDG, and 2 De Garde Berliners + $$$$ to land this bottle?” That is up to how well your life is going I guess, I eat dinty moore in front of a CRT TV and sip whales because I have shitty priorities. You want to live like me? You want to be an internet badass with stretch marks and an inferiority complex?

Fine, then trade for Wooden Hell. Like I give a fuck.

Narrative: William Cooper was last in a proud lineage of barrel craftsmen who, until recently, felt the sting of a world embracing stainless containers. That is, until the revolution of the dipshit homebrewer. Every day, while shaving staves down of pure oak, he would be disturbed with importuning phone calls requesting “RARE BARRELS FOR MY IMPERIAL BROWN AGED ON DATES FIRST USE PLEASE.” William would masterfully be shaping a hoop with care and need to set his work by the wayside for shortsighted assholes. In his remote Illinois workshop, Subarus and KIAs would pull up regularly with husky patrons coming to question him about inane aspects of his once-proud craft. “Well what I am really looking at is bung retention, I made an extract Belgian blonde and I want to add Yuzu to it and I need something with a tannic presence, I read that online” they would chime in while inspecting markings. The face palming would not be insubstantial when these mealtymouthed interlopers would examine stave rivets and begin an unsolicited diatribe about Pappy Van Winkle lots. “Please sir, I just, I don’t even know what you are talking about, this is a private workshop,” William would plead, “yeah I have been to plenty of private workshops in Vermont to inspect their processes, nothing but the best for my homebrew you know? Some people really lack class.” The barrel business was booming once again, to the dismay of every cooper in the entire world.