Parageusia1, the first transmission of future rusticity, a liquid harbinger of an alternate timeline of dystopian farmhouse malevolence sent to rectify the Wallonia transgressions of this present to ensure a more rustic future. The forthcoming standard bearers pushes the limits of ph levels to staggering low standards, foregoing all musk, forging a golden calf of wild ales from the melted iconoclasm where idols to Blaugies and Vapeur once stood. A great flood then is prophesied to occur in the book of farmhouse revelations, 12:45, which spake thus “and the seventh son of each seventh industrial park farmhouse brewer was thereby struck down and those keg cleaners who doubted the barrel overmind were instructed not to look back upon the mash tuns overflowing with the hatred of a thousand bubbling generations of saison false worship (46) and thereby when an assistant brewer looked back to mourn an adjunct stout, he was cast as a pilar of salt.”
But how does the beer fucking taste?
In a word: awesome. With an adjective modifier : presently awesome, with future implications. The look is radiant, Belgian pils, perhaps some wheat and maybe even spelt, substantial lacing, three tips mushed seamlessly, foreskin cascading like perfectly tailored drapes.
The nose is all tangerine, old rug, vacuum bags, apricot, Brett L, wet rope, and soaking wet Express g strings. It is decidedly citrus but provides a musk that is wanting in so many Midwest Saisons, this isn’t the acid show but you can put on Wundershowzen and trip balls w this beer.
Taste walks a razors edge between wild ale and saison but keeps it’s shit together and falls on the correct side of the battle, foregoing a pussy ass reliance on micro culture for a strong musky chewy wheat body that coats and delivers wave after wave of tropical starburst and mineral alkaline chalkiness on the swallow that begs for another deep throating. You get peach jolly ranchers, a sort of Petrus aspect, creamy mouthfeel with microcarb and a lasting acidity that has a safe word to tell through that tart ball gag.
This is a fantastic beer and is at home with Saison Bernice and Du Fermier as gentle well executed representations of the new cybernetic wallonia order. Ironically the beers I could drink endlessly are the hardest to obtain. Oh sure let’s just open a Florence five nights in a row, NO big Deal sure why not let me just drum another one up. It’s the tantalus curse, except it’se strapped to the wheel of ixion and I spin each rotation almost tasting these sweet delights, but the gods curse me with boxes of adjunct stouts THAT I HAVE TO FUCKING REVIEW BECAUSE YOU ASSHOLES WONT SHUT UP ABOUT THEM.
In sum, this beer trades below its pedigree and you would be a fool to not offer up something substantial to taste this. There are few that polish this glass ceiling of saison excellence.
Just popped a future rustic saiso- OH would you look at the time