At a certain point, shit just gets so ridiculous you go “alright, I guess these are the next 2000 empty calories I am gonna punch through this weathered frame.”

At least now I can finally drink Live Oak Hef in broad daylight on the street as God and Texas intended.

Never disappoints. Large pours necessary, no substitute.

Look at that ruby red frothiness just sitting there all petulant and sour, not even seeking your approval but earning your respect anyway. It’s like the bad ass substitute teacher who puts fresh raspberries on his desk hit doesn’t give a fuck if not a single inner city punk takes one. This beer has a muddy albeit oddly beautiful aspect to it’s turbid nature. You know a metric shitload of berries went into this beer because slight agitation covers the glass in mashed up skins and kerns juiciness. It looks like royal crushed velvet and the pink foam is on point like getting your clit pierced at Claire’s.

The nose is the absolute best smell side project has put out to date and goes in locking arms with Rose De Gambrius and De cam framboise on sheer berry blastocyst goodness. It isn’t jam or jelly donut, it is straight up migrant labor, I am talking $3.99 plastic containers at the grocery store, the earthy and floral product of knees deep in silt. Also, acid. Lots and lots of acid. Those two coupled together is like a glass of Robeks smoothie for a man escaping his demons from when he used to work at Jiffy Lube.

The taste still has a massive berry presence and sends shattered dry signals along your jawline, vibrating with juicy passion along the way. Your molars will swell with delight and anticipation as the raspberry framboise drops sour patch kid bombs into the burgeoning pockets of ph3.0 love below. It is more drinkable than Fuzzy, in no small part to the FUCKING AMAZING MOUTHFEEL. I mean this. When it warms it has a fantastic creamy naked juice finish to the mouthfeel like fresh pressed Whole foods goodness. The silky smooth carb and floating debris from a fresh harvest just makes it feel intensely wholesome like some apothecary remedy before you push a crimson smeared brood out into a bathtub at home.

Overall this is an exceptional raspberry beer regardless of style or genus or species. It has a touch too much tartness for my tastes , but the redeeming aspects vastly outnumber my picayunes and shitty complaints.

Go get it x

Gonna just fill that water bottle up with Nelson for that MONSTER 20 mile race this weekend. Stay hop hydrated.

This is a touch more malty than the other recent offerings but it works well to volley the esters and pumpernickel into the air to spike those faintly tart notes home in the swallow.

Def worth seeking out and probably unlike any of the saison monoculture acid bombs you have been enjoying lately. Pop that Swingtop and release the ectoplasm

If you jock Brett C and can’t get enough of those crypty mausoleum notes, you’ll probably dig the earthy mushroom profile of this phantasm. This reminds me a bit of those caramel apple suckers, albeit like rolled in quinoa and pepper. But like most of their offerings, still highly drinkable despite the age and completely unlike any Saisons of recent memory.

MOPAR assholes always tell me “There is no replacement for displacement,” as such, the sheer age and poise of this ancient banger has markedly changed it’s profile over time and it is not worse for the wear, just oddly unique to the Nth degree.

This is a touch too spicy for my tastes and my baby palate wants a bit more candy store sugar daddy saccharine succor. The pepper notes give a slight deadening aspect on the tongue and warms along the bitter zone, but it is comforting in a weird way. These 85 degree autumn nights are fit for some outside lounging and chronic dehydration. This rye makes you feel like you can do some serious Faulkner shit but you are secretly a gourmand Tennessee Williams at heart who will drop after a single hammer strike to the bridge of the nose.

The spirit is that hammer strike and it deals hot slugs to your palate, but there is a modicum of relaxation in the punishment, I still dig it and could have several pours of this and leave my kids at day care until 9pm talking all about how I got a flat tire. You know how it do.

I would recommend this but again, I have no idea how expensive these bourbons are so, who the fuck am I right?

Tonight we’re gonna drink Pinot Grigio spritzers and talk shit on our one friend who isn’t here because seriously, Madison can be such a bitch.

But in all seriousness, this is intensely white grape and white wine forward so, knowing that, you better love them summer vintages going into this. This reminds me of an imperial Confessions, except this is just more aggressive and well done in m opinion. The nose is Granny Smith apple, tart lemon rind , wheatgrass, Gouda, and a biting acidity like underripe kumquats. The white grape is present on the nose but again, it just smells like you need a safety word before zipping the mouth hole closed on this vinous leather mask.

I am shooting blancs the whole time, dropping grapey loads.

The taste is like if you made an iced version of Beatification, maintained all that summer sun intensity on the nectarine and tangerine and then added a sidecar full of Riesling goodness along for the ride. A 375 of this heavy hitter is plenty to make your gum line let people know it fell into a door and maybe everyone should just mind their gosh darn business. The lemon and sour apple notes just work your bicuspids over with a bicycle chain in that fulfilling manner that only $2000 and a night at the ramada can fulfill. The tasty punishment you come back for, and expense to the company account as entertainment.

The mouthfeel is intensely dry and puckering like you got menopause wasted on Chardonnay and maybe told the supervisor his ass looks good in Dockers, the regrets run rampant but secretly you love the white grape, that liberating acidity letting people know hey just because you drive a RAV4 doesn’t mean you aren’t sexy and can’t treat yourself sometimes.

Overall. A novel and very good beer with a vicious profile unlike any others out there currently. This is worthy of your consideration if you need to bridge the gap with an underage sorority girl but loooooooves going to Napa like are you for real right now.

NEVR 4get

Saving this for when I pass the gemologist certification exam. High hopes.

Fantome Triple Gourmet, that bottle that anomalously sits on Etre looking all fancy in it’s Swingtop bottle like a problematic pit bull at the no kill shelter, you just can’t look beyond it’s suspect past. This is a smoky latex mess that tastes like when I ran over a balloon with the vacuum. Probably the worst ghost I have ever had.

The mouthfeel has a certain astringent to it like when you pull a bandaid off with your mouth, the scab becomes apparent thereafter. It exhibits a sort of medicinal juniper for a moment then grinds the clutch right back into dentist glove mixed with some tire aisle shopping. If you want a friend to leave every tome on the shelf forever, use this as an example and then he will be forever spreading the dumbshit 2013 gospel warning the philistines of the ghost plague. Except in this instance, he would actually be correct.

You see, harmony in nature. This burns down the fantome reputation for beautiful new succulents to ride anew from the ashy soil. It’s like when Three Floyd’s burned down and then we got a retooled recipe for Robert the Bruce. In destruction comes rebirth, the stretching poles of each centriole ripping the cell apart provides the latex base for a new progeny of saison lovers , shedding the unwanted like an old rattlesnake skin.