I sometimes have to field dumbshit complaints like “you never review beers I have heard of,” or “where is your KBS review? I need to know, plz, DDB captainsaveaho” and then I lol and drop 900 words on another obscure farmhouse beer because, this site ain’t bout that basic bitch shit. We aren’t on doing Frozen “LET IT GO” covers and posting instagram pics of us at Coachella listening to Lorde and shit. Go to another trifling beer site for that, there are plenty.

So today we have an ultra-legit top 50 saison that I have been longing for, ArchEnemy hooked this up. Apparently people in the PNW dont want to drop $30 on a weird looking “18 century ale.” MOAR FOR ME. Today we finna huff that Swiss Mist, tickers be like “SwizzySwizzy when your saison droppin?”

I was gonna chope this bitch up, but then I realized I might not tick this again. BOY WOULD MY FACE BE RED.

BFM (Brasserie des Franches-Montagnes)
Switzerland
Style | ABV
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 5.00% ABV

A: This rolls out of the bottle like a broken dishwasher spraying luminous foam all over the place, attenuated as fuck, that 90% strain just working those malts like a laquered floor at Magic City. Those straw red bottoms are clacking at the top of the saison pole and the webbing looks like Peter Parker just re-upped his subscription to Brazzers. The whole affair is turbid like a roll in the hay and the haze looks like someone is smoking dro in a tanning bed. The whole thing is dirty and fulfilling, like watching 3 hours of Nostalgia Critic and lying about it.

Beers like this are strange, but somehow you respect them because you know they mean business.

S: This is incredddddibly musky. Holy shit, I can only imagine how this tiny 5% abv ramped up and boosted out this huge acidic cheesy nose. You get some lemongrass, jamba juice rinds, The brett takes top billing and dips hard, accenting the acidity from the wild aspects of this yeast. This is chunky and dry, acidic curds and whey, lemon meringue cornbread cooling on the windowsill, and then you gotta change your Anchor Blue jeans because you just farmhoused so hard.

T: This takes the acidic nose and takes the cheesiness and funk to gruyere levels. The musk is like the Brabantiae of the saison world and I wish I had an old ass bottle of this, top tier farmhouse ale no question. The middle is a touch of breadiness and biscuit, with a sharp cheddar rind dryness and this pithy orange/grapefruit peel finish. It is incredibly dry and leaves a linger herbal creaminess along the gumline like you just sucked off a Shaman, but you are ok with it, because you finna tick. Incredibly complex beer on the nose and the mouth, call an ENT and get some biopsies done.

You pop this beer and a sense of urgency rolls over you.

M: This is creamy not unlike Ete, but imparts an intense dryness from the musk and funk. The FG on this must be like negative platos, anti matter sucking all nether-malts into the void. It is acidic but so balanced in the approach that you can chain these hard, 750ml is a LOL serving size and the 5% abv just gets your all excited and it ends suddenly. You can guzzle this, the carb doesn’t slow you down, the acidity doesn’t dry you out, the musk isn’t cloying, and the thin body isn’t substantial enough to fill you up. THIS IS A ROBOT SAISON THAT CANNOT BE REASONED WITH. I don’t know if Wallonia would give this a full nod, farms all on the sides of the alps like Snowboarder Kids [fn1 – N64] but in the end it is just fucking delicious and if this was a true 18th century ale, I would not have gotten jack shit harvested or planted. I would have been all swerved in Zurich chopping up Roussean flows; what were we even talking about-

D: See above and make a quick inference whether this is exceptionally drinkable. This is a top tier saison for sure and I wish it would either 1) be more available or 2) dipshit tickers who secretly love AWA would leave beers like this alone. My site isn’t helping my cause by exposing saisons on the reg to stoutmouthed masses. It is a double edged sword, I want to show the world the new way i found out how to touch myself but then everyone steals my bit. So if you like wild ales and ultra acidic lambics, go drink those and leave us poor farmhouse drillers to our provincial toil. I can’t have it both ways, I can’t both praise beers like this and then continually rip on people who seek out KBS and black note like they are whales. The plaintive truth is that the second the 2013 wave of tickers moves to the next evolution of their palates they are gonna babyboom the fuck out of the farmhouse world. Draining our resources, not paying into the system, you know. Let’s just hope these newbz still think saisons are all Red Barn and Hennepin for the time being. Let us pray.

Tired of hearing dipshits argue over stout values? Drink saisons. It’s basically like calling Social Services for your liver.

Narrative: Jacob Donalds surveyed the contents of his spacious “cellar” and nodded in calm approval. The northwest corner of his parent’s basement in northern Ohio was his palatial estate, racks upon racks of IKEA shelves with bottles upon bottles of stouts and porters distributed nationwide. While submitting resumes on Monster.com he would take brief breaks to run his finger along his collection of Stone IRS bombers, lovingly caressing the cardboard boxes from each of his Parabola mainstays, kept in perpetual slumber. There was seldom a time that he did not mention his age when presenting this opulent stash, “NOT BAD FOR A 24 YEAR OLD RIGHT?” he would importune to his uncaring friends. Still, when the sun would dip low across the insubstantial horizon, he felt a panging and a hollow emptiness that perhaps he was not the most knowledgeable person in the entire world. His self image was affirmed regularly by his 134 person Facebook group and the accolades that followed upon posting photos of 2 bottles of Abyss were not insubstantial. Still, while running his fingertips over bottles and bottler of BCBS there was a vision of a higher calling, a more perfect style, as high as the Swiss alps, as refreshing as a kumquat harvest, running barefoot across fields in northern france. For now he would content himself to chocolates and coffees, for to embrace the unknown was to lay prostrate to a tradition of history whose power lay not in starting platos, but finish gravity.