Man, these entitled DDB reviewers and their IV trickle of whale reviews sure do get chapped labias when a guy tries to review some accessible Almanac beers. Fine, these entitled kids can chew on this ultra-nano shit for today’s review. MAYBE A 50 BOTTLE RUN IS SMALL ENOUGH FOR THESE GUFFAWING BUTTHOLES.
Today we have the KBBS killer, the baron of low yields, the Homebrew miracle that made Florida nipples lactate pure vanilla extract: SUMMATION. No this isn’t the Russian River beer that could have been, it is a decidedly original adjunct monster capable of toppling goliaths with a single tiny release. The Facebook page for Three Sons doesn’t evidence an actual location at the time of publishing so let’s just keep acting like condescending assholes and call them HOMEBREWERS and put on a pince nez with regal panache.
THREE SONS BREWING, Somewhere in planning, hypothetically located in South Florida, ALLEGEDLY
10% abv (?)
Vanilla Coffee BA Stout
So what’s the deal with this shit? When I obtained this bottle it didn’t seem as though Three Sons had a per se brick and mortar brewery and tasting room. The batches are usually in the double digit bottle counts, so it is typical Florida business as usual. If you suffered through the traumatizing 2011 Funky Buddha “30 BOTTLE RELEASES” you know exactly what I am talking about and the rifts never heal. So essentially, you’re gonna need a bleached butthole to land one of these elusive loot drops as it seems to trade almost exclusively for KBBS in my experience.
The label isn’t the poverty tier experience you would expect from a grassroots brewery, but it feels stripped down and reductionist. The pour rolls out with a lava lamp viscosity, sheeting obsidian coats in igneous waves on the glass with frothy silty foam. The clear alcohol legs cut through the residual malt and it feels coherent beyond the scope of the “HOMEBREW” pejorative.
The nose is absurd and hammer strikes your face relentlessly with waves of vanilla bean, waffle cone, kit kats, whoppers, a dry earthy Ethiopian sort of coffee roast and a long lingering Rolo finish. While the majority of that rhetoric makes it sound as saccharine as Wonka taint, it isn’t a one dimensional Southern Tier disability jaunt: this shit got more layers than Trident gum.
The taste lends an outstretched hand as you jump from vanilla jeep into a chocolate helicopter. There’s an intensity to it that doesn’t come from the sweetness, it feels more like four stand up comedians shouting jokes at you concurrently. You get in tandem: cold stone creamery, starbucks, four roses and Sweetshop. WHO OPENED THIS INSANE EMPORIUM. It is admittedly very, very good. While vanilla seems to be the most dominant note the coffee and chocolate and barrel serve as a sort of support barbershop quartet back line to bring the elements into malty harmony.
The depth and delciousness of this is inversely proportionate to its accessibility, and that is frustrating as fuck. I don’t want to condone these efforts or put a gold star on something that creates a self fulfilling shitlord prophecy but it is undeniably world class. This has placed a weapon in the least deserving class of ingrates: the Floridian NASCAR population.
I guess it could be worse. If Three Sons opened their brewpub in Chicago it would be the equivalent of giving Iran enriched weapons-grade Uranium and bankrolling their nuclear program.