OWA Brewery, Ume Lambic, Just When you Thought I was PLUM OUT of Lambic Reviews

April 2, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

On this one episode of Tailspin, Kid Cloudkicker jumps out of a plane with a bag of table salt and pours it into the clouds. The result is that it starts raining due to a chemical reaction with the salt and the cumulus clouds.

I don’t know how to science but, in today’s review I am going to make it rain on these tickers with a 100 bottle lambic release from the Pajizzzotenland.

YMCMB MAYBACH MUSIC MUSTARDONTHEBEAT.

Gotta have some srs plums to go after obscure Japanese lambic.

OWA Brewery SPRL
Brewed at Brouwerij De Troch
Style: Lambic Style – Fruit
Bruxelles, Belgium
5.5% Abv

100 bottle release

A: This beer presents with a bit darker hue than I anticipated but also doesn’t really have any fuschia or magenta from the ume tannins- OH WAIT, that’s probably because ume looks like this you ignorant fuck:

peach pears plums I am inches

so the carb comes out in soapy bubbles you could count individually and rises up to an eggshell collar that subsides pretty quickly but, nothing too apeshit, all things considered. There is insubstantial lacing and the legs are watery with minimal cling. The center of this beer is very inviting, got that amber meets wulfenite sort of glow to it. Google wulfenite and leave me the fuck alone.

Time for a trip to Japan or…Belgium. wait fuk

S: This is a tasty treat for the old face holes. At the outset you get a light sweetness like lemon meringue that subsides into a citrus acidity akin to a tangelo, there is a touch of musk and cheesiness that is almost like topsoil/silt, it closes with a zesty Sierra mist lime that is ultra inviting. It’s like when the woman is all on them satin sheets running her hand in a small circle and YOU WAKE UP ON THE METRO WITH A VISIBLE ERECTION OH GOD DAMN IT.

T: This takes the foregoing Sprite and tangerine aspects and ratchets them up to levels that can only be described as “mid to extremely trill.” The first swallow is a 160 bpm trap beat that cascades sweet, brackish, then tart in those waves. You get this opener kinda similar to lime lucas, if you grew up in a Hispanic neighborhood. It subsides into a sweet honeysuckle and grapefruit pith bitterness. Finally the closer comes out and it tightens up the game with a sort of “aged Printemps” sort of lemon-lime feel to it. It is never exceedingly sweet, and remains drinkably tart, yet has this bitterness like citrus rind to keep everyone in check. It could use a touch more from the attic fairy, but I imagine that will come with time, as will I.

The malts are restrained and take on a new, equally amazing form

M: This has a bit more heft than I would want out of a fruited lambic, but never drags deep into that honey coating too aggressively. It is dry but balanced by a light sweetness along the gumline that combos into the next sip like Glacius. Alright people complain my references are too obscure, you want to know who the fuck Glacius is?

There you go. That’s Glacius, do you even Killer Instinct?

He is excellent at ground-air combos. Alright can we get back to the fucking review? Ok so take that lemon lime and add a bit of acidity, not much, but say in the realm of a young 3F Kriek, just enough to keep the blue vein pumping. It is fully satisfying.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable with the caveat that you keep it under 55 degrees. The honey and sweet aspects closer to room temp make the sweetness a bit heavy handed when it gets warm but, what the fuck is wrong with you, letting 100 bottle Japanese lambics get all hot you insensitive asshole? All in all, a very good lambic likely unlike any other offerings you have tried. I guess you could mix 2006 Doesjel with 2006 Printemps and get a similar, less bright execution. In fact, go do that, report back to me. I posted a pic of this in a Facebook beer group all warming up my rotator cuff thinking I was about to serve up a backdoor breaking ball on some tickers. People had zero fucks to spare, too bust doling out Likes for KBS pictures. But that is part of the reason why you are here, and not fingering your dickhole talking to some anti-In Bev noob. We have the same issues. The type of beer drinkers who seek out this type of shit are not the ones who review Hopslam by reading the label in present progressive tense “”getting hoppy, getting malts, getting yeast, getting water, getting Bell’s, getting Michigan. getting…a guy with a hop cone on him…getting barcode…”

You expect some naughty funk but get some citrus loving instead.

Narrative: Tetsuo Otomo was the most esteemed botanist in all of Kyoto and his scientific renown brought inquiries from across the globe. Upon the behest of the European Union, Mr. Otomo traveled to the Senne Valley to analyze the ground-water table and its effects on the local fauna. “Hmm…ish a nooo good,” he noted in a borderline offensive accent “glound tabre has too much a sart! Need nitrogen frixation, lower minelal crontent.” The group of Belgian geologists nodded and took copious notes. Mr. Otomo returned to Brussels shortly thereafter and engineered a super strain of Japanese Plum that would convert the atmospheric nitrogen into ammonia at an alarming rate. The process drastically boosted the presence of the diazotrophs, creating a super flora in the classic valley. Soon even the mildest glass of kolsch exposed to the air became an acidic wild ale, almost instantly. German tourists brought kegs and kegs of tepid wit biers over in droves to contaminate and vastly improve their pedestrian ales. Tetsuo had solved a problem with plums, but created a larger one by way of ignorant assholes from abroad.

Americans DO NOT brew Lambic, Most Belgians Do Not Either. Almost No One Brews Lambic, Ever.

February 28, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

As a United States citizen, it sickens me to see these American breweries attempting to capitalize on Belgian traditions with their bastardized takes on Belgian beers. American beers cannot, and will never be, lambic. Lambics are brewed in Belgium, specifically only within the Senne Valley. Any American brewery attempting to denature hundreds of years of culture by perpetuating the brewing style is nothing but complete disrespect and contrary to the hypothetical interests of generations past.

Such disrespect.

It is equally disrespectful for these ignoble North Americans to use the word “lambic style” on their labels. As though noting that a certain influence could somehow wash their hands of the clear impurity, they continue these actions with impunity. At the very least someone might stumble across the infinitely flawed Resurgam or Duck Duck Gooze and then somehow be made aware that lambic and gueuze exists. The problem here is that they will be done a complete disservice if they taste a 100/100 rated wild ale and then think that AMERICA somehow had anything to do with the brewing of that beer. IT IS NOT LAMBIC. Furthermore, the use of the term “sour” on the labels is a complete slap in the face of Belgian brewers who had been crafting sour beers for generations. The employment of any adjectives that notes a tart flavor profile should be looked at as highly circumspect as it clearly sets the brewing culture back hundreds of years to have them appropriating English descriptors pell mell. It should be about tradition.

Lambic is about honoring timeworn nostalgia and mouthwatering practices.

Further, Belgian breweries need to focus not on only the Senne Valley, they need to remember the meteorological implications of that valley. The lambic tradition isn’t about the valley itself, but instead the lower cloud strata that distributes the wild microculture. A brewery merely cooling their wort in this valley doesn’t automatically guarantee it is authentic, let’s implement some standards here, for tradition sake. It seems in comport with the generations of lambic brewers that petri dish cultures be taken and analyzed under an electron microscope to ensure that the cell jackets and bacteria fall under a certified Belgian sheath. I can hardly imagine that the generations of Belgian brewers from the Reformation through the Gilded age would approve of calling a beer lambic without microbiobial verification. It is in comport with their wishes.

American breweries have been brewing “WILD ALES” for less than 50 years, who gives a shit about their flawed procedures?

Another point of contention is how American brewers are freely identifying the fermented malt beverages that they are crafting as “BEER” just in front of god and everyone. I can hardly imagine that Sumerian brew masters would condone the use of the term based upon the bastardizing conditions in modern brewing. It is a complete violation of Ninkasi, the brewing goddess, and the wishes of the fertile crescent to just go around fermenting any old grain and calling it beer. American brewers have some serious balls setting forth these items in the stream of commerce without honoring traditional cuneiform pressings in clay tablets or a single sacrifice to Innana or Utu, it’s like, who the fuck do you even think you are?

Knowing time-honored Belgian brewing traditions is half the battle.

I think I am qualified to speak for all generations past and historical cultures from a variety of regions when I say that American brewers need to stop their practices immediately. If I may continue to free-associate the desires of past generations: IT IS NOT WHAT THEY WOULD HAVE WANTED. I don’t care if you are crafting world class beverages according to the MODERN palate, it taints the commercial interests so coveted by past generations. I think we can all agree that American breweries have contributed next to nothing to furthering Beer Culture with their paltry facepalm worthy offerings. So the next time you sit down to enjoy a Timmerman’s Strawberry Lambic to taste that authentic sweet nectar, take a moment to think of all those North American ingrates subverting the proud heritage of lambic.

O’So/Funk Factory, Dweller on the Threshold, Staying Turnt up Don’t Turn Down for Nothing

February 24, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

Alright full disclosure: Funk Factory owner, Levi Funk, is my roll dog. Notwithstanding, in true DDB form, I will still give him triple digit penetration on a trill 900 word banger review. This is a collaboration between FF and O’So of that Goldilocks fame. That 450 (?) bottle swagger, staying on like Porsche lights in the hood.

Yah trick YAH.

Funk Factor/ O’so Brewing Company & Tap House
Wisconsin, United States
Style | ABV
American Wild Ale | 5.25% ABV

Lol first and foremost, I want to point the differences between the Ratebeer and BA descriptions of this beer:

A: This pours a deep burnt orange and light amber like that fossilized sap that them Jurassic Park bugs be layin in. There is a light carb that wisps and crackles like a ground bloomer and dissipates quickly. The lacing is insubstantial and settles to a gentle ring sitting on those 808 sour drums, bouncing hard. There is a light turbid aspect to it, not sick clarity, but not out of place in the current American Wild game. More gold than Trinidad James posted up on Rosecrans.

Lovin that cheesiness, plus this beer isn’t even racist at all.

S: This is my favorite aspect of this beer and the olfactory is outright phenomenal. There is a light musk, orange rind, wet bicycle seat on that Brooks trill, there is a some oak and lemon zest with crush yard trimmings left in the rain and a subtle tannic finish. I could sit under a railway underpass and huff this hard, all day long just musking it. It is one of the most Belgianesque waft I have encountered on this side of the Atlantic, straight Doesjel flows.

Sometimes the homage mirrors the source material in awesome new iterations.

T: This opens with a sharp acidity with a grapefruit dryness that comes across as slightly acetic at low temps. Let me qualify that, I don’t mean acetic like excoriating Small Animal Big Machine, I mean a light sharpness akin to Grand Funk Aleroad or a balanced Oud Bruin, if you know how it gets throwed. This tastes like a a coovee of Cable Car 2010 and Doesjel. There is one foot on the American Wild side of the argument but a compelling musk and leathery goodness that you could sip up in the attic just breathing in that funky particulate matter. The cheesy closer is a perfect compliment to the acidic body and contributes to sky high drinkability.

M: The mouthfeel is a bit disappointing due to carb levels that don’t have that Pop Rocks crackle along the gumline, however, this Killer Instinct combos up the drinkability. So it takes with one hand and jerks you off with the other, so not a bad deal altogether. The chardonnay oak is restrained and, unlike many other American wilds with that apeshit ph2 shit, this is restrained and exhibits balance in this regard and you don’t want away with GERD after drilling a 750ml. Chopper in the bushes, goozie in the tree, this wild wont light up your chest like E.T.

D: As noted above, the gentle carb and judicious distribution of acidity makes this exceptionally crushable. I killed the entire 750ml in 2 rounds of Battlefield 4 and I don’t even die that much SO IMAGINE HOW FAST THAT IS SRS. Highly croosh, soft and prickly like some Koosh.

supes croosh ultra amber koosh

Narrative: The trains to Brussels clipped along the railway gently, providing a slight rock to the interior cabin. The passing telephone poles passed with metronomic rhythm. Angel Walters pulled the chamber back on his .45 Desert Eagle and examined the chrome inner workings, dropping the gilded clip into his palm. The forthcoming mission would not change the world, but it was a daring initiative. Agent Walters, also known as Ph3, was charged with obtaining the microfiche from the Belgian Embassy of Internal Compliance. Belgian exports usually surrounded gourmand items of old world decadence, but these schematics held the nuclear cellular makeup of an intensely powerful microbe: The Sennebug. The United States needed to obtain the biodata on this local fauna as all synthetic attempts to recreate it in a lab had failed. If the Sennebug were unleashed on a crowd of Pittsburgh tailgaters, the effects could be devastating. Lowered pilsner consumption, introspection, sores along the gumline, reduced birth rates, and increased literacy levels. Agent Ph3 needed to prevent this at all costs, but for now, chocolate and a gentle snooze while riding the rails.

Cantillion (Cantellen) Jean Chris Nomad, Enjoy this beer while watching Timecop or Bloodsport

February 21, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

Oh shit bringing more muscles from Brussels, them Kentellen one-offs seeing what french people are doing to copy American wile ales, and all those timeworn bits of levity. So everyone became a hilarious Ray Romano overnight making jokes about this being a fake bottle. BECAUSE I SAW A THREAD ABOUT IT TWO YEARS AGO ITS STILL FUNNY RIGHT. Jokes in the beer world are like the Yo Mama levity of the schoolground that fades far after the beers themselves. Anyway, this is a real bottle, crisp N edges, rounded corners, all that shit. Oh well, hater tickers gonna hate, I let my bottles hang somethin like my Jesus piece.

Let’s pop this goozie, after 4 bottles of sour these hater tickers start feeling woozy.

Spraying the mack, extendo goozie clips in the back on the lap

Brasserie Cantillon v

Belgium

Style | ABV
Gueuze | 6.00% ABV

The third in a series of beers made for the Mi-Orge Mi-Houlbon beer store in Belgium and Jean Le Chocolatier chocolate shop. A blend of 1, 2 and 3 year old Cantillon lambic from Red Bordeaux, White Bordeaux and Cotes de Rhone barrels.

A: This has a graceful clarity to it and that eggshell head that sticks around and lingers for days like lemon merengue giving that classic goozie cling on the edges with the finest microcarb that you could ask for. The silky carb sits gently with a frothy collar like them Vivid pearl necklaces, graceful and top tier stickiness. Beautiful beer top to bottom, I keep red bones up in Belgium to watch these sour barrels twerk.

“I got a pour of Cantillon once at a Beerfest, I am practically an online certified beer server. JCN prolly tastes the saem.”

S: God damn this is a musky beast. For anyone who can’t tell the difference between normal classic and this, or the age old “WE DID THEM BLIND AND CLASSIC IS BETTER LOL!” then those tickers aint on this Radio Rahim shit. This is a far cry from classic in many ways, most notably, this beer is simply more gentle across the board and funky for days. This has a huge leathery lemony waft that gives that attic full of tepid dust where you used to hide them Hustlers at, full musky muff on that late 80s jam. The gruyere and cheese is mixed seamlessly with the chardonnay oak. It isn’t exceedingly lactic but seems the most “traditional” execution of the classic style, ironically more so than Classic itself. I OWN A FUCKING TIME MACHINE OK I HAVE HAD FRESH GOOZIES DURING THE REFORMATION AND THE ENLIGHTENMENT. You ever sip geueueuze with Robert of Orange and burn protestants? I didn’t fuckin think so.

T: This again is just a paradigm of balance, straight Yoshi in Mario Kart of the goozie world. If you have a blunted american palate that loves Upland Kiwi lambic and like your sours like a communications major (one dimensional, sour faced and cantankerous) you will find this to be lacking simply due to the delayed payoff and nuance. The cheesiness just lingers with a lightly herbal oakiness and this prickly gentle tartness that is restrained and gives you just enough to allow the musk and funk and wet comic books to do their thing. It is certainly tart, but more like the restrained lines of a 911, it is endemic to the grace and poise of control and stability over time. This might be my favorite Cantelleon one off to date, certainly better than 50n and rivals Helena with cool stability.

The musk, funk, and ratchet acidity in this beer is a powerful combo, if you can comprehend it.

M: This has a wonderful creaminess that coats despite the bone dry finish. The white wine doesn’t come through in a ham handed way, it is the keystone that supports an arch of musk and funk that unites the experience from coming across like them mid-2000s Fantomes. It is multifaceted and lingers along the gumline like sharp cheddar that slight bitterness and muskiness parting the red sea like spreading some Louboutins.

D: This is the most drinkable Kentaleon that I have had this side of 2008 LP Kriek, but for different reasons. The appeal of the fruitiness from the LPK stunts hard on the muskiness and balance to this. This doesn’t stunt hard with that sharp acidic nose like an Aventador, it is more nuanced but packs a certain grace and poise like an Aronofsky film. If you don’t get it, people will shake their heads and make you feel like a dipshit. You probably deserve it, this beer is phenomenal and most tickers are on that Romcom game, that offshelf Ryan Reynolds game.

Some people prefer bigger execution, that just isn’t my steelo.

Narrative: Patroclus Invixus wasn’t the most impresive magician in the Boise Illusionists Guild. He was not known for over the top escape acts, he never cut an assistant in half with a blade, hell he never even attempted to perform low level sleigh of hand. Where Patroclus was lacking in pageantry and showmanship, he excelled in simplicity and amazing feats of illusion that even the most noteworthy could not solve. His soft amarillo jacket glowed under the rosy hue of the magic club as he awaited his turn to perform his act. He took the stage with a meek confidence, his stability inspiring confidence from the Wednesday contingency. “And you sir,” he began “were you not deeply affected by being struck by birch switches as a youth?” he questioned one unsuspecting man. The man was deeply affected by the sheer balance and insight that the Mr. Invixus had presented. He had a penetrating depth and subtle execution that left everyone nodding in cool reverence for the power that is exhibited in moderation. Patroclus took a small sip from his limoncello and paired it with some semi-soft goat cheese; a modest celebration for a man of incomparable depth.

@sideprojectbrew Pulling Nails, I Finally Get My Mouth on Cory King’s Goodies

February 10, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

Some people readily assume that because I wasn’t a huge fan of regular/BA abaraxas and didn’t think the world of BA Sump that I somehow have a chip on my shoulder against Perennial. This is certainly not the case, and I hope today’s review communicates that effectively. I enjoyed Perennial’s light offerings, smashed that peach berliner and would bang it again repeatedly.

Since I am usually obliques deep in that farmhouse swagg, I clearly needed to get these decadent treats from Side Project in and around my mouth. Today I get to dabble in their wild program to see what the business is. Initially I was confused because people were calling this a saison, but this is straight wild, like that kid with divorced parents who doesn’t give a shit about learning long division. Buckwild on that farmhouse tip.

Don’t listen to other people’s classifications, follow you heart. LISTEN TO YOUR HEART LIKE ROXETTE

Side Project Brewing
Missouri, United States
Style | ABV
American Wild Ale | 6.00% ABV

I can dance around the stylistic nuances all day long, or you can read the commercial description and decide for yourself:

“Side Project Brewing is excited to announce the release of our first blended beer, an American Wild Ale named Pulling Nails. Pulling Nails will be a series of blended beers that explore the art of blending to create beers with extraordinary depth, complexity and balance. This will be labeled as Blend #1 and it is the blend of 4 unique beers, each of which add their own characteristics to the final beer.

These 4 beers are:

Spontaneous Wild (Lambic-style, native microflora from my family’s farm) – aged 25 months in French Oak White Wine (bright citric acid, mushroomy, musty)
Flanders Red – aged 18 months in American Oak Chambourcin Barrels (tart candy, robust oak, big acid, very light acetic)
Saison du Fermier – aged 9 months in American Oak Chardonnay Barrels (citrus and orchard fruit, billowy, delicate)
Saison de Rouge – aged 6 months in American Oak Chambourcin Barrels (Amarillo hopped, pear notes, 100% house Brett)”

So in this saison, we have lambic style microflora, french oak barrels, a Flanders red component, chardonnay barrel treatment, and Chambourcin treatment with brett all up in the cut like what. Wild as Jesse and the Rippers, leather jackets and motorcycles in the hallway.

A: This looks somewhere in between a straight up Flanders red and a Supplication stand in with those amber and light garnet tones shimmering up in that tomestem. The carb is spot on and crackly with that acrid anger that hisses in tiny bubbles, kicking and revolting on their way to timeout. The lacing is insubstantial and the way the beer settles in just APPEARS sour, if such a thing is possible. There’s no hefty residuals to calm the nerves, this shit looks sleek, svelte, bone dry, and wielding an acidic katana sword.

This is a fascinating amalgamation of different elements, but the end result is phenomenal.

S: The nose is intensely tart and opens with a cherry, currant, ripe peach, them strawberries the size of your fist you see by the roadside, and sliced Granny smith. It is clearly intensely lactic on the nose, and the brett aspects are either entirely dominated at this point, or they need time to gather themselves. The oak is restrained and this is clearly a berry show, not the white wine matinee you paid to see. However, the berry profile isn’t some jammy adjunct fest, it’s like a crisp farmers market spritzer that captures the tannins of the fruits, rather than their explicit juices. Again, the cherry and subtle raspberry dominance reminds me of a cuvee of Supplication and Crooked Stave Batch 1, and this is a very good platform to work upon.

T: At colder temps, this beast is intensely sour. The depth of all those fun fruits and berries take a backseat for a moment to deep punishing tannins that beg for some malty discipline or complexity to even out their keel. Once it warms up a bit, the show really starts and a fantastic bouquet of Jamba Juice citrus, those acidic notes meld seamlessly into peach and fresh cut grass. This doesn’t present a huge brett profile at any juncture, however, there is a certain joie de vivre of earthiness like a rye presence in the closer that keeps all of the fruits and acids in check. That slightly bitter mushroom closer gives a faint oaky and metallic presence to provide a more rounded approach from the single note Cascade and Upland offerings that sometimes kick your jaw inside our and give you no solace.

It is important to enjoy a nice wild farmhouse romp every once and again

M: This is very dry and after your first pour you will feel your gums grumbling about mistreatment, asking to see HR. This strips the valleys of your mouth of that mossy coating you maintain and leaves a raw tender shell of a face, bursting with berry goodness. There is a give and take, for each sip imparts an impartial love but cuts deeper, like when you eat Flaming Hot Cheetos and simply cannot stop the mouth abuse, chaining your own demise. It is punitive but thoroughly enjoyable.

D: The formula for this could succincly be stated (Smell + Taste) / Mouthfeel, the greater the sum of S+T, the larger integer presented for the ultimate drinkability payoff. If you can’t handle intensely acidic sours, this might not be your 160 bpm club smasher. However, for those of a more solid constitution, maybe you push yourself to that realm, skull an entire bottle and let your orthodontist figure it out. This could go either way, but drinking this beer is an absolute pleasure and a phenomenal take on arguably one of the most contested styles. Nothing DDB could offer could diminish what this beer has already accomplished, a tip of the acidic bowler to Mr. King.

Now I need to reach out and get more of these inaccessible, low bottle count shredders. lick.

Narrative: The Jennings farm had seen better days, economically and agriculturally. The simple plot of 50 acres was home to the best cherries in the tri-state area for 3 generations, that is until Impact Confections moved into the adjoining parcel. Most of the simple folks in Shamsville, Missouri had never even heard of Atomic Warhead candies before they moved into town, now you could scarcely visit the general store without hearing about some new sour-based upset. “SO NOW TREVIN’S DENTIST BILLS ARE SKY HIGH. The nerve of this candy joint!” one local resident boomed, fuming while she purchased her sundries. Dirk Jennings shook his head and lamented, “boy she ain’t got the half of it, turns out their acidic stores have tapped into my underground well, now all my cherries are plum puckerin’ like a bovine b-hole at milking time.” His statement was not entirely hyperbole. The fruits from the farm had absorbed copious amounts of citric acid, changing his old farm into something wildly different. “I mean, I try to pick ’em, but my gloves get all itchy and I come in smelling like lemon zest and sour peaches, that ain’t no cherry pickin’ way,” Mr. Jennings bemoaned. The times were changing, simple farmhouses needed to adapt to the tart reality of modern consumerism. If someone isn’t exceedingly sour or demonstrably wild, the average customer might just drive right on past the simple old farms dotted along that Missouri interstate. You can ask the old Hennepin’s up in north county if you don’t believe me. The world done passed them by.

1981 Bellevue Gueuze, The Worst Thing I Have Ever Put Inside my Body

February 9, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

Not every trade is a success. Sometimes you go hard in the paint with a 4:1 and end up with a bottle of oxy sugarwater. Such are the trials and tribulations of a ticker deep in the game, rubbing dregs on gums, looking for the next big hit, a bump of a new discrete potation to keep the blood pumping in the shaft. This is the DDB game. Today’s review is the clearest example of abject failure and stands as statuary adorned with laurels to the worship of the demi-god of failed trades. Myrrh and frankincense roasting at the altar of failed bilateral exchanges, bile and rotten liquid hatefully bubbling in tiny green vessels for upwards of 33 years, awaiting their baleful release upon the unwilling palates of modern combatants. Horrible shit, top to bottom in today’s review, and it enjoys the prestige of dethroning THE WORST BEER THAT I PREVIOUSLY HAD EVER TASTED, ENGINEERED BY MIKKELLER

Lets lay prostrate and accept the whippings in today’s review, there will be goozies.

Abandon all hope ye who trade for these

Formerly brewed at Belle-Vue
Style: Lambic Style – Gueuze
Sint-Pieters-Leeuw, Belgium
5.2% abv

A: Just look at this shit and ask yourself how much you hate your body. Do you harbor secret guilt for things you did in high school? To what extent do you revile your past actions and forthcoming shortcomings? The sum of these chambers must be excessive to want to put yourself though this one. The cap was not rusted, the bottle was in “perfect” condition in the way that Peter North is perfectly engineered for destroying vaginas. This pours a muddy, depressing pond-water/Skoal dip cup look to it. If you add water to Nestle Quik, you will be on this 1981 oxy game. The carb is there like an opening band for Gwar, you know shit is about to get violent and real very quickly. Only those who have endured a 4 Taco Bell item evening will know this look in the morning, those splattered viscous browns and siltbed khakis. The venom of soiled bedsheets and Fedex exchanges gone awry.

This beer is so horrible that it stays with you for life, redistributing its terror on a semi-regular basis

S: This might be the worst smell that I have ever encountered from anything set forth as beer. It ranks well in the top 10 worst smells and I have been to the LA Morgue. In fact the petulant fermldyhyde wafts up first, coming across as hugely astringent for a mild 5% abv romp in the chemical burn tank. Next comes the smell of rotting fruits in hot summer air, like wandering through orchards well after harvest, a deep gagging produce decay that sets the stage of a Land O Lakes nightmare. Butter, everywhere. Shameful butter engaging your pets in the most repressed discourse that you dont even tell your therapist about. The grease profile is like the kitchen of a Peruvian C-rated restaurant, hefty and coating the insides of your nose with a weight of undercooked pork belly. Finally the putrid green apple closer, like Jolly Ranchers that went through the laundry in a load of nothing but menstruated thongs. Decadent in its filth and profound in putrid depth.

T: For accuracy, I could only drink about 3 ounces of this, and I tried really. fucking. hard. The smells are transmuted into a tangible taste but further elaborate upon themselves like fucked up Brony fanfiction. It takes the model of things you want to appreciate and scrawls perverse diacetyl penises on the finest Baroque art. The initial taste is akin to the waft you get when your garbage disposal acts up, this filthy gurgling of old coffee bean acidity and ground up old bananas. The grease profile is slick in the mouth and this beer is not tart, not at all. There is a green apple butter pecan aspect that would be mildly acceptable if it wasn’t dipped in shortening and bacon runoffs. I can scarcely recognize this as a beer, it reminds me more of a fear inducing potion crafted by a second grader when left to his own devices under the kitchen sink. How can a beer beer both greasy and astingent? How does it hit the inner wall of the cervix with a filthy heat while still holding the crest of Planned Parenthood landfill? Burnt hair and unrolled condoms mixed with pruno from cellblock C cannot touch the depths of this misery. All this and I only had 3 ounces. I tried, I really did. I almost vomited, not in the hyperbolic DDB style, like a glaring autobiography of a hobby taken too far, gagging at each sip, flaying myself for a passion and the amusement of my readers. The purest dedication to this endeavor, pinnacle and zenith of all that is shame inducing actions.

the depths of the horror of this beer are derp altering.

M: This is greasy and heavy, then burns off like dirty diesel into a wafty buttered popcorn coating that lingers. The patient molest of your palate comes in waves, each more disturbing, no solace is provided as you are administering this unto yourself. The calm shame of your first masturbatory experiment coupled with a greasy facepalm that the longest 8th grade sick day cannot rival. These are the bottles that you hang your head and mumble the experience while avoiding eye contact. There is no acme of ticker pride, it is the crestfallen morning after where you realize you just impregnated a Samoan shemale, and this is your life here on out.

D: This is derivative, no words exist in English parlance to set forth how undrinkable this is. I cannot even bring myself to write a narrative about how horrible this beer is and recounting this experience is a mild PTSD experience where I lock my jaw and shake my head thinking how much a toll this horrible hobby has taken on me. I gave up Armand and Tomme, Loonz, and Zwazne glassware for this, just thinking of those bottles and looking at this pour, coating the insides of my tulip, mocking me, pressing its 33 year old cock against my bus window. I am mocked and I deserve it. Curiosity killed the cat and tickcuriosity raped my palate. A formidable changing experience on every level.

This beer is complete garbage pail discharge from the same era.

Narrative: I cannot contribute another 300 words after all of the foregoing. I did my best, but even I have my limits. Avoid at all costs, it will change you immesurably, like being jumped in by three rival gangs only to be rebuffed by each at the conclusion. It is without question the worst beer that I have ever tasted in my life, and I am forever marked as a result.

BREAKING NEWS: Pliny the Younger Declared Incredibly Rare, VINNIE CILURZO stands in OWN LINE FOR HOURS FOR A MERE TASTE

February 7, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

As if today hadn’t seen enough hard-hitting, solar plexus shattering news, DDB HAS AN EXCLUSIVE BREAKING STORY BROUGHT TO YOU BY CBS SAN FRANCISCO:

http://sanfrancisco.cbslocal.com/2014/02/07/pre-dawn-swarm-hits-santa-rosa-brewery-to-sample-rare-pliny-the-younger/

According to the video and article, co-owner and brewery founder Vinnie Cilurzo is ecstatic to try his own beer; so much so that he stood in line outside his own establishment, despite having keys, for over 8 hours just to taste Pliny the Younger.

If you thought Zwanze was rare, imagine not even being able to taste your OWN BEER AS THE BREWER: that is how limited this precious potation truly is.

The article even interviews an early 20’s Vinnie Cilurzo in the video, showing his enthusiasm for a beer that he has brewed for years, seemingly since before he could legally drink based upon the footage provided.

The article goes on to add:

“It’s supposed to be some of the best,” said Vinnie Cilurzo, who was first in line at 6:45 a.m. Friday. “We’ve been standing here since about 11 p.m. the night prior.”

I don’t see Patrick Rue standing in line to try Wineification, to try this TRIPLE IPA YOU GOTTA GO BALLS TO THE WALL IN RARITY. This is a clear example of a growing inability for brewers to be able to taste their own beer, making them resort to standing in lines or trading with customers, often switching places at the cash register to organize traders with the customers themselves. A truly epic day indeed.

The article closes with very sage words from the traditionally modest Cilurzo:

“Get it while you can, definitely,” said Cilurzo.”

UPDATE: CBS San Francisco has just been awarded a fact checking journalism award for their exemplary work on this piece. A magnificent day for beer and telecommunications at large.

Tom Tarry is the Beer Czar of the Interwebs

February 4, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

You do not fuck with Tom Tarry. I know you are probably thinking “who in the name of taint sweat is Tom Tarry?” oh, I don’t know JUST THE SWOLEST FLEXER IN THE RESULTS GROUP:

http://www.showswithresults.com/About-Us.html

If I have learned one thing recently, Tom Tarry will kick your nutsack inside out and turn it into a nice set of inverted ovaries if you attempt to talk shit on any of his beer events. Last week, FujonTap posted a satirical post calling out shitty beerfests:

I love shitty, generic, cookie cutter beer festivals.

In the original post, he used a photo that is ultra-copyrighted, def. not subject to fair use, completely private jpeg that wasn’t even available for viewing by everyone on the entire fucking internet. Except it was. Despite this, Tom Tarry turned off his Scandal marathon and hit the streets for some serious n0x litigation pumps and posted this:

OH SHIT THE MIC HAS BEEN DROPPED SO HARD THAT IT HAS EMP’ed ALL OTHER MICS IN EXISTENCE

Needless to say, the owner of the company that hosts shitty beer events anomalously has a shitty sense of humor. The congruence is noteworthy. At first blush, you know Tom Tarry is a hard as fuck computer hacker because he tells you that he “took a photograph” of the webpage. I would like to imagine him fumbling for his Jitterbug and flipping open the 1.2mp camera. Maybe that’s why I like Jitterbug as a company:

One bag of Werther’s Originals included with each phone.

Now, I don’t know how to business, or even do event, but I am pretty confident that public relations are a large part of advertising, event planning, or whatever these services are:

http://www.showswithresults.com/Services.html

I am pretty sure that trying to put a blog owner in a fully nelson and give his cock and indian burn over using an image might not come across favorably for your company. When I saw the Fuj post I was like “alright, he has a point here” but shit got Ray-Bans levels of realness once Tom Tarry entered casting Ultima and legal lawing so hard. It took a normal blog post into an epic litigation cage match, where one of the dudes happens to come across as the adopted school bully with anger issues. Tarry lights up poor old Fuj and notes “You are an embarrassment to the craft beer industry. Fortunately, you have no followers.” Well guess, what, DDB does. In what pundits are calling the most graceful self-effected cockstomp of recent memory, Tom Tarry now has plenty of exposure for his beer events, none of which you previously gave a single fuck about, largely due to the fact that you aren’t some snow stacking mouthbreather n00b in the beer world.

Peep this event game for a second while I prepare to get sued for linking to Tom Tarry’s event:

http://www.albanywinterbrewfest.com/Index.html

Alright, that acrimonious ass voice you hear? You can’t fucking turn it off. Isn’t that amazing! Man I wish they would loop this voice telling me exactly what I am already reading. SUCH MARKETING. I am confident that in between getting a bite to eat and listening to a blaring Irish band, I will learn quite a bit about craft beer. This single festival will further craft beer immeasurably. When a stone drunk 61 year old collapses in his Albany apartment and settles in for some Totino’s Pizza Rolls and Duck Dynasty without a single memory of what the fuck he just drank, it’s like the birth of the next Jean Van Roy.

I linked this from this Swedish blog, http://kidapusen424.blogg.no/dagen_i_dag_3.html, and now I am currently facing international warrants for my arrest.

I hope it was worth it.

Sadly, I have to hide behind my blog so I can’t attend February 8th’s tryst at the Armory. I am confident that when someone demands to MEET ME LIKE A MAN FACE TO FACE that the discussions are going to be fruitful and nuanced. But do I wear my three-button coat or tails?

At the end of the day, if your business strategy involves coercion, tacit threats, public shaming, displays of unrestrained anger, insults, and baseless accusations: I need you. Tom Tarry, Dontdrinkbeer is just getting its legs but you are just the type of person I need on board here on the editorial staff. The next time I have to field some dipshit emails from someone telling me my glass wasn’t cold enough, we can just set up an informal mediation conference where you man-to-man the fuck out of them. Show them DDB means business.

Also, all of the foregoing is the opinion of DDB, so before Tom Tarry starts lubing up his fleshlight and dreaming of all the litigation splendor that is going to be forthcoming, his camo jetski he will purchase with the settlement proceeds, and all the fanfare attendant thereto, he should talk to his legal counsel. I am not making any statements of fact about his business other than I feel that he is a tactless labiamouth who makes shitty websites which accurately portray his shitty beer festivals. That’s all.

IF YOU WANT TO MEET MAN TO MAN TO DISCUSS THE MERITS OF DEFAMATION LAW AND LIBEL PER SE STANDARDS YOU CAN MEET ME AT THE SHAKEY’S PIZZA IN RIVERSIDE I WILL BE CARRYING MANY LEATHER BOUND TOMES EAGER TO EDUCATE YOUR FACE ABOUT ANTI-SLAPP MOTIONS, SUPPRESSION OF FREE SPEECH, AFFIRMATIVE DEFENSES TO SPURIOUS LITIGATION AND MALICIOUS PROSECUTION UNDER THE DIGITAL MILLENNIUM COPYRIGHT ACT. We will go man on man.

Since Mr. Tarry doesn’t want his photo used, I drew him in MS Paint vomiting on the First Amendment. Now it is art and therefore protected.

Redbud Cuvee Four Saison, For those times When you Need Quad COOVEES

January 28, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

If you read DDB with any regularly, you know that I have nocturnal emissions about those musky farmhouse treats. Like ChadQuest to barleywines and BigLobo to hoppy growlers. saisons are my hayspot. Almost 13 months ago, before people started saying dumb shit like “totes” “adorbs” and “gorg” I saw this shy lil mistress on the top saisons list. Way before your minifeed was dipshit reposting top 21 LISTS THAT CANNOT HANDLE THINGS RIGHT NOW, BACK WHEN BA WAS RELEVANT OH SHIT HOW YOUNG AND NAIVE WE WERE. Anyway, I put up a couple ISOs and tickers were like “wtf is that, trade for Cherry Rye like the rest of us bitch, get in line.” DDB will continue to chase down that farmhouse clitorati and flick that musky bean with rapacious tenacity.

Thanks to Trady, you beautiful bearded bastard.

Who knew a single failed ISO could end up list this? No one ticker should have all this power.

Redbud Brewing Company, go visit them, knock on the door.
Oklahoma, United States
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 7.00% ABV

A: Just look at this Sunny D brett C banger just looking straight blended up in this bitch. One night Pissenlit got ultra feided on Molly, banged a polynesian farmhouse chick from Oklahoma, identity crises ensued and this turbid radiant gem was born and left on the doorstep of the midwest. The midwest has zero fucks to give for farmhouse ales, UNLESS PERENNIAL OH SHIT TAKE ALL MY PROPRIETORS. They slept on Squatters Fifth Element and I will never forgive that shit, “UTAH isn’t midwest” yeah but this is the same radiance that sits like a hymened wallflower at winter formal. Saisons need some love and pounding.

before we get into the smell, look at this lulzworthy commercial breakdown:

“COMMERCIAL DESCRIPTION
A belgian style ale aged in whiskey barrels with drie fonteinen yeast added. This has the same base beer as Cuvee 3 without the dry hopping, barrel aging, and different yeast profile.”

Ok so, same beer but, well ok, no dry hops, ok but BA, ok but different yeast, and ok different treatment, ok and 3F yeast, still with me? ALRIGHT WE USED CARAVIENNE MALTS IN BOTH BEERS SAME BEER. Just kidding, this beer is fucking great. As a side note, Trady also sent me a fucking Cuvee 3, for no reason. FML.

Some people ice out those jesus pieces, other ice out their saison games. Some tickers got No Limits, DDB is the tank.

S: This has a light lemon aspect on the nose similar to Saison bernice but pulls harder into the wheatgrass and muskiness like when they bale wet leaves, them trimming notes and I aint talking landing strips. Fantastic peach and tangelo rind aspect gives a sharpness to the funkiness. I thought Oklahoma was exceptional at mistreating those below the poverty line, turns out they are also exceptional at saisons. Farmhouses…IN A STATE COMPRISED ENTIRELY OF FARMS OH SHIT.

T: This is prickly and dry, crackles with this brett C profile that took over the fucking jailhouse and making the malts walk around holding its outturned pocket. They are subject to the dominion of the lactic, pounded hard with that grassy blanket tucked under the chin while the musky leather chaps click the walls. This is a decadent dry treat, exceptional in all weather, appreciated by Delta Gammas and stretch marked neck beards alike. I am so fucking glad I didn’t get to try this early on, the dryness and muskiness would get Chad Michael Yakobsen’s blue vein pounding hard, its like if you took Surette, added a sidecar, and filled the sidecar with Cialis. Saisons be getting tickers off hard these days. I ain’t talking Halia shit, I mean that 160 bpm shit that drops JLw0s and gets you wet.

The abv is completely masked on this. Prepare to eat all the Totinos pizza rolls up in the house.

M: I think I made this clear previously, but this is a fucking dry beer. This is not a beer to drink while dry fucking. It has been stripped of any FG that you may have hoped that would have turned into your dipshit conception of what a saison should be i.e. Beatification with water added to it. This is a perfectly balanced gumline tickler that wont give you GERD.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and the only thing holding you back on this one is 1) the carbonation that peppers up these microbubbles like a ACR Bushmaster just blasting dualclips (aka those malt extendos, aka those brett C brakkabrakkas) along your esophagus and 2) the dry grassy finish that is like tongue kissing those old secret Blaugies bottles you keep in the basement from your wife. She wouldn’t understand, only you understand me 2002 Blaugies.

Put them hater blockers on. Against saisons, them goggles do nothing.

Narrative: Pierre Monpelierre had reserved a single fuck for the day that he opened his farmstead in Muskogee, and he didn’t intend to relinquish title any time soon. He chose the farm based entirely upon the parallel and that unmalted wheat that he intended to produce. Most of the populace had long since sold their plot to huge conglomerates and huge farming operations, again, he retained only a single fuck to give. The only thing that this native of Normandy wished to effect was the wholesale conversion of the Oklahoma population. The lifted Silverados twisted dirt circles on his property while he filled spent chardonnay barrels. He cleaned up Schlitz cans from his driveway while he propagated the strains from the unique enteric cultures from a state largely avoided by those unaccustomed to dipping in high school. Pierre looked balefully at the skyline and watched the cotton candy clouds cascade beautifully across the horizon, dragging those same Homeric fingers above the golden wheat fields. He picked up a pair of Limited Too panties from his mailbox and prepared to pitch them into his brite tanks.

2005 East End Gratitude, The Crow That Started It All, I Put a Bird On It

January 18, 2014 | dontdrinkbeer

Can a crow be a whale and a bird concurrently? Today’s inquiry delves deep into the nature of identity and anomalous monism. Psyche, we draining blubber, obvi. This is third in line to the lineage of most sought out barleywine after M and Wooden Hell. If you don’t believe me, go ask resident B dub expert Chadquest and he will show you on a ruler how hard this malty rarity gets him attenuated. So this one is the first Gratitude, the OG of the bird crew, 600 bottles from back in the day. I wanted this one to lay another White Whale to rest in a legit manner. Every other pic I had seen to date (1) had been some Juggalo 1oz pours and shit. You deserve better than that. I knew shit was real when I got 3 messages asking for the fucking empty bottle.

Anyway, let’s put a bird on this bitch and ruffle some feathers. One crow short of a murder.

I used to say “no crow no care” well, now it’s time to fucking care.

Brewed by East End Brewing Company
Style: Barley Wine
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania USA
11.5% abv

A: This is that same deep mahogany brown with a slight muddiness after over 8 years of captivity. The sheeting is notable and it has some nice legs that zambonies what minimal carb still exists. The edges have a sort of khaki dirtiness to it, but its like the hot ratchet chick at Coachella all covered in mud that you still wanna get up in them ugly waist high shorts so she has a story to tell her dorm mates when she gets back to Arizona. That kinda shit.

Pictured above: Beer Advocate user finds out that barleywines were made back in 2005

S: This still somehow smells fucking phenomenal. I was expecting some kinda oxy fest, white kids rubbing norco on their gums and listening to Macklemore and shit. No oxy fest to be found. It’s like East End aged this to perfection, abusing the 8 year old on the cellar gradually over time. If you have had this beer fresh this is a completely different experience. The hops have been acid washed out like some Jordache jeans and you are left with this Gloria Vanderbilt refined poise, the alpha acids almost come across as a wood profile, there’s a crisp oaky finish to the nose that compliments the sweet sticky fig/plum/caramelized raisin that reminds me of those Sugar Baby candies, or a Sugar Daddy I guess, if you love the D. This is still distinctively American Barleywine and if you are gonna go this hard, balls deep in the cellar, the English bitches cant stand the test of time, need them cones to snuggle up to on those cold nights, pulling the malty blanket up, peering through that cardboard wondering when its day will come, trying to silently masturbate in them yeasty sheets and not wake up the headmaster. Man that shit went off the rails pretty quickly.

T: This has a traditional sticky toffee, bitter underpinning, some port sherry and milk chocolate aspects to it, but again, the hops give this deceptive ass wood treatment to it because they have mellow to the point of interjecting some resinous complexity to the finish. If you are like me and bitch nonstop about the lack of barrel treatment (to the point of making YOUR OWN VERSION WHAT THE FUCK IS MY PROBLEM) this is the variant for you. I used to say that the 2010 is the perfect balance between hoppy profile and that sticky decadent profile but this is hands down the best vintage, or really any bottle that has this much time on it I guess. The faux american toasted oak from the hops unites the sweet malty malts and gives a platform to keep oxidation at bay.

you may never try the elusive crow, but you probably dont want to be that type of person in the first place.

M: As I noted before, this is a sticky muddy sweet lil minx, but it also has this residual dryness that keeps the bad bitch in check. I won’t say this has some sort of brandy or bourbon treatment to it, but it seems that the FG is far lower, the highs higher, pupils dilated running your face against the gentle crow. The abv is laughably integrated to the point of being a date rape bird, you can’t give consent after schooling this bitch. Triple double no assist, mix that crow and Malibu, call it Malibooya.

D: Exceptionally drinkable, for 11.5% this puts the pussy on the chainwax. 2013 tickers take fat loads on their face to land King Henrys and grat sits on the boards, there is no justice in this world. You can and should merk an entire bottle of Grat to yourself, and you wont feel like some fat shithead on State Disability while you do it. With this, I have tried every variant of Grat, laying birds to rest. The fresh variants are less drinkable, but this in particular goes down easier than a college sophomore with body image issues. Highly recommended, lube your butthole if you are gonna swing at the crow, feathers will be ruffled, jimmes: rustled.

The only wood that this beer was treated on is the furious tiny boners when people see what u about to make tickers eat crow.

Narrative: No one ever said that being a high school senior was easy, particularly not for an archmage living in the confines of Omaha’s suburbs. Bramblestitch Crowly earned a proud lineage in his own world and was unexcelled in alchemy, until a tragic accident sent him to our cruel reality. “HEY BRAMBLEBITCH, nice cloak, is there a NEEDLEDICK RAVE AFTER SCHOOL?!” the young men cajoled at his expense, his talismans clinking in metronomic pace as he walked slowly while thumbing through a calfskin tome with fragile parchment pages. “MR. CROWLY I SUPPOSE YOU FEEL THAT GEOMETRY IS GOING TO WAIT FOR YOU?” Mr. Billingsly boomed as Bramblestitch lowered his head and took his seat in a tiny desk in the back of the oppressive classroom. It was becoming clear that he may never return to his own time, a relic from the past, years beyond his time. Bramblestitch rolled a fresh quartz crystal in his palm, suffering the slings of adolescence, reflecting as to how a Nebraska school system would permit a fucking wizard to be enrolled completely without question.

Since someone asked, Kiwi Pediobear is coming along nicely, stay tuned tickbitches.

dontdrinkbeer

Drinking beer, so you don't have to.

Category Archives: belgian