Category Archives: sour

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Lost Abbey Box Set Track 7 – The Devil Inside, Devil on the Inside, Clean on the Outside

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Ok, let’s give some context to this box set series since most people have more productive things to do with their time than monitor rare ass beer releases. Lost Abbey is releasing one of these beers each month, available for consumption onsite only, in limited numbers. You cannot take bottles away, don’t ask or you’ll get socked. You can enter a lottery to win a box set of all 12 tracks, to be sold at the end of the year. So, basically massive whale box is what we are looking at here. Here is July’s track: The Devil Inside.

If you have ever drank too many lambic/sours, you have felt the devil inside.

The Lost Abbey
California, United States
American Wild Ale | 8.12% ABV

Here’s what the brewery has to say:

“We went back to the well for this one. It is a remix of our classic Veritas 006 aka sangria. We have raspberry and cherry providing the bulk of the fruit texture over a sour yellow base beer. To this we also added some orange peel and freshly zested mandarin orange zest as well. The beer finishes with a nice tannic finish and is truly a refreshing riff on a Lost Abbey classic. ”

A: This is a deep crimson meets magenta look that is inviting like a Lisa Frank binder but menacing like the velvet curtains of that touchy camp counselor you remember too well. The lacing is minimal and the bubbles are light but crackly with acidic rancor. The whole thing looks and feels like a Prince concert, and the elegance is maintained.

When the server dropped off the bottle and radiant glass, I was all like-

S: This has a huge acidic and berry profile with notes of blackberry, raspberry, cherry, currant, tart plum, and a nice citrus finish. It is evident that you will need to switch to PPO dental insurance for drinks like this, because the acidity is nothing to fuck with.

T: This crackles with a juicy acrimonious burn along the gumline that brings some awesome fruits to the bouquet. There’s cherry tannins, that raspberry dryness that you remember from Framboise de Amarosa, then slinking in sheepishly is that fruit profile from V007 that we previously visited. This doesn’t feel devilish, necessarily, but it has a deeeeep burn like those cross-fit box jumps you are so sick of hearing about.

Take fruits and make amazing beer with them: FUCK YOU SCIENCE.

M: This is incredibly dry and tannic like a red wine that has been juicing and using n0x for a sick deep pump. There’s a juiciness at the outset that brings a nice sweetness to accompany the acidic profile. You might get some ulcers from this, but it’s a way cooler story than the old “oh I worked at a failing car dealership” song and dance that burns most people out.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable if you are one of those kinds of people that can play Lifeforce or Rock Band on Expert for hours on end. It is relentlessly punishing but incredibly satisfying. I recommend winning the box set and then taking this one to Jamba Juice and then just sip on this while looking at the other suckers getting fruits in their boring, traditional way.

When you have enough hardcore sours, you start to understand the nature of the universe.

Narrative: Mikayla “Raven” Collier was not adjusting well to 8th grade. Her parents had moved 4 times in the past 5 years and it had taken a toll on her frail psychological profile. As a result, she turned to the all too common practice of adolescent necromancy. The PDF Necronomicon file that she downloaded was substantial and she printed it onto parchment paper from Staples, to give it a genuine luster. She assembled her other awkward friends, the girl with the inexplicable orthopedic back brace, the large girl with a massive lisp to match, and the Samoan girl from her P.E. class. The children had no materials from which to summon the dark fugues of the past. It was almost impossible to find solid alchemy materials in a track home in Charlotte, North Carolina so they made do with what was around the house. Raven found a box of produce from the monthly fruit colelctive that her “lame ass” parents subscribed to and produced the most evil fruit of them all: the unholy durian. After crushing copious amounts of blood pulp from raspberries and cherries, Samoan girl lit the incense. She brandished a Cutco knife, uttered the scrawling script in papyrus font, and cut the foul blackness open, releasing the odious soul of the durian, crusher of mankind. The eyes of the pubescent girls watered and they nodded, this was still much less shitty than Sadie Hawkins.

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Russian River Compunction, NOW AVAILABLE IN 24OZ ALUMINUM CANS

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Just kidding, this tart gem is still walez. Most people go apeshit for vintage beats, large format Russian River sours, and even that elusive over the hill geriatric sucker, Depuration. BUT WHAT ABOUT THIS OVERLOOKED GEM? This has never been in a bottle, never been growlered, rarely observed in the wild, never domesticated. Let’s let guilt set in today’s review, because you know what you DID.

Draft only, no growler, DONG so hard right now.

Russian River Brewing Company
California, United States
American Wild Ale | 5.40% ABV

A: This looks suspiciously Founey, and has the light carbonation that unsurprisingly attends this elusive beer. The lacing is minimal, the head subsides immediately, and the entire affair calms down like a Lifetime movie really quickly. However, if you somehow have a glass of this and complain about its appearance, you are doing it r0ng. The gentle light orange and deep yellow hues are inviting but they remind you of that time you backed out on a trade, and you should feel bad.

This is a perfect illustration of how it feels to sip on this romantic portrait of an amazing wild. I did not urinate on myself, that time.

S: This smells like a blend of damn near all of the Russian River gems in a fantastic way. You get that bretty funk from Sanctification, a tart apricot acidity from beatification, that oaky character from temptation, and a white grape tannic profile from that asshole, Consecration. It kinda feels like Fantome put their balls in this batch simply due to the funk ghost that haunts the glass, ain’t even mad tho.

T: Again, the funk pounds out beats in double time like Tower of Power. There’s a deep tart cheese astringency, old saddle musk, nice apricot and peach aspects to the tartness with old gam gam’s sweet pies. There’s a backend that is similar to a biscuity chewy finish and somehow the dryness gets along with it amiably. The whole thing is kinda like a kumquat shortbread cookie, since who hasn’t baked up a fresh batch of those?

When I am mashing out on rare sours, bother me nevermore, I don’t care if it is my sweet love Anabelle Lee.

M: There’s some breadiness and the pastries are kept in check by a hateful acidity that lingers, knowing of your past transgressions. No one saw that traffic accident, no one except this beer. Now light malty clues are arriving with strange alacrity. Who placed those flaky biscuits on the windowsill? Someone who KNOWS.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and serves as a venerable Megazord of Russian River’s finest offerings in a united, powerful form. I wish this was available in bottles as it might be the best nominalization from Russian River, gives me a nice -tion in my heart. Then again, I am glad this isn’t available in bottles because then people would just wipe it out and trade it for Allagash wares, or something.

The things I would do to try this beer again are numerous and shameful.

Narrative: “Ayla, this simply is not possible!” Taeyler gasped as she found a badly worn Tamagotchi sitting on her doorstep. “Taytay, no one saw what we did that day in Claires.” Even Ayla knew deep down, her pangs of conscience were tart and cold. “No one could have foreseen that stealing those magnet earrings and scrunchies would have resulted in that hemophiliac girl bleeding to death in the piercing chair. WE COULDN’T HAVE KNOWN!” But someone did know, someone with a deep acidic disposition and an affinity for children’s hair care products. They booted up the Tamagotchi and reeled in horror to find a dead gigapet, fed constantly but never allowed to use the bathroom. “What kind of sick-” Taytay exclaimed and noticed, on the dead girl’s electronic pet, an attached magnetic earring. The deep sting of regret and tart shame.

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Odell Saboteur, Someone Straight Sabotaged My Wild Ale

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Odell makes some great gems. Colorado beers at large are on the come up like a Tibetan dice game. Sometimes however, wild ales get a little unruly and you gotta bring in the sour stick to get them back under control. Let’s see what exactly is Sabotaged in today’s review.

This pic be ode. No pour photos, fire up that imagination.

Odell Brewing Company
Colorado, United States
American Wild Ale | 10.00% ABV

A: The appearnce comes off as a brown muddiness with light lacing and some ruby tones at the edges. This is a strange base for a wild ale but it looks good, all things considered. I am always wary of dark sours because sometimes the complexity makes it trip over its own bacterial shoelaces, but this one looks pretty legit so far.

It’s like Consecration, but not. Like Rodenbach, but er…something is a bit amiss here.

S: There is a weird hybrid smell to this beer. You get two different worlds colliding at once. The first smell wafts of cherry, dark fruits similar to a quad, and some acidity. The second part is similar to almond with hazelnut and toffee. The smell is simply too busy to figure out what is going on for my feeble mind and nose. It’s like when someone puts on Godspeed You Black Emperor and nods approvingly, expecting you to love it at first blush.

T: There is a mild sourness at the outset that isn’t overly puckering. There is some smokiness but overall it doesn’t overpower or assert itself. It feels like it got pushed into a locker a Sour High School. It is mild mannered and enjoyable, if not forgetable. Again, the whole litany of things going on here makes it tough to pin down for either deficiency or innovation. You remember that dude in Mary Poppins who played all the instruments at once in the park? This beer is kinda like that, his music might suck, but what an undertaking.

This beer is interesting, but not exactly a Nightmare.

M: This isn’t overly drying but it isn’t exactly savory either. It is silky smooth but it also has some spikes and brambles to it as well. It reminds me of Rodenbach Grand Cru, but with a goatee and an eye patch. Just slightly different. It is the nuances that makes all the difference between Friends with Benefits and No Strings Attached.

D: This is incredibly drinkable and I wish that I had more of it, however, the availability and types of things I would have to give up to land this beer again make it less desirable. I could drink this beer all day, and not simply because it is my favorite style. Its complete failure to assert itself is a winning trait that makes it more likeable. Everyone needs a whipping sour you can beat up from time to time. It seems to have only Sabotaged its own chances to making it a truly memorable beer, and those Thundercat episodes aren’t gonna watch themselves.

I am not recommending death, but I would certainly say a solid 25 to life would benefit this wayward wild ale.

Narrative: The flashlight clanked and banged down 34 stories of the central air duct, setting off several alarms. Agent 301x wasn’t the best Saboteur that the Covenant had, but he was the only one currently available. 301x forgot his gloves at home and instead fashioned crude plastic mittens from discarded grocery bags. “I THROW MY HANDS UP IN THE AIR SOME TIMES SINGING AYYY OHHH” his cell phone began to clamor and resound echoing through the halls. He was memorable in his faults and impressive in his victories. The soles of his nonstick shoes squeaked loudly through the halls alerting everyone nearby of his presence. “ACHOOO!” he sneezed and accented the final noise so loudly that a janitor looked at his conspicuous face. “You again? God damnit, agent 301x, you forgot your keys again?” the janitor let him back into his own office; and the grand heist was complete.

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Avery Brewing Oud Floris, For those times When Yung Floris Just Will Not Do

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What can I say about Avery that hasn’t been said before by myself and then retweeted and reposted, to myself and then forwarded as a PDF to Avery marketing? For those who care and are keeping score, from Avery’s sour program we have received 4 amazing sours and a single misfire. I will let you examine the wicks to determine which one that was, but let’s look at this geriatric flower in today’s review.

I knew a Floris once, she worked at a diner and, in the words of the inimitable Soulja Boi, she “ode.”

Avery Brewing Company
Colorado, United States

Style | ABV
Flanders Oud Bruin | 9.39% ABV

Alright enough of that “oud” joke, here’s the stats on this 237 case release (.rar.)

67% aged in Cab Sauv Barrels
17% aged in Bourbon Barrels
8% aged in Rum Barrels
8% aged in Chardonnay Barrels

You got that mathematicians? Alright, let’s get down to business.

A: This is dark, for a brown sour and even in the realm of the Oud Bruin, this has a deep murky pallor that hates me from the get go, the glass can barely attend to the billowing carbonation and sour genie that I just released. My first wish with ironic consequences is for a strong olfactory profile.

This beer is bad ass in a manner beyond my palate’s comprehension. Unleash the barrel Kraken.

S: Well wish fucking granted. This is granny smith apple tart with acidity that leaps up to your corneas and starts drying with tiny ph1 ice picks. There’s a tart caramel note, red grapes, sour molasses, and strange sweet tobacco smell to it. This is like if Consecration was mutated in a lab with Supplication and we got this Tyrant hybrid, a boss you totally did not level your character enough to face.

T: Wow, this is com-plex unlike a certain magazine by the same monicre. You get a strangely sweet nuttiness at the inception with a deep cranberry infused with merlot grapes. Don’t worry, this is not wine, I won’t flame Avery a second time for treading that ground. This is unmistakeably beer, and very good beer at that. If you have ever wanted your Rodenbach with more balls but Abbey St. Bon Chien is a bit weird to you, then this hybrid addresses your concerns amiably. I must say, as this warms, the astringency becomes more and more apparent, but unlike that complete failure Allagash Vagabond, this beer nails it without going to a fusel nail polish remover route.

brown ale, wine, rum, red grapes…I…I dont know what’s going on guize.

M: The mouthfeel almost hurts. The tartness is like eating a ton of movie candy, but you cannot stop popping in Skittles. The mouthfeel dries like the first time I tasted Temptation but in retrospect, this thing socks plenty of other wild ales in the face and sets to excoriating the first layer of the inside of my mouth like I just got a vintage can of Surge.

D: This is a great beer, complex, but seriously fuck you if you think you can power through several of these in a night. As usual, I drank the entire bottle to myself and that was plenty. It wasn’t that it was necessarily bad, but I felt like small birds could house themselves in the deep holes in my teeth after having this. Cankersores aren’t what most people set out to obtain but it’s certainly a possibility with something this acidity and complex at the same time. How about I use the throwaway word “complex” again. Shadow “complex” is an excellent Xbox Live game. There you go.

“Hey guys I got this little 12oz bottle from Colorado, I think it is sou-“

Narrative: The six heads of the synthetic beast fell to the lab floor with complete exhaustion. Test C734052 had been completed and it was apparent that this entity was capable of learning patterns. “Psshhifffsss” one tail that appeared to be a ream of grapes hissed at the lab monitor, busrting acidic juice on the walls. “Sir, do you feel we have tested the limits of what Napa barrels are capable of? I mean, this just feels like an abuse of our science grant,” Walmsly pleaded pointing at sciencey things on an oversized notepad. “GOD DAMNIT WALMSLY, I will tell you when our barrel experiments have gone too far, WHEN THE UNIVERSITY OF COLORADO BOULDER TELLS US SO-” Professor Vinos exclaimed with terse anger. It was his pet project, technically he was hired to teach viticulturist majors the ropes, but this flailing anomalous being was his chef-d’oeuvre. Who would suspect while the Buffalos were losing game after game in the Pac 12, his lab was pumping deep underground with new acidic life.

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Lost Abbey Duck Duck Gooze, This Amazing Beer Puts Me in the Mush Pot

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Whale week chugs along with another gem from years past that we consistently see people offering trifling recent releases trying to land, the inimitable DDGeezy. I will say this is one of, if not the absolute best American Wild Ale that I have ever had. I want to white Nike and bamboo up this boo, introduce it to G4 pilots on a first name basis, you know, nice shit. Well let’s see if we can taste the duck adjunct in this gooze:

You might not recognize this beer when given a real pour and not a janky 2oz splash, use your imagination.

The Lost Abbey
California, United States
American Wild Ale | 7.00% ABV

A: Get out your stunner shades, this beer is radioactive bright with radiance highlighter yellow hues blasting in your corneas. There is a slight wheat base that is murky but supports an eggshell wispy head that crackles away like an acid phantom with not a single fuck to give. This is beautiful and strikes like the Care Bear stare straight in your pupils.

This is an old beer that has always been a bitch to wrangle. Oh well, raters gonna rate.

S: Get your hazmat suit, this initially lets you know that the lemon zest is here to burn down your nostrils in effigy and the ripe granny smith apple tones are not unlike Jolly Ranchers. There’s obviously an oaky dryness with deep white grape and lightly used running sock muskiness. The duck notes come through strong in the funk and Scrooge McDuck remains adjusting his vestigial spectacles.

T: Get your Sensodyne toothpaste, your teeth will hurt after this citron bomb goes off. This isn’t incredibly complex due to the hot acid slugs being popped off from the P90, but it is too damn balanced not to love. You get tart apricot, lemon, sweet ruby red grapefruit, and tiny unripe apples picked before their time. The funk has a nice wheat backing to it to suture the open wounds the acids just created.

To most beer nerds, this is the God of all American Wild Ales. I can’t help but pay homage accordingly.

M: This is incredibly dry and makes Chardonnays look like a gatorade by contrast. The oak works with the funk and bugs to give you that pale white tongue with cankersores inevitably following. That being said, it is amazing to sip and taste the liquid roll over each zone as it imparts sweet and sour in the same breath. It is thin but carries a ton like a fireant, stinging all the way back.

D: This is astringent, tart, raw, and uncut but it is still fun to take shit to the danger zone and come back for more after each drink. I would be a bholdface liar if I said I didn’t crave this gem from time to time but, given the fact that the new batch wont be out until Summer 2013 at the earliest, the desire pangs are substantial. Worth the hype, worth pushing the envelope to lock down.

WHAT I IF TOLD YOU, you should seek out this rare sour gem? Go forth, and get your cellar raped.

Narrative: Derby Duck wasn’t your average Merganser duck. To begin with, his birth was a melange of cloacas between his mother and a 1 year old 2 year old and 3 year old father ducks. He was subsequently abandoned after he hatched. The other hatchlings couldn’t stand to be near him on account that he would sweat Propionic acid through his ducts. The trail in the Woodson Pond glowed irradiated with his acidic droppings. Even top tier predators would not harass Derby, believing that he must contain predator blood. The only other companion that he would muster was a bullfrog, Tungtung, born with gustatory problems. The two of them would take their bitter souls and ruminate about other animals lack of taste and make themselves elusive in the animal world. Tungtung had no tastebuds and chewed anise roots regularly shrugging off the rest of the disapproving world. Derby’s moment to shine came one fateful day when one of his duckling brothers was snatched by a rogue fox hiding in the whippoorwills. Derby fired a scorching hot stream of ph1 discharge right into the fox’s nostrils, severely burning his nasal ducts and freeing his unappreciative sibling. Life wasn’t easy being a sour motherducker.

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Hill Farmstead Biere De Norma, Norma-tive Statements Abound

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In continuing with our theme this week of beers that were not easy to come by, we turn to lovely old Norma. This was a Hill Farmstead release, 180 bottles released to the public, 1 per person. Do the math on that one and figure out how easy this one was to lock down. Oh, and it is also completely amazing, so there’s also that going for it. Let’s develop the record in today’s review:

Norma-tive and Prescriptive ontology both declare that one must rationally seek out this tart gem.

Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States
Bière de Garde | 7.00% ABV

A: This pours in a similar vein as the other Hill Farmstead offerings but instead of the hazy straw this looks a bit more amber with some murky orange tones at the edges. The radiance is undeniable and the halogen lighting doesn’t do this one justice. The carbonation was incredible and took a while to subside into some tattered lacing on the edges like zombie clothing. Norma is beautiful.

The sour nature will burn your face off and make you stronger as a result.

S: The lactic aspect of this beer is undeniable and straight out of the gates it sets to work scorching my eyes and nostrils with tropical juicy fury. The funk is really apparent and there’s a certain hay, fallen leaves, and cobweb panache to this beer that delivers the tartness with a strange aplomb.

T: This just gets to drilling my bisucpids right away and there are no fucks to be given about my dental care. I get ripe oranges, tangelo, papaya and acidic grapefruit sans the bitterness. There’s a solid malty backend on this beer that is like fresh buttery sour cornbread that exudes old barn musk. If that makes this seem undesirable, let me rephrase that, it is incredible and well worth the repeated failed efforts it took me to land it. Incredibly puckering and musky at the same time, like gym class at the Sunkist fruit factory. We’ve all been there.

When this finally arrived in the mail, I was like BOOYA! Borderline racist caricatures from Tostitos.

M: This is as dry as Diane Keaton’s vagina and just as refined. Every aspect of this beer exudes poise and refinement while completely tattering my incisors and gumline. Despite the punitive aspects, I come back for more, obediently seeking tart lashings. Again, the review uses off-kilter comparisons that might convey negative aspects but I mean this with incredible reverence, this is a great beer. It is hardly a Biere De Garde, but awesome nonetheless.

D: This is fantastic and the acidic notes make you come back for more, while working in tandem with the voluminous carbonation to push it down your facehole with staggering speed. I want more but, I think with minimal effort we can get a tally of the bottles that are gone, so cue the sighs.

And eventually, the delicious bottle was gone, anger sets in.

Narrative: Nana Acrimom was a silent old matriarch that ruled her farm home with loving care and a tender arthritic hand cased in iron. The children would scamper home from school up the dirty path reeking of the floral presentation that only autumn in Vermont could deliver. The leaves were crushed in their hair and trousers with careless abandon. Nana Acrimom had a special method of allowing her tart apple pies to cool in the barn amongst old cars and her leatherworking equipment. When the children would dig their hands greedily into the tart batter, the musk from the barn would rise to the sky sending a cascade of old denim, dust, and dried hay into the air. They wouldn’t have it any other way. Later, the children each underwent orthodontic surgery for enamel destruction, but those special summers eating face melting pastries were the bee’s knees.

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Girardin Black Label Gueuze, Srsly Guezue Read This Guize

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I started trading with a short sighted idea to review all of the top 100 beers on the top beer sites, well this one used to haunt that shit like Boo Radley and put shit in my tree all the time. Well how do you kill a Boo Radley? You hire Atticus to burn his fucking house down. Whoa this mixed metaphor went off the rails real quick. I traded for it and got an amazing gueuze in the process. WE WERE ALL STRONGER AS A RESULT.

I didn’t age this shit since 1882, my Gilded Age beers are saved for when I rip off the proletariat in a significant way.

Girardin Black Label Gueuze, 5% 2011

A: This little stepchild is deep gold with some coppery hues in the center. Nice warm orange accents are illuminated by my opulent Ikea lamp. Huge carbonation greets you like a high school reunion but subsides into mild patterns. The lacing is minimal but, not incongenial. It cups my jawline gently then bites the shit out of my lip like a delta gamma.

Pop open an amazing gueuze and watch animals and small asian children lose their shit.

S: There is a deep funk to it like Jolly Pumpkin on steroids, crisp granny smith apple tartness, grape skins, tannic profile, some apricot to it. Lots of bright fruits and reminds me of Nana’s hand soap collection with juiciness to the funky aspects. You know, Nana’s soapiness. Right? Alright this is getting too personal.

T: This is incredibly interesting in the sheer taste balance that it presents. It is not overly drying but it presents a nice kick of chardonnay tartness. There is a mild fruitiness to it but the most overriding note that I get it a delicious lemony acidity with an expansive tart grassiness. It washes clean quickly and leaves a nice dry palate. Did I just eat an entire Fuji apple? Fuck I hope not. I hate fruit. PSHEW I WAS JUST GETTING WASTED ON EXPENSIVE BEER.

This beer seems pure but flexes hard and the true nature of this tart beast is revealed immediately.

M: This is dry, but not overridingly so. It doesn’t make me pucker up in revulsion like some gueuze that I have had. On that same note, it doesn’t overdo the fruit notes and presents an incredible balance. You know that perfect 16 year old parkor Olympian sort of balance. Am I alone on this one? Ok so, drink ability…

D: This is exceptionally drinkable, with the proviso that you have some water handy. You will get that “movie theater” mouth that happens when you decide to merk an entire box of skittles or sour patch kids to yourself. Stay thirsty my friends. This will keep you plenty thirsty and you should drink accordingly. Or maybe you just kiss to deeply, love hard my friends, this 3 year old beer has gone through a lot to meet your lips. Romcom’s finest.

like most ubersours, you just tuck your gumline, suck your teeth back and enjoy the destruction.

Narrative: It was a strange condition to be sure, not debilitating, but far from the norm. Waylon Roberts perpetually carried a 32oz mister bottle of reverse hydrolyzed water with him for the simple reason that, he could not spit. “An ten, the teachuh saids, ‘those are not for thuh students!’” His classmates looked upon him with silent disdain. Comedy is inherently based upon timing. It is also based upon proper pronunciation and diction. “Suh, anywasssshh” he pulled out his spritzer bottle and wetted his cracked dry lips, “ah there we are chaps, so who wants to grab some Munch Ems and go for a hike?” His peers looked upon him in amazement. He was fully aware of his condition but seemed dead set on defying all convention connected thereto. “Man, nothing on a hot day like this like some sweet Yoohoo, am I rith?” his voice cracked as he took a strong gulp of the milky substance. “HEY WHITEGUMS CATCH!” some bullies yelled as they pelted him with a packet of Quench Gum from Big5 sporting goods. Kids can be so cruel.

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Cascade Apricot Ale 2009, If You Don’t Have Dental Insurance, Don’t Even Bother With This Facemelter.

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Oh Cascade, you have been the boon of my orthodontist since 2008. Bottles of pure delight and gumline destruction, you couple that with my love of sweet stouts and rampant caffeine and my teeth look like a frag grenade went off in my bitter zones. Not tripping on my grill though, got sick platinum veneers coming so got my sours on lock. Let’s see what apricots taste like, I don’t eat fruit.

Keep drinking beers like this, enjoy drinking beer out of a hole in your neck. Don’t be like me.

Cascade 2009 Apricot Ale, 9% abv

A: This has deep gold hues with huge abundant carbonation. The head is light and has huge co2 bubbles that provides middle carbonation throughout. There is no lacing but this is still as pretty as a sunrise in an orphanage. The best kind, you know right before they begin that forced labor making your iphone and they still have the dew of night in their eyes.

mmm I see you made a sour there, yeah, that’s nice, sours are nice, I will just smack my lips over here, sours are tart, I KNOWWWWWWW

S: I don’t get a lot of apricot or even much citrus, it comes off like a Brettanomyces bomb with wafty notes of playgrounds, crushed leaves, and hay musk. My eyes also pick up some dryness in the “danger, that is acid, keep away from your face” sort of way. Instincts you learn in biochem.

T: The apricot must be lost on me because I taste a huge tart sourness that truly, could be anything I suppose. It tastes like crushed up sweet tarts and a type of extreme B vitamin heavy energy drink. It has a distinct chardonnay and white wine character to it that is disturbing and acerbic. It’s like a UFC hold when it grips my jaw and presses it forward in a deeply tart character that “stings…the nostrils.”

RIddle me this Cascade! What’s sour and, oh fuck, I am Joker? I dunno, make the bottles explode or, god damnit why didn’t I even shave my moustache for this role?

M: The mouthfeel is dry and I can imagine the citric acid molecules looking all like those Mucinex guys just tearing apart my gumline. This is the type of acidic drink that canker sores and cavities are made of. Sugar and spice and everything nice. They each have a pickaxe and work the bicsupids hard but, work hard play hard. Some people do lines of blow and have janky ass chompers, mine looks weathered from a hatred for my gastrointestinal system. This shit is monster sour and if you see a homeless person on the street smelling like fruit tannins, don’t contribute to his high class ass habits.

D: For the aforementioned faults, it is very drinkable. It comes off to me like Temptation’s fuck up brother. The one who is really good at math but “just doesn’t apply himself.” It is crisp, tart, and refreshing; no problems there. The problems kick in when there’s just a lack of direction and clarity to the experience. There are no real apricots, no real fruits either. It is as though they were like “we used fruits, it’s sour, what do you want from us? We’re clocking out.”

Cascade knows how I feel about them. They can just search my order history, they just shut up and take all my feels. So many feels.

Narrative: “Red wire to the, orange, this one attaches to the acidic base.” Cornelius Mitchley wasn’t the best chemist, and for terms of clarity, he wasn’t the best bank robber either. “Ok, got it, the apricot battery charge is complete, now time to blow the safe!” he flipped an analog detonator and a slight hum generated from the pitted fruit. “A complete dud? I don’t get it, I presented the apricot, the explosive catalyst, all elements are present!!!” The whir and blaring announcement from the police sirens made him drop his mushy produce in his lap. “Oh sure, mistreat the Wawona workers Cornelius, make them sort peaches in double time, and now this! THIS!”The door burst open and three uniformed officers stood in the foyer, marveling at his intricate apricot battery. “Officers, don’t be rash” he opened his lab coat to reveal a dummy trigger connected to a heart rate monitor. “Look on the screen!” he cried and slid a monitoring device over the to the police officers across the slick bank floor. “What is this? Are these bombs strapped to unsorted produce?” “APRICOTS TO BE EXACT MY GOOD OFFICER! And if you don’t let me walk out of here alive, I will blow them all UP! Every last yield from the Wawona farm destroyed, NO FRESH LOCAL APRICOTS FOR A TRISTATE AREA!” The officers looked at one another and drew their firearms. “Wait. . .what?”

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Blueberry madness

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In addition to being a generally acrimonious beer curmudgeon, I also home brew. I know, I know, that’s like the sweaty neckbeard pushing his Babylon 5 fan fiction on the masses, stay with me now. Anyway, I am brewing a blueberry lambic that I just racked to the secondary, check it:

Purple Drank.

Inb4 “What vintage is that Jello Biafra CD” or other hiarious background comments.

More reviews to come, still loading slugs up in that Chiquita banana.

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Lost Abbey Cable Car, Ring a Ding Ding, The San (Diego) Francisco Treat.

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What else can we way about this amazing sour that hasn’t been etched in the stalls of homosexual nightclubs already? This is an amazing beer. I have only had this beer three times and each time I nodded contemplatively at spending a pretty penny to try it, not even mad tho. This beer sweeps the leg and makes me want another, not unlike giving a mouse a cookie, he is going to want a vert.

This beer is only for sale at Torona- WAIT WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?

Lost Abbey, Cable Car, 7.0% wild ale

Oh wait, let’s not forget about the Cable Car Kriek, not even fucking around on this review:

Take an amazing sour and then take it to the kriekzone. Feeling like a cherry popping daddy.

A: Light pilsner color, mellow gold, a refined golden ambiance. The kriek technically deserves its own review but I will just ad lib this shit, the kriek has a bright radiant hue like cherry afterbirth. Amazing beers on both aspects.

GOD DAMNIT I need moar of this beer. You must understand my frustration.

S: Strong sour geuze smell, crushed sweettarts and a melted fruitloops wafting. There is a mild funk of wet hay and a deep crisp granny smith apple note going on that is super cutty.

T: This beer is intimidating at first, strong smells and notes, but ultimately this is a calf that you can wrangle without oppression. It is akin to mutton busting, something that seems difficult until you tackle the sheep, and pull its majestic fur to the ground. At its core, it is temptation with milder souring, lighter drying effects, less tanins in the grape aftertaste, and finally champagne crisp apple notes in the finish. Nothing you can’t handle but an exceptional balance. It is the lovechild of gueuze and champagnes of the mild brut variety. I love the dryness even if it slows me from enjoying the white grape and fuji apple notes.

This beer is unique, yet respectable, strange, yet friendly.

M: Fantastic, crisp and light, the entire experience has lemon zest and feels like a Hootie and the Blowfish Album. You can dispense this pellmell and no one will look askance. If not for the oppressive Toronado’s standards, this could be something everyone could enjoy, if not for proprietary despotism. This is well worth bootlegging, well worth epic trades. Just really good, but if you want to tread this road, there are more refined paths as smoothe as marble for your wanting cart, should you not have epic cellar gems to take down this beast.

D: Again, fantastic but competing in a league of legends. I would drink this all day, fixing my carburetor, prepartying for the charity gala, snuff film exposition, you know, guy stuff. I find myself in a love hate resolution with this beer because I love what it is but I hate the air surrounding it. It feels like seeing a person with a TOOL shirt on. you love the syncopated rhythms and complex melodies, but you dislike the fanbase in general. The faux highbrow ruins what would be a fantastic experience.

I need more of this sour gem, I cannot stop thrusting.

Narrative: Sir Fredrick Willingsly is repossessing your car. You can’t hate him for doing his job, but, without a 1998 civic DX, these pizzas arent going to deliver themselves. You hate him, with his cliche antagonistic handlebar moustache and fogged up monocle. However, his wry quips relating to Howards’ End and class struggle made it all the sweeter. “And thence upon from which one has had, none shall take without” he declares with a cloud of aplomb that almost makes you lighthearted in his usurpation of your chief economic asset. He is akin to the Mr. peanut of recurring vengeance. your pocket despises him, yet you respect him for his casuistic enforcement of the law. “God speed Willingsly, dont scratch my sick mugen exhaust on the dip. Godspeed.”