Thinner and less gristy than previously but a more delicate acidity beautiful lemon bouquet.

Someone clearly knows what a subbydoo craves on my walrus bday. 

I have no idea where these under the radar gems came from but I won’t look a gift hop vine in its rhizome. This beer is classic west coast execution, dialed in and clean, bone dry Boneyard/Beachwood style body with this sticky vape pen dankness along the gumline.

The taste is all citrus and takes pine needles, the fusel notes masked impeccably. The swallow is long and complex like the end of Magnolia, respect the hop.

This is some incredible subterranean treat. Call Dostoyevsky, Beerd is pumpin notes from the underground.

This by contrast is just, acceptable. It’s anomalous that this is the same brewery because this is the polar opposite: honeycomb, Midwest, flabby, coniferous and evergreen. I guess if you love that Founder’s/Pipeworks crystal laden malt sack, the IPA equivalent of stems and sticks, go ahead then.

Thankfully the former is so good the latter is overshadowed. Can’t wait to delve deeper into their catalogue, Beerd is absolutely intruiging to say the least.

Back on road.

Almost existing as transcontinental bookends, Abnormal Brewing Co. in San Diego and J. Wakefield Brewing in Miami provide a surfeit of adjunct goodness. “Putting things in things” is usually a pejorative that connotes a sort of Tiny Tim degree of crutch-leaning. IF YOU CAN DO IT WITH MALT WHY U BOWLING WIT THEM COCONUT BUMPERS ON, CHEATERS and other such cognomen ignite in the forehead veins of other brewers and consumers alike.

Usually I would agree, unless the substance of what is offered transcends what is capable from grain rub downs.  If the circumstances of a dessert stout warrant it and you can’t hit that deep tissue from malt massaging alone, then let us turn to the adjunct school of dark wizardry.

In terms of non-BA offerings, these two breweries are the counterpoints for adjunct excellence.  I know that is kinda like being “the most tolerant Tea Party member” and some people will outright dismiss claims of excellence from any beer with that many additions contained therein.  That is fine.  DDB is strong and I can listen to the same refrain against trading and concurrent knob polishing for Parabola all day long, it’s basically what I am here for.  Let’s get into these and see if they are worth their sea salt additives.

Focus not upon the stem, but what lies inside. That frothy webbing, the sheeting and baroque lacing, the mocha frills and rococo splendor attendant to the 700ct sheeting.  It is unquestionably a beautiful beer, but does M2 live up the those Glendale Armenian standards set forth within the automotive pedigree?

On paper this seems to be the breaking point for absurdity: Imperial Oatmeal Stout with cacao nibs, lactose, coconut, vanilla, and espresso.  It’s like when Saint’s Row 4 came out and it was essentially a metaparody of the prior iteration which itself was a parody of the genre.  M2 checks every box just short of chili infusion, thank god.

The good news is that through five different clamouring voices, a fantastic dark ale screenplay shines through.  I would anticipate the nose to be a muddled disjointed liquor store candy aisle, but it remains oddly focused.  The coffee is dominant and Mostra additions seem to be that way. This provides grounding for the reality of the whoppers and kit kat bars that almost come across as a reduction, like if there was a nougat cologne.  The vanilla and cocoa nibs are a playing an Overwatch medic role, structure without drawing focus.

Taste wise, this beer is all over the place.  You can literally evoke two different flavor profiles out at 45 degrees and 65 degrees such that it wouldn’t seem to exist in continuity with one another. At colder temps, this almost feels akin to any of the innumerable non-BA speedway treatments, which is to say: very tasty.  The real joy it letting this free rise to CA ale strain ferm temps, damn near room temp does wonders.  The oils from the vanilla and coconut finally reveal themselves to be the true protagonist and we have been following a false coffee idol all along.  It is like in Metal Gear Solid 2 when you realize you have been playing as Raiden for half the experience and initially feel cheated, once you get warmed up things are far more exceptional.

The cling of the mouthfeel is substantial but never feels bungled or unintentional.  The structure of the lactose provides a milky latte expansive body to the sweetness.  Honestly I think that likely detracts because there is enough body and sweetness to the medium without adding that NoS switch. It felt like a “safe” move for consumers who might not apprehend what was at stake.

In sum, this is one of the best non-BA offerings you could ask for.  Those kids gripping the chain link fence with their RAM/Side Note bottles should take note of the And1 dunks being accomplished herein. DEREK GALLANOSA PUT THE COCONUT IN HIS SHIRT AND THEN OFF THE BACKBOARD.

Big Poppa. I will spare you the clunky recitations of Biggie lyrics, you can hit Untappd for those hackneyed parallels. So at the outset, a degree of deja vu should set in immediately.  Here we go again, coffee, coconut, vanilla on their own, whitesnake.mp4.  At a certain point the adjunct additions feel like a side scrolling fire world, ice world, grass world expectancy in video games.  That being said, I would prefer that to absurd attention seeking bullshit akin to the “unplayable” software coming out of the BA Dark Lord studio.

This beer should exist largely as a contrast and a scale equalizer to m2. When you remove the lactose, the hamfisted adjuncts have less space to work with, but it shines as a result.  The best comedy clubs have low ceilings and 200 seats for maximum saturation, and adjunct stouts are no different.  Too much floorspace can leave things feeling disjoined and empty and that is why I love Big Poppa, it has just the gallery square footage it needs to present its three items of note, and nothing more.

If you have ever gone to a gentrified section of town there’s invariably some boutique owned by a bored stepmom, open 12 hours a week, selling 4 items.  All of those things are very nice, and quite pricey, but you wonder how sustainable this model is beyond the subsidy of let’s call them “not disinterested parties.”  Big Poppa is god damn tasty and while it leads with the same Blade Kick/Sonic Boom combo you may see coming, it just works.  Some may call the reliance upon flawless coffee a cheap move, but the acidity is dialed in perfectly and it gives a deep roast without being astringent.

The sheeting is less substantial than other brow furrowing Floridian endeavors, and for this I tip my Kangol to J. Wakefield.  I finished this entire bottle no problem and it remained wholly satisfying throughout.  It feels more “responsible” when a beer allows me to drink less responsibly.

The taste actually leans more in a Rocky Road sort of realm, assuming the ice cream was an espresso base.  You get mallow and caramel, which is a testament to the odd recombinant power of adjuncts.  This has no barrel but still posits toasted pumpernickel scone dipped in machiatto.

The m2 feels more aggressive and stands as a defiant entry outside the scope of barrel aging.  Namely, it will likely not improve upon its stated mission with time in the barrel, only change.  The Big Poppa feels like the prototypical “JUST U WAIT” sort of beer trailer to the movie that we actually want to see: BA Big Poppa.  It will likely be called BIGGEST POPPA or something else equally facepalmy, and that is fine.

Both of these beers are awesome for different reasons and lead the charge into that brazen NO BARREL stout realm. It is like when you see a dude beat Dark Souls with no armor on a speedrun, it is incredible to fathom how he did so much with so little.

They said it was a drought, then that Oregon wetness roll in an wet my thoat.

This is the Michigan version of tiny releases:

300 bottles but $50 for a 12 ounce, some beer nerds about to catch feelings.

QUICK TO BA TO COMPLAIN ABOUT THE RETAIL PRICE OF BOTTLES THAT I WILL NEVER TASTE, and then OFF TO THE PUMPKIN BEER THREAD!

Oh great. The End of History is back. That same cringeworthy tryhard plea for attention that populates every Men’s Health/Esquire magazine “MOST EXPENSIVE BEER” list has returned. Tabling that for a moment, let’s examine what Brewdog setting it’s Scottish red dot sight on Ohio means for consumers:

This is nightmarish for so many reasons:

1. Submarine Other actually delicious breweries like Jackie Os with shitty transatlantic schlock

2. Show up after the struggle is over, bring terrible black patent malt stouts to service Sharpie/Skoal palates

3. Shake the alms cup despite the fact that Ohio has plenty of awesome breweries that actually deserve your patronage without “punk equity”

4. Serving 55% white lightning distillate and calling it a blonde ale

5. Flexing the market capital to strong arm tap handles out from things like Bodhi in lieu of wince inducing Punk IPA.

I don’t need to go on, the palm cannot be separated from the face.

Good green is a solid IPA entry in a realm autolyzed with Quaker Oatstravaganzas. Resinous and above all simcoesque in that coney execution, intensely drinkable with a thin Ritz cracker Undercarriage. 

Nectarine Trading Burritos carries on that incredible lineage of creamy pithy farmhouse trends but adds a frothy Cellarmaker grist that marries the two brewing cousins amiably. 

When you unite Oregon and Washington as a disjointed, rainy Voltron, those verdant expanses provide a compelling argument for cancelling your Fedex account outright.  From Boneyard’s hoppy offerings, Ale Apothecary and Upright running the saison game, Engine 9 and De Garde pumpin out tart AWAs and Hair of the Dog and Fremont are left playing cleanup on every strong ale: their bases are covered.

Today I wanted to give Washington some love in the form of two breweries that I have already embraced lovingly, middles touching serenely in the soft Puget Sound mist.  In many ways these two breweries represent a sort of one-two Gemini of the Bye and Bye state.  Holy Mountain has solid hoppy offerings and saisons that are silently becoming beyond reproach.  Fremont, while not knocking it out of the park in that regard, has unquestionably cornered the game for stout/babw/strong ale/old ales, if not other spheres of influence.

Let’s run our hands over these uncut gems, appraise their inner value.  Like when Chrysler made that one car that looked just like a Bentley, I always saw these breweries for what they really was.

At first I had a degree of trepidation in embracing Holy Mountain’s capacity to dance in the haymaker swinging realm of barrel aged stouts.  They are more like Nightcrawler, delicate, teleporting saisons and gentle subtle jabs that leave lasting marks.  It is like when Florida announces that they have a new saison that you just have to try, you smile knowingly and pat them on the shoulder like the parent of tiny child with MMA aspirations.

That being said, this defied expectations and put it right over the plate in every way, without discernible fault or noteworthy gripes to be had. The viscosity, my greatest nail chewing point of agitation, was hefty and syrupy.  In fact the body of this coats and paints in a way that can be expressed as “pharmacy grade BCBS.”  It’s like dating a mormon girl who secretly has been into muy thai for years, silent power from a winsome exterior.

The taste has very little vanilla, but that is reconciled by a fantastic marshmallow and espresso body to the swallow.  The barrel unites that sweet and the roasted in a s’mores type of unity candle that results in a delicious Parabolaesque variant that feels more complex than the one two punch of the threadbare COFFEE AND VANILLA execution that we see so often.  Tootsie rolls in your first rated-R film, sweet and melty in the front row. The caffeine in your veins on a first date, coffee compelling cross-legged foot joggling.

This is unquestionably tasty, albeit not in the realm of the absolute best vanilla bangers in the game. This is a well executed warning shot in the sand from a high powered barrel rifle at 1000m.  Holy Mountain has its target set.

This beer however, Fremont pulled out all the stops for this one.  When I first entered the ring, I expected a noteworth interlocutor like the previously incomparable Old Bridge Rider.

This beer not only takes all of the direction from OBR, but improves upon that model with more heft, ramped up barrel presence and method acting malt profiles that immerse you in the experience.  While I realize DDB has sensory bias favoring the babw genre, this is top tier and amongst the best in the game.  My only regret is that I was too young for Aaliyah, similarly this beer was too young for the Blind Barrel Aged Barleywine tasting.

It certainly would have performing fulgent roundhouses on the top 10 contenders in that bracket.  The way that this exhibits lissome poise and still has the power of the barrel build therein is a paradox.  If you have ever been in an AMG SLK, you’ll know the irresponsibility of pairing two incongruous elements for extreme oomph.

The nose is all toasted coconut, macaroon, and fig jam.  It is English but seems so saturated that the oak brings it into this tannic resinous American handshake across the aisle.  When a barleywine can execute a transatlantic bipartisanship, incredible results ensue.  The taste is hefty spoonfulls of brown sugar mixed into cream of wheat, rye bread, pumpernickle with a prune and plum jam spread across.  It has a long bitter oaky finish like Wooden Hell amped up with Bane serum.

This section is usally reserved for some hemming and hawwing, some value appraisal that brings the prior praise under some scrutiny, perhaps some jabs at the culture which my outfit is fully immersed.  I cannot in this instance, you simply cannot find a comparable analogue, even dusting off the typical JUST BUY STRAIGHT JACKET apothegm seems disingenuous.  Honestly, if you can summon a “better” barleywine of recent memory, BA Vermillion notwithstanding, then place it in direct parity.

This beer towers over other entries in such a way that it eclipses bottles in a cross-genre global manner.  When you climb the highest tower in the city, Etzio gains the further vision.  This barleywine reveals the map in an illuminating way before swan diving into a pile of malty hay.