What is the meaning of this.

Challenge accepted.

Some background information needs to be made clear here before I tread into the realm of generalizations and tiger traps of qualifiers.  This bottle was the brainchild of a beer muling group “BeerzRGewd” and if you find that L33Tsp34k name as repugnant as anyone currently outside of the 8th grade, you are not alone.  Cigar City had a charitable auction and this group, the vast majority of whom are really cool standup people, pooled their resources and won the auction as a group.  BeerzRgewd raised a substantial sum for charity and all was well.

inb4 “doesn’t have that kickass BeerzRgewd ostentatious sticker, review invalid”

As a result, this beer muling group was allowed to design a beer.  As such, they happened to choose arguably/on-paper the most hype driven return on ROI possible: vanilla + apple brandy.  What happened next is a story of beer legends.  Most of the members in the group received their bottles and shared them with friends, zero boats were rocked.  Shortly thereafter on a daily basis, these bottles were raffled for upwards of $700 each.  For a charity beer that essentially no one had tried. Over and over. Take that situation and further compound it with other traders unabashedly asking for Pvw15 1:1 and the kindling took fire.

It was later discovered that the group itself was exhibiting a type of dead hand control as to what people who donated to the charity were “allowed” to trade their bottles for, because protecting trade value is SRS charitable bznss.  In this fervor of exclusivity, other people began to actually try these bottles and note the complete absence of vanilla, and the underwhelming character to the beer.  Not unlike a strong safety, the back pedaling began.

Tasting it next to the inimitable SR-71 only served to further compound the glaring inequalities.

So what does any of this petty Mean Girls meets Yu Gi Oh nerd shit have to do with how this beer tastes?  Very little, actually.  Suffice it to say, if you picked this beer up off the shelf, it would be a pretty good offering albeit not mindblowing.  Within the context of people demanding $700+ and a select few people making illegal gains from charitable donations,  this bottle becomes hilarious.  It had better be sloppy hj amazing at that point.

The beer pours with a touch thinner viscosity than any MZ or Huna treatment, and even Sherry Barrel MZ pours with more aplomb and grace.  The prosaic carb lies prostrate as though it too wants to get this over with.  The MZ face that launched a thousand right swipes is the closest thing to a palate catfish that can be imagined.  This simply is not the same stout that was lauded in its default photo.  The deceit is overriding throughout the meeting and an early exit is not unreasonable.

The nose has none of the lovely sweet butterscotch and caramel aspects of apple brandy huna.  It doesn’t even have that odd but still welcome sugar daddies and fig thing that California Brandy Huna had.  This is easily the worst treatment of MZ I have had, Sherry inclusive.  While I wanted a Last Push experience, it was my expectations that were heavily pushed upon, the limits gaping and yawning under the breaking weight of scales falling precipitously out of balance.

Pressing forward there is a nice but not exceptional blackstrap molasses and tollhouse aspect that is pleasant.  The nose reminds me of regular ass Pugachev’s Cobra, which was admittedly more memorable in the brownie/barrel aspect.  The barrel is muted like RedTube at Nana’s house. There is a faint twinge of Napa Cab, a weird raisin meets port thing that only serves to underscore the absolute lack of vanilla bean.  I have to stop to field a shitty rejoinder from some of the shameless Vanilla Oil Salesmen who offloaded these: if your beer doesn’t retain even a trace vanilla for a mere six months, then it is a fucking disappointment.  Period.  Alright let’s move on before the qualifiers black out the skies from circumlocutory dipshits.

The taste does little to flesh out sky high hopes and executes something in the realm of “waiting for alcoholic real Dad to take you to Disneyland like he promised.”  Space Mountain, it is not.  There’s an almond skin and tasty balance of toasted pumpernickel bread, milk chocolate, a faintly Kikoman salinity and bitterness, with a meager waxy closer that I guess is the “Vanilla” that was so lauded by those who now possess the illgotten capital gains.  The complete absence of vanilla would be forgiveable if it were merely Apple Brandy Zhukov, but it even manages to miss that mark.  There is a light acrid finish that is a touch sharp that becomes more pronounced as it warms.  If I didn’t know better, I would say it was a Malbec component blend.  Someone who I opened it with made bold charges of pending infection, but I am not so brassy as to suggest that, I am saying it’s a touch prickly and tannic in a way that makes little sense given the platform.  It’s like not only are you not riding the Matterhorn, but other mom is drinking Yellow Tail Syrah, also you are grounded.

pictured above: a beer no one gives a shit about that is far better than ABVMZ. srs.

I suppose some granular qualifications are in order to limit the scope of my petty bitching.  This is not a “holy shit avoid” type of beer, nor is it something that you would regret opening.  However, if that is the standard for something that people are shamelessly pandering as the second coming of the bean flicking messiah, let’s put those books firmly within the non-canon apocrypha.  See the Stars is better than this, easily.  Parabola is far better than this beer.  If you need a more direct vanilla analogue on which to quell you quivering bottom lip wavering with injustice, open a Vanilla Eclipse.  You will enjoy it immeasurably more.  If you need a clear parallel, something in the realm of Karl Strauss Wreck Alley Vanilla Stout.

After tasting this beer my buddy is offloading his, so I guess get while the getting is good.  I certainly wont cajole him into opening it.

When I recently dropped the $150+ on the 2001 LE KNOB CREEK 15 year, everyone railed against me and called me a stupid dipshit. The general consensus was that you could spend a third of that and drink a “superior” product with the single barrel/age stated single barrel KC.

To be clear, I am a stupid dipshit. The rate of diminishing returns is funny in beer and uproariously hilarious in bourbon. That being said, the tasty SBKC is not in the same realm as the 2001 LE, they inhabit two different frenetic electron orbits. 

The 9 year is a bold Shasta analogue to, in my estimation, superior iterations set forth by the Bookers pedigree. You can option an accord to be damn near Acura level, but at a certain point the NSX will just compel far more downstairs flooding.

The 9 year sbKC has a comparatively thin Darjeeling tea and Semtex explosion of fusel shop class and cinnamon. Varnish is applied and it feels brash and without that syrupy balance from the likes of Noes secret or Oven buster. It is oaky and has a cocoa dust to it. For the money I would be hard pressed to recommend a better bottle in the $45 realm, aside from the fantastic SAOS 10 year. The deals upon deals make this a bcbs of sorts, sans infection. 

I’ll go toe to toe in bourbon law.

The 2001 LE KC is another beast altogether and drinks closer to ec18 and eagle rare 17. You get this lingering smooth profile that exhibits zero sharp edges and presents leather and cloves and chamomile tea, there’s a touch of butterscotch to this water drag that pulls out like a latter say Saint, staying in deep for the long haul and bearing the consequences. Already these hyper priced offerings are clearing $250 in secondary so is it worth the type of 4rsmble or THH pedigree that is must fight against? Now that’s a whole different story, while I love love this bourbon, it doesn’t hold its own in sheer brilliance or depth against the b25 segment. To be Frankie’s bourbons can justify the mid $100 price tag, but if you want to pay 300% more for a 100% increase in quality, who could blame you. The returns are there but this is for a different consumer profile altogether.

Buy it? I don’t know, I don’t feel like prong over your w2s and organizing your finances. It’s really fucking good, so act accordingly, or don’t. There’s plenty of maladjusted dumb fucks with finances in disarray who sip $150 bourbon on the reg. Suffice it to say, the 2001LE is a serious serious improvement upon the KCsb and even the best bookers one offs. And it fucking should be.

Baby palates fiendin for that proofed down wheat. Them sweet notes making tater chasers feel all relevant and alive like when teacher lets you read in class.

Central Waters enjoys this orderly Wisconsin repose of releasing delicious offerings, pumping out consistent and accessible barrel aged treats, and consistently tasty anniversary beers.  No one comes and rattles their cage too much and the usual refrain from hype chasing dipshits is that their beers are “TOO THIN” or something to that effect.

I will agree, their beers can exhibit, let’s call it a “classic” or “European” execution that is exceedingly clean, svelte, and intensely drinkable.  It is never a chore nor does it assault your mandibular faculties with hypersucrose attributes.  That being said, there are instances where I side with the sweaty mantits pressed against the chainlink fence in watery protest: some of their beers do come across as a biiiiit too thin, albeit exceptional in literally every other way.

Enter this 1000 bottle, raffle only, $40 tonnage of whale oil. This is so out of character for Central Waters that at first I suspected foul play, and then I read the specs.  First and foremost, they aged this for three years and out-Rare’d GI Rare at their own game.  Secondly, they sourced 25 year old bourbon barrels to house this beer.  Thirdly, and most importantly, instead of that protean Solstice base that  draws so much fire from the sucrophiles, this beer is worlds heftier and composed of the massive, uncut, Fat Elvis.

Focus on that last point because it becomes very salient immediately upon opening this bottle: these aint your daddy’s CW wares.  This is some next level shit.

First and foremost, why does the label look like some uninspired Sonoma Cab that your stepmom scoops at Bevmo during a 1 cent wine sale? It’s serious life-coach consulting, two carseats in the Odyssey, trips with the girls to Sandals Jamaica tier shit.  I guess that’s why they don’t let old Subbydoo write copy.

My immediate expectations were to have a bitter/over oaked/thinner version of Fourteen.  They grabbed my wrist midhammer strike and flipped my shit completely once it exited from the vessel.  The liquidy fudge frothed heftily from the opening like a broken valve in the Toblerone factory.  The carb was lower and the cling was evident in the sheets battling with streaking petroleum on the glass for occupancy.

Them woody tobacco notes stay blunted.

At first I took a deep waft of this beer and got notes of a fusel experience of spice and crackly burnt fudge pan.  Then I realized it wasn’t actually an ethanol fusel aspect, it was the character of the oak itself.  This is akin to those ultra oaked Diageo offerings like Old Blowhard or the mind blowingly exceptional Pugachev 25, for those of you who dabble in crypty barrel treatments.  It is layered with waves of lacquer, cut lumber, split firewood, and a sort of rye spiciness that stacks the eros like corkboard.   Pulling this apart like a Twizzlers pullnpeel takes a steady and deft olfactory device.  Let it warm up and let the Nestle Tollhouse roll in with plates of Caramellos in tow.  The roast keeps everything in check with a bustling oven of crackling pumpernickel.

Nevr 4get Black Gold.

The taste follows suit with substantial Abyss-esque coating with anise and blackstrap molasses.  The barrel is the main star here and it has almost a degree of salinity to the waves of baker’s cocoa and macaroon. It never becomes too sweet and lingers on and on, each sip a changeling of different barrel notes.  Again, the entire affair turns the Central Waters model on its head: an expensive, rare, hefty, extensively aged, and most importantly SUBSTANTIAL beer that commands your attention.  It is as though Cigar City had a hand in CW’s traditionally delicate approach and taught them how to swing the mash paddle for the perineum with whirling aplomb.

It is unlikely that you will taste something similar to this in 2016.  Even the hoarse-throated chorus of frugal dumbfucks who, like clockwork, will cite Parabola as the panacea against trading will agree that this is something nuanced to the point of exceeding the penumbra cast by “more accessible” competitors.  In short, it is fucking worth it.

BRB hitting Treehouse up for some canned currency that I have no intentions of drinking.

Or you can spend your time chasing Florida stouts with things put in with other things to make them taste like pre-existing other things.  I don’t want you to tell your palate how to live its life.

OH MAN, French Apertif connoissieurs hold onto your hairy salami nips because Three Floyds is pulling some IRL Kaufmanesque trolling on its consumer base with this recent offering.  This beer exists as a testament to just how important it is to get either session A or B tickets, or say fuckall to the DLD variants.  The second I saw the deviant lineup of Dark Lord treatments this year, my scope narrowed to a harrowing iris upon this offering.  Cinnamon. Dessert Wine. and most importantly Cardamom.

Only those who have lived through the night tremors of Biggleswade know that mortar shelled taste landscape that coridander salvo pounds into your mouth terrain.  It is relentless and hellish.  Spice waves pushed upwards like so much Belgian soil in the second battle of Ypres.  Look upon the dark altar in stern contemplation of power and attendant responsibility, like a necrotic Uncle Ben pushing his cinnamon laced fingers up through the obsidian soil:

Like the charcoal smeared face of a child refugee, the darkness of a single photo tells hundreds of tales of anguish.  Let’s be clear, I could have taken this entire bottle to the dome in theory.  Like  I once again could have hazarded a solo session of racking myself upon the breaking wheel.  This time I brought a friend along for the Raccoon City nightmare, so that these Elm Street undulations could be confirmed.

To qualify this beer, it certainly is bad.  Like in a global context, you would get an Achievement Unlocked trophy for clearing the 4oz bar.  That being said, it isn’t quite as bad as you would expect. I mean that in the “Hey the Subaru Baja isn’t completely horrible” type of qualification.  Biggleswade is worse, hell even Trump and Pump was worse in a more focused purely Stevia manner.  Muerte was less drinkable but more fun in a sort of “gourmand Fear Factor” sort of way.  This doesn’t ravage you as fully in any one way but it spams spice damage that is difficult to dodge roll or palate parry.

You get almost zero cinnamon.  If you are a bitch about the cinnamon, then prepare to be a chai complainer in the most final form.  The whole thing is like Indian icecream: rosewater, jasmine, sandalwood, weird funky eastern spices and a sort of sweet Tandori closer. It smells like stripper dust mixed with Nana’s musty earthy perfume. “Geriatric dollar dances” would be an apt qualifier.

The taste has so much spice that Marco Polo nods in solemn distrust.  It is brownies, and unwatered Dr. Pepper syrup mixed with the oddball spices in your rack that don’t get much screen time: cumen, tumeric, hell, even black salt.  The closest thing I can compare this to is the equally odd Pugnog.  Thankfully, the screaming from the cardamom is so loud that the barrel treatment serves more as a chocolate Pedialyte stickiness in the background.

This can be filed decidedly under the “What the fuck did you expect” folder.  My level of surprise cannot be expressed as a rational number because I was lazy and went in for this punishment willingly.  For every round loaded into the predictable chamber, the charge is lost because DDB intentionally turned the barrel on itself.  The result is the feeling that even this review is uninspired and consumed by the syrupy depths of this beer.

Sure, the beer is bad.  We all knew that would be the case.  What can DDB contribute to improve the framework of the derision?  I can offer this sage advice: this beer falls into the “so bad it’s good” realm and ACTUALLY has an odd utility that makes it highly valuable.  You need one of these at a tasting.  This is the smelling salt to revive your palate at a huge bottleshare.  Everyone will have some mirthful statement of hyperbole and feel like a Coleridge of beer pejoratives and THEREIN lies the merit.  The expression of bonhomie amongst people in REACTION, not in the experience itself.

Sick gains, Claire Danes. Deal with it.

For that reason, drinking this alone is a failure and surveying the twisted countenances of friends writhing in spice and brownie cough syrup IS THE PLEASURE.  No other beers will hit the benchmarks for reflection and everyone will cast their dull coins into the hat of disapproval.

But as a discrete standalone experience, I would rather have an anal pap smear before I again give up a Cut and a SARA beer to troll my friends IRL with this Kafkaesque experience.

Let’s be clear: I usually cringe when people offer to send me homebrew. How many crystal malt DIPAS or tired ass clovey Westmalle strain Saisons can you tick without getting a twinge of forced veneration. Sometimes though, there’s someone who is up to some wild shit on the low. These are usually meticulously crafted, wildly expensive to produce, detail obsessed offerings from “novice/nonprofessional” Brewers. The usual refrain is that you could never scale these up and then you have to sit through a mandible grinding speech about how challenging a 30bbl system is to work with.

I get it. Professional Brewers hate this shit the same way I hate when people compare DDB to basically anything because it is the pinnacle of modern American prose. 

That being said, this is really fucking good. It’s tough to say that hot on the heels of a Kyle Jukes post, I promise this won’t turn into some esoteric beer site where I only review 50 bottle sole comp/nano/pico brewery releases. It is more staggering to note that this beer is the closest iteration in coconut quality to Snowed In that I have ever experienced. There are waves of non synthetic coconut and waves of synthetic Mobil 1 viscosity in the body. The lipids play lovingly in sheets along the bicuspids. Somewhere between macaroon and almond joy fingerblasting, the flaky white flesh of this beer clumps like a confectionary treat.

The rye barrel is understated but chaperones the whole experience with a watchful brownie batter toblerone eye, making sure the moves are never too sweet or contradict the will of Jesus Coco our lord and savior.

Reviews like this are entirely pointless and I get it, I guess it’s just PROPS where there are due. 

Bc coconut.

Man fuck you guys.

Denver is full of the most laid back, Subaru driving, Vibram wearing, compost toileting beer traders in the game.  With legalized weed, high elevation, and immunity from Midwest Shirtlordery, the results in their beer trade forums have been fantastic.  Not unlike the home growing hot house lights, some of the beer for [basically anything] trades have pushed things beyond RARE CORAL (fn1, 2010 reference, id.) to a bold new realm.

Let’s take a quick look at what those kids have been up to:

That’s right, a crib and bouncy chair for porters and saisons, WELCOME TO THE BARTERLANDS.

“You’ll never guess what I paid for these tickets! No…you literally will never guess. It was a Casey Cut.  Oh that’s a beer.  Nevermind.”

TFW when u got all the dro ass seeds but no Casey joints. The thirst is real with these CO-ttonmouth Kings.

If you can’t be bothered to swap saisons for seeds, cut out the middleman and get str8 dro. Break them farmhouses down get these cones stuffed.

A quick peek into the Fall of Rome type of generosity in the Denver beer forums. Thirty. one. for. one.

THESE TRADERS LIVE LIKE KINGS WITHOUT ANY CHECKS OR BALANCES.

Imagine how much weed that Troy Casey could be blazing if he just did these trades himself.  He would be ripping fatty milkers on his hop cone vape rig. WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE.

“This Untappd review doesn’t make sense, it just keeps talking about how dank Combos are and then complaining that Dominos takes forever to deliv- ah, Denver.  This makes sense now.”

“U can do so much porn on this lappy, make big cums, ISO saisons LMK”

I feel like a weed smoker in Seattle would be all over this one. What’s the Griffey to Cecil Fielder ratios?

There’s so much to take in that I can’t even present any Buzzfeed shit tier commentary, it is glorious. Just look.

Then he gets called out for the qual of his rosin.

There are no words.

Beer Trading is on some next level shit.  St. Louis only has maximizing secondary values, but Denver traders are taking shit to some dystopian madmax open air Bazaar levels.

Enjoy your memorial day weekend knowing that this exists.