@santeadairius West Ashley, This Beers Gets More Tickers off Than Cochran

Alright so changing gears from a Vermont 300 bottle release, let’s peep game on this 300 bottle pre-wale from the west coast Hill Farmstead. Sante Adairius is a hot new brewery running the trap, slanging farmhouse ales, and dropping low bottle count beatdowns on the trade boards. Also, their product is 99.3% pure, that all blue Jesse Pinkman blend. So in today’s review we have a rare+saison+apricot+wildale+unzip pounding things out without remorse. Bay area kids were hella stoked on this and clutch them for good reason, this beer sets my apricots ablaze with careless abandon.

No filter. Srs.  Just look at the inside of Marcellus Wallace's briefcase.

No filter. Srs. Just look at the inside of Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase.

Sante Adairius Rustic Ales
California, United States
American Wild Ale | 7.30% ABV

A: This is that goon shit, mess up your whole afternoon shit. Just take a look at that burning fireball above, it is like looking directly into Beatrice while in paradiso. That isn’t a play on words because Beatrice may or may not be the base beer for this, it is just that radiant and melts your impure soul to take in those bright orange/tangerine/pure sunlight. The wispy carbonation crackles away like a piccolo pete and leaves no real lacing to speak of, but who is really speaking of lacing anyway? If you said grade A microcock beer nerds, you are correct.

If you are ever feeling down, lil Westy Ash will come through and puck you hard, but gently.

If you are ever feeling down, lil Westy Ash will come through and puck you hard, but gently.

S: This reminds me of Logsdon Oak Aged Bretta scissoring Beatification’s thighs raw with a musky funk, tart apricot meets Fou Foune’s effeminate brother. The acidity doesn’t get in the way and you get this watery dog groomer’s air about it that the fruit supports nodding in the background on a 2/4 beat. There isn’t a ton of cheesiness or elements in the way of Cantillon/De Cam/Boon, nor is the acidity as harsh, but this is its own jam. Selfmade millionaire wild ale poppin that .45 acidity at haterzzz.

T: This is the absolute perfect beer for summertime. Take that floral/tart aspect from Ithaca Brute and add some apricot tannins and you have a massively drinkable beer that doubles as titty elixir for Yacht parties since this beer is balling outrageous. The tartness doesn’t go overboard and instead serves to compliment the hay/leather dryness, it wilds the fuck out like Bobby Bouchet. The fruit again is just mindblowing and links arms in the same realm as Fantasia (batch 1, not that brett bomb b2) Peche n Brett, Persica, and to a lesser extent, Fou Foune.

This new banger straight drops the mic on the AWA game.

This new banger straight drops the mic on the AWA game.

M: This is drying at the outset with the apricot leading first but it has this murky waterines to it that washes so clean it leaves a sweet apricot life saver flavor that lingers and not unlike a Brazzer’s actor, you gotta get your mouth on it once more. I could crush these without remorse, the apricot jury would deem me an unsympathetic Ashley mass murderer. I love the careful tartness because it allows the underlying saison elements (which are fantastic) to show off in a manner more approachable and ultimately satisfying than say, Upland Peach, which is the acidity show in execution.

D: To double down on everything else that I have mentioned, this is scary drinkable and the ABV is not only present but this beer straight up feels GOOD for you. Like you conscience wouldn’t kick in drinking this before a funeral or a classy bris. The jamba juiciness keeps things lively but the oaky dryness lets you know the refined MILF will also enjoy this as well, inbetween her sips of Yellow Tail Moscato. Get this, actually dont, I need more, so don’t seek this out. Don’t ruin this shit for the rest of me.

This beer is original, vibrant, and fucking mind blowing

This beer is original, vibrant, and fucking mind blowing

Narrative: Life at the Behr paint supply store was a mile a minute. Sure there was the time that they accidentally mixed turpentine with the eggshell, making the ignominious muted halogen color, completely off style but mindblowing nonetheless. Yes sir, Ashley West had seen it all in her duties as overseer of the interior vibrant tones division of Behr paints. It was her sworn duty to ensure that no paint scheme stood as too far fetched or offputting. Nothing escaped her trained penchant for searingly bright colors. If she saw a mild yellow that struck hier as too explosive, she’d be the first one to take it down a couple notches to a sublimely genial canary tone. For Ashley, life was all about the Golden Mean, in the Arisotelian sense, the paradigm of good taste. “Miss, do these sandstone swatches look appro-” “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Look at this, I’m sorry, where are we the Luxor casino? You need to mute these down to C11H14 palate, we don’t run some kind of funhouse, you can take these monstrocities down to Tempera paints Mr. Jackson Pollack if you feel like expressing yourself on my KHAKI WATCH!” Another solid day of work for Ashley West.


Bruery Filmishmish, Apricot Sour Blonde Ale Aged in Oak, Getting my Vitamin C the Pirate Way

This is a Bruery Reserve Society exclusive, so the expectations are already high when you had to whore yourself out to Johns on craigslist to scrape together the sheckles for this expensive club, well here were are. It’s an apricot sour, what does that mean? It is an acceptable alternative to Jamba Juice, plain and simple.

The Bruery Filmishmish, for those times when you feel like getting your fill of some mishmish. Ba dum mishmish.

The Bruery, Filmishmish 5.8% abv, Apricot Sour

A: Well, cant fault them for this one, it is a huge bright radiant beer like Ithaca Brute, all radioactive and causing birth defects but in a TIGHT ASS SOUR WAY. It’s like cool high voltage power lines that cause birth defects but you can GRIND THEM. Anyway, not a lot of lacing and carbonation is a lackluster affair like a Diane Keaton movie but you are expecting other great things so you chill out. It is a murky golden radiance and my main squeeze was all like “THAT LOOKS GOOD” and she said that about Hill Farmstead Flora, so she has a serious EYE for beers, just not a tongue for them.

There's a certain debilitating aspect to this beer, but you put up with it for the warm regards and delicious effects.

S: There is a deep wet hay musk with some fresh yard clipping smells and then of course that harsh La Bamba acidity from hoduran tears mixed with Apricots. It’s a communion to pay exorbitant prices for sour beer and bow in solemn reverence for migrant fruit harvesters, except it is inherently insensitive and modern ethical theory has no ready panacea. The label says “tart and fruity with notes of oak and grandma’s homemade jam” but it doesn’t note that g’ma was from the antebellum southern Bolivia, that changes things real quick.

T: The taste is very tart and acidic like an unfocused energy drink, instead of melted skittles however you are treated to a drying peach/apricot dryness. It is no Fou Foune but it is still on point, you get the juice and the citrus pithy acrimonious schpeal, but it doesn’t overstay its welcome. It is a chill old girlfriend who you high five and watch a couple episodes of Cash Cab with and dont call again, but things are still chill. Also your ex-girlfriend is an apricot in this scenario, I hope that is cool.

This beer takes the time worn Fou Foune and Fantasia Model of sours and flips the script to GOD MODE JUICE LEVELS.

M: The mouthfeel is light and watery and then guess what, ACID CITY recent survey indicates your upper intestine is the only resident. The taxes imposed are severe thereto. It finishes with a huge acerbic finish that lingers without a drop of herbs, wood or oak, just straight up acid that somehow works. It’s like a first date where he backhandedly berates you the entire time but somehow balances it out with coy references to Faulkner so you’re down with it, ok, only me? Moving on.

D: This causes huge ulcers and a caustic destruction of the stomach lining, but that being said it is also delicious fruit goodness for people who might not know what an apricot looks like. So for those people, this might be a juice substitute, and more power to them. It has a huge overpowering acidity that you want to embrace but, like a Filipino baby, it is just to offputting that you cant engage it for long periods. You know what I am talking about Niko, yes, I am talking about you Niko.

It may not be what bitches are into, but, then again, far be it for me to speculate as to what bitches are into.

Narrative: Steven Acriberg was born an only child and learned quickly the petulant ropes of vying for the attention of others. It did not necessary need to be positive, just a cold glance in his direction or a suspecting glance down the brow from a neighbor: it made him feel whole. Steven would often sit on the opulent porch peeling peaches and crushing them in his fist and feeling the juices run into his hang nails and watch the neighbors closely. Every person near him was a calfskin tome of secrets and ideas to be reaped. He watched an unfamiliar Edsel chug down the fresh asphalt of his block and he scampered over and placed a note, crudely scrawled, on the windshield “I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING.” It was oblique enough to raise suspicion but vague enough to make the general public avoid him. He was a dour, hateful little man, but he kept everyone lively and aware. His sour countenance came to the penultimate climax when his parents began having clandestine discussions with the locals, turning Steven’s game upon its head. At age 15 he slept with a Derringer under his pillow and fear for the sanctity of his acidic, bitter life.