Tag Archives: bruery

1

The Bruery Humulus Lager, More Clouds Than an E40 Picnic

|

Humulus Cumulus Lupulus Dupulus.

A: This beer has a nice cloudy yellow with inviting murkiness to it. It looks like a filthy lemonade with great carbonation. The lacing is minimal but the head is like a clou- no, I will not go there, it’s painfully apparent.

S: The nose is plentiful with lemons and zest with sweet biscuit and citrus hops. There’s a bit of grapefruit that feels like a single IPA, but it doesn’t override. It has more of a crispness to the smell.

Too many of these and some awkward iSituations could go down.

T: The taste is super refreshing with a mellow hop character that rounds out the sweet cornbread notes. It almost reminds me of a mellowed out Gumballhead with more of an acidic character. I feel that this is superior for Gumballhead, for the sheer complexity and balance that it attains.

M The mouthfeel is middle of the road but incredibly refreshing with a great hop resonance that serves as a gateway drug to any person with an IPA aversion. I know the Bruery said that they would never brew an IPA, but this is pretty close, by all accounts.

Solid beer, no mystery here.

D: This is incredibly drinkable because it creates this revolving door wherein you drink it, love the refreshing nature and the hops dry the palate at the end. The result is a moebius strip of refreshment that is ultimately rewarding. The drink ability is huge just hug, right up there with Alpine Hoppy Birthday and Live Oak Hefeweizen. The big league D squad, if you will, although you probably wont.

Narrative: The Celtis bush looked longingly across the yard to the supple humulus fields blooming with careless abandon. What was so different between the two pedigrees really? Was not the Celtis bush blessed with hearty, chloro- efficiency? The children frolicked and hid amongst the verdant leaves of the fragrant humulus bush, but not the old cantankerous hackberry. Everything was going fine until stupid old Pliny made a distinction between the two. It was all downhill for the loveable hackberry at that point. I guess being violently toxic didn’t help. “Oh, here comes a child, he. . .oh he’s counting, PERHAPS THE HACKBERRY SHALL NOW BECOME THE BASE FOR THESE TAG EXPLOITS!” Not within 4 minutes did little Jerry begin to wheeze and scratch himself violently. Two branches were ripped off and made into makeshift guns, later into circus whips for the children’s imaginary animal menagerie. “GOD DAMN YOU HUMULUS BUSH!” The neighboring female humulus bush smiled coyly and self replicated in front of the poor Celtis, no need for any pesky seeds or male intervention here. Stick vinuous tears soaked the fertile ground, poor Hackberry would live to see another day as a critical ingredient in Propecia. Then the joke will be on Humulus indeed. Two sides of the same floral coin.

0

The Bruery Tart of Darkness, Uh oh, more puns from the Bruery.

|

Joseph Conrad said there'd be puns like this.

Bruery Tart of Darkness Sour Stout, 5.5% abv

A: It has a deep black hue with cola colors at the edges. Mild carbonation with tiny bubbles and no lacing. Put that Marciano dress away, nothing to get all Anne Klein over, just an average outing.

S: Some malt but mostly sweet dark grapes with souring and vinegar notes. The last finish has a tiny bit of cocoa but the vinous notes override. It’s like a blacksploitation film set in a vineyard, strange but you enjoy it.

It is lighthearted but still menacing, like this stupid asshole.

T: What a crazy merging venn diagram. It initially starts out with a huge tart almost gueze sourness to it. There are notes of tannins, grape skins, and sour black cherries. The final taste has this transition chocolate maltiness to it. It feels like when a Transformer goes from something bizarre like a bidet into a crazy cyborg.

M: The mouthfeel is nothing like the traditional stout in that it imparts a huge dryness and has none of the coating that you traditionally associate with a non-imperial stout. It performs so strong in the tart category the stout shows up brazenly at the end of each sip. Again, just a really strange finish overall.

It feels high class, but strangely approachable.

D: This feels like eating ahi tuna and ice cream concurrently. There is a huge enjoyability to it, however, the fact that it straddles two divergent styles makes it sacrifice a purely drinkable experience. However, this might just be me being curmudgeonous and oppositional to change.

Narrative: Walter Chambers wasn’t the best pharmacy technician. He wasn’t the best mortician either. Somehow it was his relentless work ethic that kept him powering through both occupations day in and day out. After a solid 3 hours of sleep, he would saunter in, smelling of formaldehyde, dark circles under his eyes. “Yeah, car…car problems and…so did we get that Abilify shipment come in?” His dark wrinkled suit had strange stringent notes that wafted through the CVS pharmacy. “WALTER!” He snapped out of a brief nap and realized that he could see his breath in the ice cold body preparation room. “Walter, I told you to prep the gauze wrap and you go off for a sno-” Walter slipped back into blackness.

1

Bruery Burly Gourd, oh my gourd, it’s so burly

|

20111110-234852.jpg

This has a nice welcoming baby stout look to it. Lacing that is like a lazy eastern European government, not too oppressive. It smells like a nutmeg bomb went off and the taste is like a watered down punkin pie.

You want to believe Immortals is gonna be good but you have to face the truth, there’s some high moments and a lot of filler. it’s like Thanksgiving leftovers, but nostalgic and tasty.

0

Lost Abbey Framboise De Amarosa, Farmboise De Omarosa be too crazy.

|

Framboise Never Had It So Good

Framboise de Amarosa, American Wild Ale 7.0% abv

A: There are deep ruby hues with some nice light carbonation and light red lacing. It’s like Hypnotiq’s baller ass raspberry flavor to be all sipping on while you’re cruising in your triple black Challenger.

S: The smell presents an intense cranberry and acidic dryness with raspberry on the nose. The oak is present in the smell and it is has a juicy wine profile to it. It’s like Andre Rose Champagne but with leather seats and a cutty ass Gucci interior.

T: The taste is incredibly drying with incredibly tart raspberry notes. This might be the driest and also the most tart american wild ale that I have ever had. The juiciness was present but largely the dryness wipes out the gumline and presents a huge intimidating bouquet of berries and crispness. The acidity is crazy and stings like an atomic warhead.

M: Again, there is an intense, huge crisp dryness. The mouthfeel seems like it’s an intense merlot with oak to round it out. It’s tough to determine exactly how thin or thick this beer is because the coating is so acrimonious. IT’S SUCH A DEEP BURN, OHHH DEEP SQUATS WITH SICK BOUNCING BETTIES, SICK DEAD LIFT FINISH BROMOROSA.

D: This is an incredible experience with crazy highs and low to it. This is not a figure of balance, nor does it do anything in moderation. It is impossible not to recommend this exceptional beer to others. Clearly, it is not meant to be enjoyed as a sesssion beer and should be treated accordingly. The taste is so amazing that it is hard to knock it for adhering to a certain style so well. Overall it is incredibly bitter and juicy and I am left wanting more.

Narrative: The train of her ostentatious gown dragged upon the split staircase with wanton disregard for anyone walking near her. After all, there were plenty of tailors within her Parlor and weekly soirees that would readily repair any damage. Somehow Countess Brioche sought more than just the exploitation of the endearing faces of the working classes. She sought their unending love. Notwithstanding, her acerbic parents brought her up to speak her mind truthfully and freely at all times, no matter how scathing. “Oh-oh-oh!” The Duchess of Piedmont fell down two stairs to her knees upon the rich velvet of Countess Briochess’s train. “Your steps lack precision due to the mass pressed upon them.” Mme. Brioche commented and felt a slight pang at her ejaculation. It wasn’t fair to cut others so deeply with such a bitter acerbic purity. Somehow, in this acidic repartee, others saw themselves, and their own shortcomings, despite the caustic burns they received. Countess Brioche looked upon a bustling courtyard of servants who despised her, but respected her stinging candor.

1

The Bruery Pinotlambicus, 8.2% abv

|
Tart like grammy

Pinot is all juiced up.

Pinotlambicus, the Bruery, Wild Ale/Sour, 8.2% abv

A:  This beer looks like an Arnold palmer with a murky dull yellow/light brown.  
There is absolutely no lacing and no carbonation except for some wispy middle bubbles.  
It appears similar to a cider and just looks reticent to get all dolled up for the drinker.

S:  The nose gives smells of funk, and very light citrus.  
It doesn’t really have much vitus in this vitus series.  
There’s definitely some green grapes and lemon zest but, nothing too amazing.

T:  The taste has a bit of a prickly taste to it with tart white wine notes. 
 It is not overly drying or overly crisp.  There’s some mild carpety finishing notes that may be some acetyl 
business going on but it isn’t a big enough carpet business to warrant filing with the state.  
It really isn’t that complex but it is pretty good, not amazing.

M:  The mouthfeel is very thin similar to a light wit bier or a Belgian blonde base. 
 It is not overly coating and it doesn’t dry too much.  The mouthfeel kinda phones it in,
 imparts the tartness and then quickly takes off to handle 
other affairs like giving me diarrhea.  You know, important matters.

D:  This is incredibly drinkable and it would be refreshing around the pool with all the girlfriends.  
Plus the crispness wont leave you bloated so you can fit into that Marciano dress you just bought.  
It is a bit too funky and tart to have a place in colder weather but it would be a sick brew 
at Havasu when things get all gnar gnar on the cutty boats.

Narrative:  “Hey Coco?” the light from the upstairs shone down into the basement 
where Mike Washington’s secret resided.  He walked down holding a bundle of green
 grapes shaking them alluringly about the habitat that he had crudely constructed. 
“Cocooooo, dinner time!” suddenly a rubicund little koala scampered down the silk 
tree and snatched the fresh concord grapes from Mike’s hand. “Omm nom nom ommm nommm…” 
the crude little koala gnashed and smashed the grapes sending skins and juice flying
 pell mell. “Who would believe them if I told them, that I had an alcoholic little 
koala in my basement. No one, that’s who, you idiot Mike.”  
He shook his head and poured a small amount of Bordeaux into Coco’s bowl and watched 
him lap it up hungrily.  
Coco’s coat was stained with smashed grapes, tannins, and splashed wine.  He looked 
like a homeless koala with an affinity for Charles Shaw, but Mike loved him all the same.  
Besides, a filthy grape addicted koala was just what he needed to jazz up his otherwise 
mediocre life. “NO COCO! BAD COCO!”  he cried out as Coco began to give the business to 
an old Cabbage Patch doll.  “You’re a marsupial, that’s totally non-canon!”