Will Gordon was too Poor to Review Zwanze 2015, So I Guess DDB has to.

Well we already had a tumultuous week watching Will Gordon commit P.R. suicide live in real time amongst several magnates in the beer industry, but in that dust up old ddb plum forgot to actually review 2015 Zwanze.

When I say review, I don’t mean pad out my word count with some irrelevant ultra-basic rambling and a hot two sentence tag line about the actual beer. Like as in, knowing what the fuck you are talking about and providing worthwhile commentary beyond myopic economic observations.
That kinda review.

So when Cantillon announced that they were making a sour stout of sorts, I can imagine many BMI ballers got PTSD nightmares of Zwet.be. I already saw the “TASTES LIKE TARTS OF DARKINESS!” Reviews forthcoming from the scholars on Untappd.

Thankfully, JVR’s cool hand held that black patent malt at bay and endeavored to put forth more of a blended oud bruin rather than some OOPS ALL CHOCOLATE BERRIES type of panache.

The trappings of the oud bruin style itself doesn’t get us out of the woods, Cantillon abilities notwithstanding. You still get that chocolate covered cherry cordial, a touch of balsamic and acetic, and a waft of dry Korean nail salon on the finish. It’s a very very nice salon, but present nonetheless. It’s like if Rodenbach released a full size luxury line, unbrellas in the doors, but still the same Rodenbachey execution. In truth, as far as the crippled oud bruin cum de sour stout style goes, I really couldn’t imagine it being better than this.

If Cantillon came to the masses with the design for a sherry cask aged Kvass, you would still have webs of precum spun from the tips of moleskin clutchers like intricate arachnid webs.

The taste is tart at the outset akin to black cherry, Dr. pepper and cola nut. The carb is spot on, silky like a Juicy tracksuit, JVR pressed across the ass. The chocolate and stout aspects are a bit chalky and mineral along the molars but thankfully there is a tannic Cabernet finish that chain combos another sip like Glacius[fn1]

[fn1- Google “Killer Instinct”if you were drinking Ranger IPA in undergrad up until last year]

So overall, was it “worth” the price of entry? Sure, if you aren’t some EBT-tier consumer who is paid $400 a week by an Internet conglomerate to generate unfounded opinions. In that instance, yes. Is it one of the worst cantillons of recent memory? I mean, I guess? But that speaks more to the quality of their stable lineup rather than the deficiency of this beer. Pitchfork Media assholes want the same album over and over, beer “experts” want the same major chord sour blonde stone fruit riffs so they can sing their tired melodies to uncaring friends and family in dulcet tones.

Sour stouts are metal AF.

It was different, but I enjoyed it. I am not gonna make some Hentai fan fiction over it, but it was mad deece.

Ddb can review Belgian beers however they fucking want because Google translate turns the page into even less comprehensible garbage.


Is Cantillon Blabaer 2013 the Head-on Berry Collision that Complainers Like to Make it Out to Be?

Ddb reviewed Blabby back like four years ago or some shit so we aren’t going to retread that ground in full at this juncture.

Here knock yourself out:




But what about those infamous “off” vintages? Every three years, meatsweatted cicerones will capriciously decide OH NO FUCK BRO THAT YEAR SUCKS MY HOME BREW CLUB AGREED TOO.

This happened with Flora b6, it happened with Fantasia b2, the NOTORIOUSLY SHITTY Cable Car 2010: none of this makes any sense. Nine times out of ten, the complaints hover around “BRUH it wasn’t even like as sour as I remember, making something more sour is a demonstration of true breW skillz.”

Flora b6 was a touch less sour sure, but posting ISOs specifically like “ANY FLORA BATCH EXCEPT THAT HORRIBLE BATCH FIVE THAT I KNOW IS TERRIBLE” makes no sense. Flora is still fucking delicious.

The glass upskirt is second only to placing the bottle ontop of the glass in stupid beer photography

The glass upskirt is second only to placing the bottle ontop of the glass in stupid beer photography

The greatest victim of this paradigm is tattered old Blabaer 2013. Somewhere along the line people ruled that blabaer must be X2OMG sour and intensely Smuckers and if it isn’t, then JVR really shit the bed on this one.

Blabby already exists as a trade anomaly on so many levels. It often exists as a crown jewel for a first or second year trader to “accomplish” a badge of blueberry merit, to validate their face hole. These same people toss up 8:1 offers and covetous hoarders tear them down.

Those same stupid dipshits who hoard blabaer are actively trying to trade them upwards for Pikku or an M or some shit. This will never happen for the simple reason that: everyone only needs to try Blabaer once.

That isn’t to say it isn’t good, but traders of a certain experience know to never actually drink a Blabaer when St. Lam is far easier to land and tastes better. Therefore bottles of blabaer never move downward, but they can never move upward either. They sit and malinger until someone wants to stunt hard as fuck at some brewery event and live on in infamy in UNTAPPD reviews. WOW Herbert Spencer, such legacy achieved, sociological immortality.



So within this climate you have two poles of raters: 1) bitter assholes who traded a ton for it and were “forced” to open it and share it with ignorant cretins and 2) unappreciative shitlords who failed time and time again to land it and now want to engage in some growing pains of iconoclasm and take poor blabby down a peg,

So yeah, if you pour 2013 Blabaer amongst 15 people it won’t be as aggro sour, it won’t be as fruity, but it is even more interesting in its musky tannic vibe. So within the scope of 1 ounce within bitter BJCP turd hammers, it will become the “bad” vintage.  It is still a phenomenal beer and one should look at groupmind “consensus” with a grain of gose.

Fire up a dare form tab and get over it. Beer itself and beer people get worse with every passing day, fading away in cellars and basements, respectively.


Cantillon Crianza Helena, The Face that Launched a Thousand Shits. On Ebay.

Cantillon one offs, just another Wednesday in this website, which is basically the perineum of the beer world. So let’s get tainted in today’s review. I remember someone told me the deal with this beer, something about a beer to celebrate someone’s daughter and special cognac barrels or something, but you don’t give a shit about that. You came for the labia jokes, and stay for the dick pix. Who am I to disappoint:

The sweet sound of beer nerd mantits slapping together as they pound their gamer keyboards in rage over not being able to have something.  Serenity.

The sweet sound of beer nerd mantits slapping together as they pound their gamer keyboards in rage over not being able to have something. Serenity.

Brasserie Cantillon
Gueuze | 5.00% ABV

A: This is a standard affair for an oldish gueuze, it has a hazy orange construction paper/sawdust sorta aspect going on. The lacing was insubstantial and the carbonation wasn’t really that intense either. I guess you don’t go to gueuzes for their pretty looks, they are the battered, old barrel aged bretheren of the sour world, mistreated mistresses always not pressing charges, making up excuses for the carbonation and bugs therein.

At first it seems sour and acrimonius, but then it is approachable and gentle.

At first it seems sour and acrimonius, but then it is approachable and gentle.

S: I was really looking for something to hang my hat on to point to in an attempt to differentiate this from other baller ass gueuzes. Personally, I think this is kinda a standard execution, just polished up a bit, you get the dead bodies of the pellicle forward in a musky sponge dipped in orange juice, lemon rind, straw, some light attic aspects, but not the insulation/pink shit, like the creaky wood. I have some creaky wood fo- (PENIS JOKE LIMIT EXCEEDED.DLL_err0r)

T: This is lactic as the day in Morris Illinois is long. Ask Alewatcher, he will tell you, long ass days there. You get some white grape but the really hard ripe ones that pucker your face, some muscat grape, super small not ready yet apricots that make you deuce during Swim PE, oak, and a touch of the sweetness from cognac. This is pretty similar to Oude Gueuze Vintage from 3F, but with a lil bit more musk and funk mellowed out with a light caramel sweetness from the cognac. Maybe it doesn’t, train a Black Chocobo, get kings of the round, fuck if I know.

I guess this is better with age on it.  I will only have it once, so I can only speculate with regards to that person in red pants.

I guess this is better with age on it. I will only have it once, so I can only speculate with regards to that person in red pants.

M: This is as dry as the discussions at Coachella and you don’t even have to listen to shitty Animal Collective to enjoy it. You get the crisp apple skin dryness that isn’t exactly acidity but it imparts this kind of lip smacking goodness. You know how old men always have that white stuff at the corners of their mouth and have to lick like 5 times to soak their mouths, it is like that, except you can’t buy this with your AARP card and you won’t be able to get away with saying borderline racist shit either.

D: This is pretty gentle and drinkable and I feel that the light sweetness is a nice touch to what is already a world class gueuze. I probably wouldnt/cant/impossible to get this again, so pressing my love handles against the glass and showing off makes this beer seem a bit underwhelming in retrospect, but that is relative to other massive walez on the infamous list. Seek it out for sheez, but don’t go turning tricks on Craigs List for it, the therapy will cost way moar.

Pop this open, get a glass, and get sour twisted with your friends.

Pop this open, get a glass, and get sour twisted with your friends.

Narrative: “Well boys, it is finally over, we did it,” Cabbage declared with a succinct statement, wiping a tiny tear of victory from his fur. He was a sweet Sea Otter who could be found regularly scampering through oak pieces or gripping tensely onto some driftwood, but tonight he was a leader. “The federal government tried to relocate us, put us otters in coastal habitats, I say YOU GO LIVE IN A COASTAL HABITAT SENATOR” he boomed to a group of sweet and outright adorable otters slowly turning in the tide. One otter banged a rock on an abelone to bring the meeting to order. “BUT WE ARE NOT DONE YET,” Cabbage splashed some water defiantly into the air, “OUR NEXT GOAL will be to spread our culture up the mouth of the Mississippi to reach the tolerant southern states and spread our culture of adorability to states that are inherently depressing!” The crowd clamored, unaware that Southern trappers had almost no regard for cute animals and amongst the worst public schools in the western hemisphere.


HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME. Cantillon Brabantiae, A Beer Born in 1989, Older Than Your Illegitimate Girlfriend.

Well as if yesterday’s review didn’t push things to absurd new levels, today we have a Cantillon one-off from 1989. You read that right. This was brewed to commemorate a king of Brabant, or a governor, or maybe someone who bought a Chevy Nova in Belgium, I forget the story. Some epic shit happened and Jean Van Roy made this to commemorate that instance. Maybe someone beat Metroid without using the freeze beam and Jean was like “Well fuck all that, I am making a gueuze to make sure everyone knows this went down.” The problem is, not many people were getting their jimmies rustled in 1989 for this style of beer, relative to today. So let’s drink it now, and see what the fuck the business is.

The label has that Walking Dead sort of gothic charm to it, like you know it went through some shit just to be opened on a random weeknight in America.

Brasserie Cantillon
Gueuze | 5.00% ABV

A: This beer needed the ginger touch of a latter day saint and had the fickle cork like the hymen of a finicky prom date. It took a solid 10 minutes to ease that thing out and guess what, 23 years later, a slight hiss emitted and CARBONATION was present. I was seriously surprised. I mean, not enough to pull some Tony Stewart victory spraying all over some white trash people in the south, but admirable. My glass had tons of strange residue and floaties, oak, yeast, cork, god knows what. No lacing, no head, no stems no seeds no sticks.

A blast from the past, that is surprisingly modern.

S: This is hands down the most amazing part of this beer. This reminds me of summer nights walking through musky warm orchards in Fresno, the humidity and tool shed dankness just palpable in the air. You get leather, musk, worn bicycle seat, weightlifting gloves, and crushed leaves. That shit all sounds horrible but in tandem, it is like liquid nostalgia that puts you on your ass with reverence. Go right now, open your old comics or Magic the Gathering ca- oh, you played sports? Well why the fuck are you reading this website? Go do some sports shit, you’re still in shape right?

T: I guess everything in this review needs to be qualified by the fact that this beer is old enough to drink itself. HOW META IS THAT. Anyway, you get a nice sharp acidity that lingers for a moment and subsides into a massive funk like old laundry that imparts this tangelo zest and yearbook paper. It is like being sublimated INTO a piece of the past. It isn’t the best or brightest gueuze ever, but it seriously delivers on that haunting aspect of the past note. I didn’t get any oxidation or dead hand control on this beer, it was still very drinkable and delicious, but it did remind me of dancing to Tony Rich Project in 7th grade.

This is old, musky, and you know some tawdry things went down up in this mix. So much AIM cybering.

M: This was dry and extremely dirty, if that is an apt adjective. There was this entire memory lane aspect to this beer that could not be denied. You ever get caught cleaning your room and you suddenly are looking through all your old Wizards and Nintendo Powers and- oh no? WELL THEN GO DO SOME SPORTS SHIT. This site isn’t for you.

D: This is not drinkable on long sessions. Go to a lake and think about the hottest person you ever kissed, think about the worst, take a picture in sepia, watch a grainy VHS tape of yourself as a paradigm of vanity and try and reconcile that self interested mess with the current person that you have become. Look the past in the face and embrace the Hegelian historical dialectic.

Can you ever really make a 21 year old gueuze relevant to anyone? Only on this site.

Narrative: “ALLLLLRIGHT! We need to ramp up production ten fold for the next fiscal quarter!” The Belgian overlord boomed into the loudspeaker. The Belgian factory workers, sticky with pulp and apple skins could scarcely understand the need for this. Much. Produce. One thin worker began to sob into the sorting machine as he pulled defective granny smiths from the line. “Adelbrecht! Show fortitude! For how else will those who have mild vitamin C needs get their apples? Will they be supplicated with your tears my dear Adelbrecht?” He nodded and thrust his jaw forward and wiped the acidic juice from his face. Little did they know, all of these apples were not for eating, but fermenting. Their hours of tedious labor would be pureed into a slurry of wasted dreams for the swill of mass communication and sociology majors. The grist of their labor would be ground, not unlike their dreams, into a putrid mash to be consumed near rivers by reluctant underaged girls. Adelbrecht’s efforts would be in vain. The past had come full circle, the punishment of the future would be realized on a daily basis, unending, with disaffected prejudice.


Cantillon 50 Degrees North 40 Degrees East, Things Are Getting Geographic Real Quick

Bust out your compasses, we are going wale hunting in today’s review. As if slaying normal loonz isn’t enough, today we have a Cantillon one-off from 2007. The deal behind this beer is Jean Van Roy took his inimitable gueuze and found an incredible Cognac distillery and aged it for 2 years in barrels from that distillery. You know how membranes of a mitochondria fold in upon themselves to generate more ATP? That is what is going on here, except this is churning out purified RAR. Let’s get loonzy in today’s review.

I hope your harpoon is sharp, or your Paypal fishing vessel is well stocked.

Cantillon 50n4e
Brasserie Cantillon
Gueuze | 7.00% ABV

A: The appearance of the beer is an almost tame affair. The golden hues of the normal gueuze are present albeit with a deeper golden aspect to it and minimal lacing. There’s very little carbonation but, at this point, I could give a fuck less about some carb issues. Go buy a Fantome or an Upland lambic and call it even after you clean the beer off your ceiling.

Cantillon one offs? You can only look like a total asshole asking for moar.

S: There’s a strange interplay of elements here, you get the classic musk and lemon zest from the Cantillon gueuze, but there’s a deep sweetness and caramel candy finish to the nose that wraps the two together like a candied granny smith apple with booze. The cognac seems to have faded a bit, but it feels like a more balanced product as a result.

T: The taste is an incredible Chimera of elements going on. At first the beer presents a tart acidity like a freshly cut grapefruit with some blood orange zest, then the e-brake is pulled and this shit flips faster than an Integra being driven by a 17 year old hmong kid. The beer magically turns into this sweet mellow golden aspect with tastes similar to caramel, toffee, macaroons, and a lingering boozy sweetness like brandy, or, more properly, cognac. This whole affair is strange, like making out with a beautiful asian girl and then finding out she is actually a beautiful Bolivian girl. You aren’t even mad, just confused as shit as to what is going on.

At a certain point, I have no idea what the fuck is going on.

M: The mouthfeel is dry and lingers with this swirling interplay of acidity and sweet baked biscuits. While the gueuze is disassembling your gumline, the sweet notes are reapply a sumptuous new ceiling on the roof of your mouth. Ultimately, your mouth becomes a public works project for strange ends.

D: This is not the most drinkable beer, even setting rarity aside. I really enjoyed it, but it is only fair to judge this against those that it shoulders ranks with. I personally enjoy Fou Foune and St. Lam much more than this “interesting” gem. If this Cantillon were on Match.com, all the sections would talk about how it does roller derby and has “such a great personality.” Don’t put a ring on it.

So they took this one thing and added it…to this other….thing….

Narrative: “Why are mommy and daddy fighting?” Baby Cognac wondered as she watched her parents tear apart their small abode. “OH OH OK THIS IS RICH! NOW IT’S….CAN I FINISH? LET ME FINISH!” Papa Gueuze was in one of his booze filled rages after a family outing. It had been chaos since they stepped into that Macaroni Grill and the din of excitement had now reached its sweet fever pitch. “Oh…SURE SURE….revert back to that, let’s focus on THAT ONE TIME AGAIN!” Mama Applezest was brandishing a large cutco knife and threatening no one in particular. Baby Cognac attempted to reconcile this hectic environment with her chaotic upbringing. No one wanted to visit, no one wanted to stay, but little cognac baby still had high hopes for later aging. She would get a pink VW Bug for her birthday to make up for the abuse living in that barrel of a home.


Cantillon Fou Foune, Loonz Beside Me, Swerving Through Traffic with my Founes Behind Me

Enough killing off 2 liter growlers like Spaniards and Native Americans, time to get back to our Belgian roots. I don’t need to really say anything about this beer 1) it is Cantillon 2) it is their inimitable apricot fruited lambic, Fou Foune. People always get their stone fruits all juiced whenever this beer gets brought up, opened, or even discussed. I once took this to Cabo and drank it on the Tropic of Cancer, and it was an Italian bottle of Foune. So that means it went from Belgium, to Italy, to Ireland, to Florida, to California, to Cabo San Lucas. That beer is more well-traveled than most Americans from Alabama. Anyway, let’s get that juicy juice in today’s review:

Sipping Foune in Cabo, well this Friday now appears immeasurably shittier.

It’s like in Cold Mountain when Jude Law looks a pic of his long lost love and, wait what-

Fou Foune
Brasserie Cantillon
Lambic – Fruit | 5.00% ABV

A: This has that classic turbid Cantillon straw meets orange juice sort of pulpiness to it, but the frothy carbonation seems inviting like a water park that is just clean enough to seem legit. The lacing is minimal but, did you really expect some massive frothy nitrogen head? You unrealistic bitch.

Send her an apricot lambic, girls be loving apricot lambics.

S: I can’t begin to tell you how amazing this beer smells just short of taking you to a Kentucky apricot orchard and rubbing sweet straw in your face. Maybe pull a Jansport backpack over your head, squeeze a bit of peach and crabapples onto your face, get things real tawdry up in this mix. That’s essentially the experience, but is it ever inviting. Some people like aging this, other haters just open it fresh and let God sort it all out. I have had both, EVEN ON DRAFT, and it is amazing regardless of circumstance.

T: This takes the old lactic base and musky wet leaves from the OG gueuze and dials things up a notch to a nice apricot meets acidity level that is impressive through and through. There’s an intense apricot skin and dryness that hits your gumline with nana’s peach preserves in town and light sort of biscuit quality that just gets its head held underwater mercilessly by the delicious acidity.

Fou is like an old friend who comes back from the past to warn you about a Founeless future.

M: This is crisp and dry like biting into a granny smith apple that happens to be coated in chardonnay and peach jam. The balance is incredible despite the excoriating acidity, and the 750 never lasts as long as you expect. I would suggest seeking some out but most trades for this beer are one way streets. It is an anomalous situation where people trade for Fou, but no one ever gives up a Foune. FEEL ME.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and will give you gurgle guts on par with the State Fair. But like the deep fried Pepsi, it is entirely worth it. This is a world class fruited lambic and it is better than Blabaer. I said it. I defy you to find someone who believes differently.

Running out of Foune is strangely disturbing.

Narrative: Kelly Chancery seemed sweet enough. She gave her friends rides to school in her lemon yellow Mini Cooper, never asked for gas money, and even tutored the water polo athletes due to their abject inability to circumscribe triangles. Deep down, she hated each and every one of them. At age 12 her parents sent her to a strict Belgian exercise summer camp. She was served nothing but overly ripe pitted fruits and engaged in vinegar diets and extensive cleanses. Her taste buds were so badly burned in the enterprise that she returned a jaded, bitter shell of herself, figuratively and literally. “Hey Taeler! Hop on it! Are those Rock N REPUBLIC!? OMG you are such a hot BITCH!” she quipped and stared down her brow as she grinded her mandible. The tiny convertible held 50 lbs of explosive materials and ammonia nitrate in the trunk. She sucked deeply onto her Lemon Sucrets and waited for that sour day that she would burn them all. Kelly Chancery only seemed sweet enough, she was sour to the core.


2008 Cantillon Lou Pepe Kriek, Cherry Poppin Daddy

Oh loonz. Everyone wants them, and yet they seem to gravitate to the cellars of a chosen few that inexplicably never seem to drink them. If anyone is posting pics online of their 300+ collection of Loonz and 3F, pokemon hoarder extraordinaire to the fullest. Ask them to post a pic of a single open Fou Foune and watch their little hearts break. For example, for the lulz, I took some loonz to Cabo and drank them, because I drain lambic harder than a Brazzers account:

Drinking loonz on the Tropic of Cancer is money, having a basement full of things you never drink is a janky episode of Hoarders.

Loonz are meant to be dranken, so we are gonna smash some cherries in today’s review. Oh also, this is on some top 100 lists, for those who care about that SUPERFICIAL SHIT.

Step on that cherry, aws jeah, smash my preserves.

Alright let’s get this review underway, oh WAIT FUCKING PSYCHE-


Brasserie Cantillon
Lambic – Fruit | 5.00% ABV

A: Get the haz mat suits out, this beer looks like radioactive grenadine. The ruby foam billows up and just exudes a tannic berry character and when the light hits your eyes it is more radiant than an Aphex Twin concert. You just googled that shit. The whole affair is a beautiful garnet gemstone from old Gam Gam that you hold so precious but want to share with others.

If you have never had any Cantillon, it will make you flip your shit.

S: This has an initial tannic cherry skin quality with a musk similar to the OG Lou Pepe Gueuze, for obvious reasons. You get some wet yard clippings but with a healthy does of cherry juice and Cherry 7up sprayed over it. It has a crisp finish to the nose like a red champagne and the whole thing just feels refined, like if you got accused of being an alcoholic on Intervention and pulled this out people would be like, “well HOW OFTEN are we talking about? Does he beat his kids EVERY day?” Making friends and shit.

T: This is incredibly tart with raspberry, cherry, and essentially any candy that has Red5 in it. It reminds me of sour ropes and a juicy, authentic berry profile that blurs the line between beer and tastebud orgasms. Which is the opposite of an orgasm ON your tastebuds, so we are clear. I love the incredibly acrid borderline brackish finish that this imparts. The dryness is like a fine Pinot Noir meets the sweetness of well-done Cyser, balling Lisa Frank style, stuffing singles into some Hudson jeans, balling out so hard.

If you don’t drink your Loonz, that is bad and you should feel bad.

M: Hey, how is your short term memory holding up> This beer is fucking dry. It is also thin, and…cherries. There you go. Next section.

D: Did you recover from that huge blast of sass in the last section? Pshew, can you walk? This is exceptionally drinkable, you could power down a full bottle of this and still show up smelling like a Fruit by the Foot addict in time for your kid’s Parent-Teacher conference. If you got pulled over after binging on this beer, the cop wouldn’t think you were drinking, he would just assume you had no self control and fucking loved candy.

Actually opening a Cantillon feels good man, try it.

Narrative: Rainier Bing swirled the pink potation in front of him and wiped the sticky juice from his slick skin. His stem was chapped in this humid weather and this tavern felt like a prison, letting him know all that he had done wrong. “It all reduces down to MASTER and SLAVE roles, ultimately, that’s what the Story of Job, Psalms, pretty much all the Old Testa-” Rainier stopped his drunken rambling when he saw her walk through the threshold. Her skin was still flawless, perfectly unbruised, looking as though harvest season was just last month. “Is that…SKEENA SANTINA? God, she was the prize of the last harvest.” Her sweet ruby skin glimmered under the red lights, and the heat floated on top of her skin, like an ice cube in a glass of gin. She quipped to a couple of currants in the corner booth and sat, BY HERSELF NO LESS, and casually lit a cherry cigarillo. There was no smoking in the Cherry Pit but she flashed a coy wink to the bartender and he continued drying the glass and put on an asymmetrical grin. “HEY…er hey Skeena?” Rainier stammered to himself, suddenly aware of this pints of juice that he had just consumed. “Gosh you, I mean, look at us, same TREE! God, I remember you from budding season, you just-” Mr. Bing continued and noticed that she was staring with an apparent prescience at the white fuzz on his right quadrant. “Ha! I mean, look at me, a lil old in the tooth, did some time in the bottom of the plastic bin, a little moisture expos-” Rainier trailed off as Skeena Santina gave him an acrimonious glance and put her cigar out. He was right, in the end, all was reduced to master and slave relations. Reality was a tart endeavor.


Cantillon Classic Gueuze, Tippin Backwards in the Belgian Chair on fo fo’s

Ah old Classic Cantillon, the gateway drug for many, sought by even more. I always love seeing this gem in boxes that I receive, yet surprisingly, I have never broke my back to seek it out. Just good fortune I guess, or Belgians are just making sure my tastebuds rally so hard. Either way, let’s see what this tart gem has to offer in classic style.

Man this site really took a dive in the old beer picture quality the last few days, oh well, you get what you pay for up in this HTML wasteland. At least I dont have pop under ads trying to lengthen your penis and refinance your home….OR DO I?

Cantillon classic 100% lambic, Gueuze 5.0%

A: It has a murky hay color to it with wispy tiny bubbles that make generous lacing. The glass seems to radiate the yellow 5 looking color throughout the body of the beer. It’s like a dirty lambic lemonade with a murky radiant desert lakewater aspect to it. The bubbles are wispy and dime out instantly, with nothing to contribute to the lengthy tastes presented.

Each time I have this, it hits hard, and is all over too quickly.

S: There is a mild apple and wet carpet smell to it. There’s white grapes and the smell of a coat after someone walks in from the rain. It is different, but still very appealing. I enjoy this but, after having St. Lam, fou foune, Blabaer and all the other cast of characters it is tough to go too nuts over this simple gem. It’s like the Impreza is bad ass, but if you have driven an STi on the reg, it doesn’t blow your mind anymore.

T: The funk is very present in the initial taste with a granny smith apple middle. The notes exhibit a mild sourness of grape skin with a lemony zest to it. This isn’t a tart bomb like some other Cantillon’s but I would say this is their consistent Honda Civic in the wheelhouse. It never seems to disappoint, I can say it’s a permaISO for sures, but there are some others that are similar and less of a pain in the ass to lock down.

Almost everyone I know is a whore for Cantillon, not everyone shows it off so readily.

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and light with minimal coating that tosses some acidic flavors like ninja stars in rapid succession and then peaces out just as rapidly. There is much peacing taking place.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable if you have a glass of water to cleanse the palate every once and again. It imparts a ton of dryness for the sweet notes it gives off. You end up with that movie theater “ate too many sour patch kids” sort of raw mouth. That sort of “Craig list has all kinds of deals” bitterness on the palate. That kind of bitterness. “Show the jury where this beer touched your palate on the doll” bitterness.

This beer trips all kinds of alarms, but in a good way, not 5am before a final sort of way.

Narrative: “Please…just let me go free…I won’t talk to anyone about this hidden Acai berry farm!” the covert agent pleaded dutifully with the farm hand, Brouwerj. “Well, I think the boss’d be pretty sore if he knew I was letting people go free all higgledy piggl-” “Ok cut! Everyone take 5. Mike, can I talk to you for a second?” The two left the set of the farmhouse and walked over to the confectionary table. “listen mike, I know that you know that I know you only got this role because I am dating your cousin. That is fine. But you have to listen to my direction notes ok? This is a Belgian farmhouse, in every single scene you come out with this Appalachian drawl. What is that?” “Weeeeell shucks I-” “YES, see that, don’t do that, you don’t even have to have a decent Belgian accent, just be yourself, ok?” The two went back to their places and the scene began a new. This time Mike’s radiance outshone even the lead roles as he eloquently delivered tart and cunning ad libbed barbs and pleaded in the wet hay with the title character. Not a single eye was left dry on that soundstage that dry. The boom mic bobbed mournfully between the sobs of the grip. In the end, the movie was cut to a single monoscene due to his riveting improvised speech while gathering apples and issuing a tearful goodbye to the secret agent. “CUT! That’s a wrap!” “Weeelllll shucks I-”