Fantome Clos Preal Batch 2, Ghosting Harder than a Terran Nuke

You ever watch a Megadeth video and have no idea what the fuck is going on? That is kinda what is going on with this fantasm. The ornate packaging is so high handed for the amazing artisinal fantome saisons that you are accustomed to, but you feel special. This was only available in Belgium as far as I know and the hefty 10% abv caught my eye. I love this brewery and this style, so let’s see if Fantome continues to exorcise the dead in today’s review:

Ghosting harder than a Terran nuke.

Brasserie Fantôme
Bière de Garde | 10.00% ABV

A: This is as fantome as it gets, nice eggshell carbonation that releases the crypt with billowing white foam. The cork is released as willingly as a Mexican parking ticket, with less corruption. The golden hues have a cloudy brassy tone to them that keep things in the saison cut. Black strap you know what that’s for.

At the outset, I am not sure what it is that I am celebrating with this bottle. RIDE THAT GHOST YOU PUSSY.

S: This has a strange waft at first, not the imperial apples and hay that I was expecting, no this beer has gone down a different road altogether. There is some citrus but it is mostly just funk to the max. I am talking incense dealer at Venice Beach levels of funk. There’s this musk that is kinda like the potted plants aisle at Home Depot and a rich acidity on the backend similar to zested lemons.

T: This is incredibly dry from the outset with a pithy citrus aspect to the finish. The bready notes work to mask the abv amiably. This starts going into a strange new realm of non-saison that I am not confident that I agree with. I wanted more of the citrus aspects, but instead I was treated to a fennel extravaganza, pushing fox tails into my gullet. Unless I am getting bullied by some poor Bolivian kid at a Fresno elementary school, I don’t need to eat weeds.

These saison ghosts are the best ghosts.

M: This is drier than your Statistic teacher’s sense of humor and lingers just as long. There’s this acrid assault on the gumline that borders on brackish and even Noel Coward thinks this is a bit salty. As this beer warms the abv starts waking up like a Snorolax and, if you’ve ever woken one of those up, you know shit goes off the rails real quick. There’s this charred wheat aspect that makes an entire 750ml tough to finish to myself, but maybe I was meant to share this. Maybe I shouldn’t be such a selfish asshole maybe?

D: This is too big to bee drinkable, too rare to be opened often, too ornate to take places without people clowning the shit out of you, and if you drank this while working on an IROC Camaro, people would seriously question your political affiliation. This was pretty solid and I love Dany Prignon, but just didn’t knock it out of the park for me. I have heard that Extra Sour is the second coming and resurrection of Ann’s ghost, so I would love to pursue this saison love to its logical conclusion. I will keep you P(gh)OSTED!

This mischievous ghost will hit you when you least expect it

Narrative: The first day of 9th grade was especially trying for Thomas Caraway. Tommy Hilfiger overalls were not only dated, but also a wildy unacceptable fashion decision in a world of waiting derision. “HEY FARMER TOMMY WHY DON’T YOU SU-” He learned to tune them out and calmly stride to Geometry with the cool poise of a 14 year old who just wasted $120.00 of his parents money. It wasn’t that he was a bad kid, he was sweet enough, it was just a question of leadership. He wasn’t a follower, but he set himself out as more of a chairman without a board. Thomas was a bold innovator in a market that abhorred change and friction. He pulled out his iphone and began to ironically play Puddle of Mudd around other kids in the cafeteria, much to their chagrin. When he was sweet, it was irascible, when he was bitter, it went too far. He was a strange kid but, you never could really dislike him for it. However, his bucket hat justifiably got struck in the genitals on not an isolated occasion.


Fantôme Pissenlit saison, DRINKIN, PISSEN, GETTING LIT. Painful.

Ok, so this beer is another ghost asshole from Fantome, they make saisons and that’s about it. It’s like Cheech Marin’s character in From Dusk Til Dawn, but its…er…saisons for them. Sloppy saisons, wet saisons, you get the drill.

Fantome bottles aren't the same without that menacing ghost on them, hell, Bill Murray, even Ghostface Killah would have sufficed.

Fantome Pissenlit, 8% abv

A: Radiant bright yellow hue with a huge cumulus ass head that fantome always imparts (the secret ingredient is ghost.) It kinda reminds me of pineapple Fanta, if anyone has had that obscure soda. There you go.

This beer winner, but something is a bit lost in translation.

S: This has the classic ghostly funk, but this time it seems a bit ratcheted back, a poised charlatan ghost who stinks of freshly cut grass and foggy rhododendrons. You know the type, giving out the same fake cell phone and name.

T: This is fantome all the way with a nice funkiness up front that imparts pears in a huge way, nice red apple (not like in a diacetyl hater way) and finishes with a kinda tart white grape sort of finish. It’s all pretty simple, like the cast of My So Called Life, BUT SO DEEP IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Fantome always puts out beers that feel classy, yet primal at the same time, spoiler: Boo Radley is putting shit in the tree. Take that cat.

M: This is really thin and crisp, like biting into an anjou pear and then kissing a Bolivian farmer. Refreshing but kinda dirty. It washes away quickly with a lil gift of tannin flavor and mild hops at the end, waving good bye while your stepdad tells your palate to stop being such a pussy.

D: This is ghost beer to the max, for 8% you could drill this like a BP disaster. I think the interplay of the juicy notes, the floral spices and thin mouthfeel make this thing really sessionable for those Scrooge McDrinkers out there just straight popping phantasm libations all up in this bitch.

Fantome beers always look majestic and beautiful and then just destroy you. This is no exception.

Narrative: Anabel had been having an affair with the director of Human Resources, well, sort of. She loved him in a casual, throwaway sort of fashion, that is until he suddenly passed in a tragic car accident with a truck full of Honduran gardeners. Police were astounded at the record 13 fatalities, 12 of whom were riding in a B2000 truck. Now Anabel satiated her need by making sweet love to Phil Billingsley’s ghost in the copier room. It is not what you are thinking, Anabel didn’t just rub one out while thinking of a ghost, she actually made love to Phil’s ghost. She would channel him afterhours in the HR boardroom and lure his incorporeal body to the copier room, which, seemed kinda unnecessay since he could clip through walls and all, I digress. His incessant moaning and clanking chains got in the way at first, but eventually she found them charming. The part she could not understand was how he kept talking about Christmas and how her life would end up. She wasn’t prepared for that kind of commitment. It wasn’t until 4 weeks into these fantastic trysts that she realized that she, you guessed it, was fucking the ghost of Ebeneezer Scrooge. Not to look a ghost horse in the gift hole, she carried on this affair, until the copier maintenance man interrupted a seance one night. OH SHIT BUT ANABEL WAS REALLY THE GHOST THE WHOLE TIME. The narrator will allow you leave to get your mind unfucked from that sick Nabokov twist there.