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!”