Happy 12.12.12, make a wish if you happen to be a 13 year old girl, or someone who is creaming his jeans for some Stone release. For those of you who are knee deep in trade bullet casings, ducking in the trenches and lobbing Cable Car grenades, you know about 7venth Sun. You know about their 30 bottle runs, you know they have those banging Berliners that Funky Buddha and Wakefield had been pumping in the streets; but what about their Saisons? We already looked at Swamphead to see what the business is, but what about an even smaller brewery that is burning up the underground like Mike Jones? Let’s see if Florida can slang hot beats in today’s review:

Get your Ecto Cooler and Gogurt, this is gonna get exxxxtreme

Get your Ecto Cooler and Gogurt, this is gonna get exxxxtreme

7venth (Seventh) Sun Brewery
Florida, United States
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 8.50% ABV

A: First off, I had this in both the growler and in one of the (~30?) bottles, but I sent one of those bottles to a solid homie, so this is ONLY a growler review, ya dig? Well, I cannot say that this is extreme in the saison world, it actually seems refined and gentle like a John Updike novel. Run Farmhouse Run. The carbonation was still pretty generous considering the cross-contiental journey. The color was a light copper bordering on dark gold with nice lacing that streaked the glass like so many BIFs that I have seen.

This beer is refined and yet savage at the same time.

This beer is refined and yet savage at the same time.

S: The nose was extremely spicey and had a light touch of fusel elements, YOU KNOW ABOUT THOSE DAMN FUSELERS. There’s some white pepper, clove, and a touch of that sweetness you smell in Djarum smokes. There is a bit of musk but it really made me wish that I had the Brett version of this, BRETGERS CANT BE CHOOSERS.

T: This is a fairly standard execution in that it presents a nice wheat grist to it, a bit of lavender in a way, the clove and honey aspects are preserved, and this deep floral aspect like I just made love in a pastoral thicket to a woman or a confused young man. However you like it. It is tough to really pick this apart because this is essentially the Nissan Altima of saisons in that it presents all of the things that are required, doesn’t go apeshit on ABV or extremely lactic, no barrels were involved, no one has a black eye or torn Juicy Couture sweat pants. All is well.

Ehhh...noooo....Mr. Saison no es home...

Ehhh…noooo….Mr. Saison no es home…

M: This is slightly dry but there are enough residual sugars to sustain the day. The floral aspect lingers on but not in a hoppy manner, just a sort of hibiscus dipper in agave nectar sort of execution. Reviewing this beer is tough because it is like when someone goes “Was Wicker Park good?” and you be like “ehhh, it wasn’t bad, but I don’t see it landing on AFI’s top saisons list” and the metaphor gets all diced up.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and masks the ABV well, despite the slight tinge of heat on the nose. There is a variety of the old saison favorites, with a subtle twist, like the difference between No Strings Attached and that other movie that was exactly the same, released the same year. It is not like Paul Blart: Mall Cop and Observe and Report where one is clearly shittier, this is a solid saison that would warm your heart if only 1) you could find it and 2) you weren’t such a jaded beer ticking asshole.

Theft never gets anyone anywhere.

Theft never gets anyone anywhere.

Narrative: Adelbrecht Herjj was having a hard time adjusting to his contemporaries in Jacksonville, Florida. For starters, he was a pasty white obese Belgian man who looked not unlike Tintoretto. For seconds, he was not a Jaguars fan, nor did he even understand the basic tenants of the violent American past time. Santaesque or not, he moved to Florida clutching the American Dream, knowing that Florida was one state where liberty reigned and Deomcracy was truly pure. Adelbrecht wished to move to the Sunshine state and start his very own farmhouse, complete with apiary and meadery. Things started off rough when the corrupt Jacksonville government fined him for unlicensed zoning, water usage, and reindeer breeding. The last item was largely overlooked, but the problems still remained. Adel set out his koelship tanks and exhaled in dismay, “THINK ADELBRECHT, what do the Americans like…” he looked askance and saw a CornNuts package with a menacing character on the label, questioning his extremeness. “EXTREMENESS! That is IT!” The sleepy Belgian brewery overnight became an X-Games sensation when he let BMX Legend Dave Mirra carve hardcore in his Brite Tanks. His saisons were also XXXTREME when he decided to serve them IN A ROLLERBLADE. In summer months, partons were free to climb the grain silos and base jump off the roof into spent grain. Things became distinctly EXTREME and Belgian at the same. Damn. Time.


DC Brau, On the Wings of Armageddon DIPA, Hops as Fierce as a Dragonforce solo

Now we make our way from the South to the, er, “kinda South.” Whenever I talk about Virginia, people think THAT is the South, but apparently DC is not? When I went it was sticky and dank just like this DIPA itself, so it’s the kinda south to me. However, people from Georgetown might as well be from Canada judging on how out of touch with reality those dryrubs are. Anyway, here’s an up and coming star that is tearing up the charts and was recently bottled for the first time, enjoy

On the wings of a hoppy dream, far beyond alpha acid reality

OH SNAP bonus glassware FTW. Thanks Matt Welling for the mad hooks.

DC Brau Brewing Co.
District of Columbia, United States
American Double / Imperial IPA | 9.20% ABV

A: This beer has a nice murkiness to it like Virginia lake water and a shallow dullness to it, like the West Virginia public school system. The carbonation is phenomenal and sends me right to armageddon, as promised. It isn’t exactly pretty, but you’re still down for some reason, kinda like Amanda Seyfried.

This is the most pleasant version of Armageddon since Kurt Russel in “Escape from L.A.”

S: This is a one note punch of Falconer’s Flight and reminds me a lot of Kern 5th anniversary, if we are comparing bad ass IPAs. There’s a grapefruit and honey aspect to this, but the east coast ghost seems to have infected this with a big waft of pale and crystal malt, which makes the citrus elements seem reigned in by contrast to other bi-polar offerings. However, this is far from disappointing, the citrus walks hand in hand with fresh lemoncake and cornbread zest. You can’t always be flirting with these size 1, DDipas, you need balance homie.

T: The taste follows through on the malty promises and goes full ZJ on the hops, even though I didn’t think I could afford it. The citrus is more like the ball boy to the pine slugger and there’s a kind of onion/garlic character hanging out in the outfield. The whole thing begs to be paired with Indian food or some awesome Thai, but it isn’t exactly the trip to Armageddon in the hop profile. For every pound of flesh lost in the hops I am put on a Dominoes diet in the malt zones so I remain with Jenny Craig results. This metaphor got out of hand pretty quickly.

I popped open this beer, hop wraiths escaped, and my face be all like-

M: This coats in a fantastic way with sheets of sticky honey, aserose, pine solvent, maple leaves, and conifers all around. If you used a Redwood tree for a glory hole, this is about what you’d get, with far less shame AS A BONUS.

D: This has a trifecta of chimerical elements going on, nice finish with a lupulus resin, high drinkability, and excellent carbonation. Just the perfect senatorial drink to enjoy after doing absolutely jack shit all day frustrating all legislation from the other side. It is a trip not exactly to hell, but let’s call it, Hoboken. But with more pine trees.

Is this a trip to Hopmageddon? No. It is close to hopurgatory though.

Narrative: You never thought that living in the Bastille in mid-eighteenth century France would be so boring. “Buy a time machine” they said “Meet Voltaire” they said. And yet here you are. The substandard gruel is of the most mediocre consistency and you long for the forthcoming reforms to spruce this place up a bit. BUT THEN YOU NEVER THOUGHT THAT APPEARING FROM THE FUTURE IN A HIGHLY SUPERSTITIOUS CATHOLIC COUNTRY WOULD LAND YOU IN JAIL, IN THE PAST. It was a very intense first few moments, the cobblestone streets, the mahogany bound books, the intensity was in the air, palpable almost. Then the bitterness sets in, again and again, the civil system what with your inability to confront witnesses, until it was just a prison of bitter and sour that you built for yourself. You paid top dollar for a time machine that placed you in a bitter purgatory, to which no amount of sweet can return you. “Loosen my shackles please, I feel that the iron is tarnishing my complexi-” What is that sour taste in your mouth? Bitter irony from a casuistic time traveler.