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Fantome Dark White BBB Saison, Black Hat, Black Shades, Dark White Ghost, Oh Behave.

Dany Prignon kills it in the saison scene and spares no hides when it comes to strange new takes on what was almost a completely lost style. This is my favorite style of beer from one of my absolute favorite breweries. I try to swing things around from brewery to brewery, but this particular beer was so damn strange and phenomenal that I had to give props to the ghosthunters in Soy and tell the haters to count those funky spokes. Bring your flashlight, we are telling ghost stories.

The BBB stands for Better Business Bureau, which is srs bzness in Belgium.

Brasserie Fantôme
Belgium
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 4.00% ABV

A: This does not look like your typical saison outing and it looks more like a biere de garde in execution but aint nobody complaining. The carbonation is actually ratcheted back from the usual “cork hitting the ceiling levels that this crazy ghost loves to present. These bottles can be dangerous. There is a deep copper meets watery bronze look to this that goes off the beaten hay/golden/orange juice look of many other saisons, but ain’t nobody complaining. I enjoy the light lacing, little spotty foam like a jacuzzi that has too many people in it.

If you open this at a tasting, you instantly become the pimp of the year

S: This has a light lactic tartness on the nose that is faint and reminds me of Fuji Appleas, you get a little bit of musk like puppy fur, and there’s some hay and faint herbal aspects to this. Everything feels like it has been turned down a couple notches. It is a gentle Fantome, the most chill of the ghosts, timid but sweet in execution.

T: This has an incredible musk meets light tartness to it like lightly salted hawaiian rolls. The mild honey pokes its head through the curtains and sees that its stepdad, lemon peel, has attended the rehearsal. All is well. This is simple but incredibly refreshing in the sweet meets light funk and light tart. Everything is just gentler and drapes a bretty shoulder over your shoulders to comfort you.

If you plan on getting into Fantomes, say goodbye to your expensable income. srs.

M: This is incredibly light and crisp as the same time. The watery aspects wash away clean, leaving you no time to ruminate over that should have been. The splishy splashy aspects make this on the Hill Farmstead Clara level of refreshing drinkable. If this bottle wasn’t $15.99, it might actually be sessionable, but I don’t know how hard you ball. I could drink this all day while watching a Night Court marathon, but that is how I roll.

D: Again, just exceptional in the way that it is present and memorable but doesn’t make the entire date about itself. It lets you tell canned anecdotes and nods lovingly in a refreshing manner. I love how the crisp tartness washes away immediately and the light funk gives it a solid backbone to lean its ghostly ass upon. My only complaint is that a beer this refreshing and simple should COST LESS, but that is hardly a fair criticism to lay upon the beer itself. Beer don’t know about no economics.

This is a little darker than I expected, but no one is disappointed.

Narrative: Construction of the trebuchet was not going as planned. Despite Leonardo’s assurances of improved design, the siege would invariably take longer than anticipated and the fields of Milan would remain in Ducal control. Salvatorri doffed his cap and kicked a rock in front of him and looked out upon the Palazzo. “We-a never-a gonna finish this-a siege!” he bemoaned in what could only be deemed a completely racist dialect. The counter balance was all off and the projectiles wouldn’t make it over the dominating granite walls, design to repel Papal control. Just then, a fantasm appeared out of the olive groves, glowing a deep golden hay color, wearing an anachronistic bowler cap. “Weeeeell hey fellas! Plannin a castle takeover? THAT SURE SOUNDS SWELL!” the ghost smiled and draped his ethereal arms around the 15th century soldiers. “mio Dio!” Salvatorri exclaimed, but was instantly put at ease by the gentle approach and amiable smile of this old ghost. Some would call him, Booberryesque. The lazy approach to things and finesse put all of the Romagna troops at ease and soon enough, the old catapult was as good as new. Later, while impressing Milanese people into forced servitude and accepting plenary indulgences for killing traitors, that old easy going ghost showed up again, wearing a pair of overalls and a straw hat. Salvatorri continued pushing a dirk into a wailing serf and winked back and that old trickster ghost.

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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.

BroBrah
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.

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Abbaey De St. Bon Chien, 2006 and 2009 Reviews 11% abv (REEEEEMIXX)

Your mom is a bon chien

The Bonnest of Chiens

2006 and 2009 BFM Brassiere Bon Chien

A: This beer has a tame gueuzey approach to life that crackles with some limited bubbles. There is no lacing and this beer doesn’t give a shit. You dont like it? Well guess what, find some other things to do, this beer spent the last 5 years all cooped up and it’s not in the mood for your sassmouth.

S: This is where this beer turns it into overdrive. Wow, the smell is like carmelized skittles burnt in a pan, nice crispy sugar, grape skins, smashed up sour patch kids and sour ropes. But, refined. Like when Willliam H Macy gets all super serio. You have a sincere reverence for it.

T: The taste is like the smell but it adorns a monocle. It has mellow sour notes with raspberries and blackberry tones throughout. I want to deny that the age has a factor but wow, this is exceptional top to bottom. It dries out the gumline but in a gentle way like the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer all tactful and shit. More skittles please? Oh ok, there they are.

M: The mouthfeel just crackles with energy and snaps with bubbles that seek to punish after a lengthy slumber. Each one bursts with a refined jolly rancher note. Great acidity that has muted over time and it feels like it hit its peak at just the right time. I wish I had more money and time to seek these bottles out, this is like a vintage VHS tape of Step by Step, you only want more.

D: This is an easy answer because of the style: more and now. This has such a great lambic/gueuze feel to it and just tastes refreshing. This Oude Bruin comes off healthy, crisp, and I can feel like I ate a slew of produce, WHEN I DID NOT. But seriously, this is just an amazing crisp offering that is like a series of bites into pear and granny smith apples that you spit out immediately, without reprecussion.

Narrative: “Please just stay” he whispered to himself, waiting for the box of fresh acidic produce that would arrive at anytime. “Aiden, I really have to sleep” Maybe it was the lack of protein in her bloodstream, but she needed natural c6h12o6 hotness or this deal would never be sealed. “Wait wait Jackie, lets just watch Planet Earth on Blueray” Michael pleaded. Jackie felt her blood sugar drop steadily and wondered “did he plan this? I feel so eslaypeee.” No one ever said courting a vegan woudl be easy. Did he know that her stoic diet would disallow any form of long-term drinking? “Oh EM GEE! Did you see those Bolivian tree frogs? So crazy!” He began to cradle her head in his arms “OH GOD PLEASE JUST SEND THAT ORGANIC FRUIT BOX ALREADY!” The two of them looked deeply into dilated pupils. ::BING BONG::: Saccharrine fresh fruit goodness had arrived. The two tore the crate open voraciously and each stared into each other’s eyes as they respectively sucked tangelos clean under the dulcent tones of David Attenborough’s narration.

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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!”