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1996 Rodenbach Alexander, Keeping Teenagers in the Cellar and Exploiting them Years Later

Let’s just get this out of the way: this is the best Flanders Red that I have ever had. There I said it. Rodenbach Caracterie Rouge was fucking amazing. And Teeeeechnically Oude Tart with Cherries isn’t a Reeealll flanders, right? Even with qualifiers, this is the fucking best flanders out there. Even with close to two decades on this bad bitch it still wilds out, hair in corn rows, shopping at Charlotte Russe not giving a fuck.

This used to be on the white whale list but SpeedwaleJim in his infinite wisdom decide that T25 was more sought than this fucking incredible blast from the past. Go figure.

This teenager is dope because he doesn't listen to One Direction bullshit.

This teenager is dope because he doesn’t listen to One Direction bullshit.

Brouwerij Rodenbach N.V. visit their website
Belgium
Flanders Red Ale | 5.00% ABV

A: This is class flanders, flandiddidly for sheeze. Popping those ::sigh”” robey tones are like that magical moment when the bills cascade above the laquered floor and the exotic dancer elects to clap those red bottoms. Tickers go hard for those red bottoms. With 17 years on this bitch, still foam, still cream, still cling, still putting commas in the bank. I don’t know what else you could really want when you see shit like this standing tall doing 15 to life still not getting shanked. Fucking beautiful beer, not muddy, not faded on that oxidation tip, but you could crush up that oxy and let Alexander work his 8oz magic.

This beer is a great listener.

This beer is a great listener.

S: God damn this is straight cherries on cherries, even my cherries got cherries. This is maraschino at first but then evolves into an acidic flame and screams like Bieber fans. There is oak, a light dryness, a tangy sweetness like Fruit by the Foot, some red 5 pimpin, earthy and a tad splash of vinegar notes but nothing off-putting. Shirley temple for days on that Littlest Rebel mix. Drop your glow sticks and tongue kiss that Honduran chick rolling hard on molly eating those cherry jolly ranchers, get on that Alexander game.

Dropping holy judgment.

Dropping holy judgment.

T: This is phenomenal in the way it balances a legit cherry sweetness without being sucrets, and a tartness without being an overpowered acid bomb. This wouldn’t talk to the cops, take the charge and still take the years for you holding up hard with the cherries in tow. The oak is legit, it is a bit dry but also has that great tannic presence to round shit out with another level of complexity like a C plot in a Family Matters episode. Some 3J shit.

M: This is sticky but lightly dry at the same time, the cherry is RIP straight rest in pussy. For this many years, it is insane that it has held up this well and the carb is a lil Crystal Geyser crackle like sparkling water that keeps delivering after all this time. Rodenbach keeps that AK on the nightstand shooting out with modern day Flanders letting shells drop. There is a finishing creaminess that coats the back with gentle bubbles like jacuzzi’s at Coachella.

D: This is insuling. How drinkable was this fucking 25cl white wale? I can’t even begin to address this. My erection was visible throughout drinking this bottle, the dogs present were uncomfortable. This has cherries, oak, splishy splashy juciness and keeps you wanting more. I can’t think of an analog to it, which should make sense given its age and pedigree. Again, seek it out but do us all a favor and put your Cherry Rye shit away, the real men are talking.

Better ask someone.

Better ask someone.

Narrative: She sat there day after day, painting landscapes in the Garden at Giverny. Her flowing red gown seemed ill at east in the summer breeze, yet inviting. Each day you would feign the pretence to visit the shores of the recending lakeline, prod about in the muck while wondering what the glowing red countenance had to offer. The air was redolent with bluebell that fateful day you crushed the poppy flowers and closed the distance. So sweet in demeanour you introduced yourself, and were treated to a laundry list of compound curse words that would make a Press Gang blush. So sweet in appearances and introduction, you could take your new baroness anywhere, to the Salons, to the racetrack, to Tinpenny alley to bet on cockfights. She was your patient, yet offensive muse. She likened your grandmother’s face to pachyderm ankles, but you dont care, you love the sweet and the sour that she presents. Your calm demeanor is not enough to introduce yourself: YOU NEED A BALLER ASS MATERIA. You need materia hidden in snow for years, aged to perfection. That smug french asshole, we will see how she feels after you summor the raw power of ALEXANDER.

25 hour tutorial? fuck you.

25 hour tutorial? fuck you.

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Rodenbach Caractère Rouge, Taking Regular Old Rodenbach to Baller New Levels

Thanks to Anthony for hooking me up with this Belgian beast. The regular old Rodenbach is a solid standby for the uninitiated. I love dropping that or some Duchess Du B. on a normal person not completely obsessed with beer, and then watching their worlds completely change like giving a pack of Parliaments to a 6th grader. This beer takes that old formula and puts me back in the n00b seat with a whole new delicious spin on those oaky/cherry/jolly rancher flavors that I seem to take for granted now. Let’s bust some cherries open in today’s review.

I need a beer that is red in the cheeks and a bruin in the sheets.

Brouwerij Rodenbach N.V.
Belgium
Flanders Red Ale | 7.00% ABV

A: this has nice gentle carbonation, and a one inch head that climbs and subsides gradually, dark red, dried blood with orange amber hues at the edges, head sits with hold like a rootbeer float and then immediately crackles away.

This beer destroys the inside of your mouth but it is so gosh darn gentle, you don’t really mind.

S: sour cherries, sweet nose, a bit of a funkiness, a bit of the cork with a woodiness, and finally a tannic raspberry aspect follows the cherry bride, holding the train.

T: the sour cherry is very pronounced, it is very light on the palate with a bittering grape skin flavor, flavor passes quickly with intense layers, tart pomegranate sweetness to it, the sweetness is like a cherry jolly rancher for a moment and the bitterness overtake quickly. You get a bit of acetone but not to the vinegar status levels, the whole affair is very fruit forward, much like that Fruit Picking Summer Camp your parents sent you to. But then you later found out it was just a Honduran guy’s house.

I will obtain more bottles of this………..eventually….

M: This is very thin and refreshing, easy to drink for any occasion, if not price prohibitive, an excellent session beer that doesnt over dry the palate despite all the tart notes, taste hits hard on the front end and leaves with little resides or coating in the mouth. The fruits help to calm down the acidic character and a light fruit roll up aspect is left lingering. It puts a body kit and cold air intake on regular old Rodenbach and pulls far more Philipino chicks as a result.

D: This is very drinkable, perhaps session is a bit strong but certainly 2 or 3 would be reasonable, if you enjoy the tartness and wild ale character, you could drink this all day given the abv and the lack of weight to the beer. The average consumer might not be on board with this style but I find it to be refreshing with bright notes. My wallet is definitely not on board with the death hammer price though. I think shipped from Belgium this beer ends up being, what $60 a bottle? Oh well, haters gonna hate.

This is a strange beer, worthy of cool reverence. Comforting but uncomfortable at the same time.

Narrative: They huddled in the cold dark holding cell, awaiting release “You number 34724?” A tense overseer inquires. He nodded with trepidation, awaiting the release, and at just that moment the cork gateway was opened, releasing him and his cherry bretheren, sour and full of misgivings upon the awaiting masses. “DONT GET CAUGHT ON THE FRONT LINE, WE ARENT HERE FOR SWEET” He had been told this many times, the initial sweet sentry tastebuds fell effortlessly under his tart scimitar. With an aerialists grace he imparted sweet blood on the front gates of the toungegrounds, charging directly to the back. This smash and grab had been rehearsed time and time again within the confines of his 6 month conditions, directly to the bitter, hit the sour and escape. With rote skill and a pike jump the bitter taste faction was seamlessly integrated, their sensory necks broken, neurons lithely hitting the ground as the tary cherry warrior continued his flay into the dark abyss. His job was done. The tart was communicated and his purpose was served.