Lost Abbey Veritas V009, Those Hot Crushes Start Out So Well, Then Turn Into a Sour Mess

Here’s a great beer, er, a beer that was great when I had it last July, but recently people have been going apeshit about how it has fallen off. Oh boo hoo, that size 0 rare girl you met in a club isn’t working out 10 months later? Well guess what, take your $35 and fuck right off because I am reviewing this old school, yeah, waving the Lost Abbey flag and letting people know that if you want a legit experience, drink it fresh. Lesson learned. Thank you Tomme Arthur. Anyway, let’s review this size zero beauty.

Maybe this was the bottle for v007, who knows, don’t act like you give a shit.

The Lost Abbey
California, United States
American Wild Ale | 8.00% ABV

A: Murky muddy brown ale with a mucky thick edging that I initially misunderstood as malt until I understood that it was deep currant sediment and grape skins and then shut myself right the fuck up.

So everyone was expecting Yellow Bus meets V007, what is this? haters gonna something something.

S: Wow, where to begin, this has a huge bourbon character, then the figs and currant set in, jumping into the game is an apple/citrus apples aspect before the wood notes close it out. Ultimately it feels like a Thomas Pynchon Novel: the most complicated beer ever made that ultimately leaves you confused and wanting more.

T: It seriously is the most complicated beer ever made. Ok so at the outset you taste a deep caramel with some cherry that subsides into a deep heat that lingers into a sour cranberry. I have no idea how that they pulled this off but it is amazing.

This is tough to explain, it is robustly complex but after only 8 ounce of this, the diversity becomes redundant, like a college admissions pamphlet.

M: Here is how your life will proceed, in succession: deep chocolate cherries oh wait, who is that? Vinegar, wait that’s cool come on in, who else? balsamic fine but don’t be a-? Ok cool, she’s cool too, blackberries welcome, welcome uh sure, oh more dark fruits? Fine, I will just set out more placemats.

D: Well, drink ability reduces down to the operator, but I don’t want to call out the old chestnut that can drink a lot, or drink a few. What I am looking for would be the type of person who would literally drink an entire 32 oz serving of POM or grapefruit juice. He would pass my test. Put simply, this beer is so limited and so complex that if you were to take on an entire 24oz to your dome piece, you are an asshole.

Sure, in retrospect, this might not have been the best idea, but it was bad ass at the time.

Narrative: “Oh I am sorry Guillermo? Do you think something is funny about the plastic bag regulation?” He was berated by his superiors but deep down, Guillermo had an innate sense of humor. He grasped desperately at his job at the Marina Del Rey Sheritan but notwithstanding he had a latent skill that his superiors could not stand. “OH IM SORRY GUILLERMO? SOMEHOW THE KOI POND OVER FLOWING IS FUNNY TO YOU?” His face was beet crimson with this prospect. Guillermo took a sly pull of 23 year pappy van winkel and cooled out for a moment. “Wait, maybe you are operating on cultural stereotypes, maybe you are racist?” The group nodded in accordance and each in turn attempted to determine who was in fact racist. Guillermo secretly was a completely literate and inventive individual who simply enjoyed the fulfilling work of maintaining the grounds of a three star resort. “WELL I CAN’T..ehh…no…nooo…” his accent kicked back in and he looked off into the distance longingly. He was perhaps the most complex grounds keeper that the Sheritan had ever encountered.


Monk’s Cafe Flemish Sour Ale, An Old Review for Old Souls

Hot damn, I wrote this review so long ago, I think I enjoyed this beer while watching the L.A. Rams crush the Los Angeles Raiders while listening to Spin Doctors on cas- you get the jist. A while ago. How my sour tastes have migrated, but this old gem is still a solid standby that deserves some mild affection, get you some.

Expert beer photos. Hire me for your wedding, bris, whatever.

Brouwerij Van Steenberge N.V.
Flanders Oud Bruin | 5.50% ABV

A: Pours from the bottle with a mild head, no lacing, white with fast dissipation, thin and offwhite, eggshell even, the beer itself is a deep ruby brown, I enjoy it in the way that you want an Airhead when you haven’t had one in a while. It’s not like you pick up Airheads at the grocery store on the reg. but you know, a once in a while treat.

Ah a sweet nostalgic treat to remind you of days passed, a dead era of satisfaction with normal, readily accessible sours, back when you were cool but rude.

S: The smell makes you aware that fruit tannins and dark grapes and or currants and awaiting, and they are angry, they storm up your nostril not unlike an Al-Jazeera mob, giving your palate a warning shot for the tartness that they seek to impart

T: The front has a mild candy apple taste, not granny smith, sweet cherry flavor which mellows out to a sweeter candy finish, not tart, a bit like a lukewarm sour patch kid, only not in a disparaging way, like a high class sour patch kid with a monocle and a aplomb for references to Marcel Proust.

I am sure if you had enough of these, you could get into some crazy shit, look at me, i started with these gentle sours, now I huff paint down by the overpass.

M: the carbonation doesnt distract from the sweetness, the sour patch kid lets the bubbles pass like an elevator with unsavory folks exiting, then it is all sweet business. The sour is a secondary effect, the sweet is much more pronounced, it is more “bake sale mom” than “competitive track home housewife.”

D: Well what do you want from your beer? you want to be classy? pull out 11 oz bottles and show people your refined tastes? Ok well, this will do that but I cant seriously see anyone drinking a solid 4 pack of these. It’s kinda like a Lambic’s older brother who got a crew cut and a bomber jacket. You know deep down he’s still sweet, but that Tears for Fears patch just shows you he has more bite than he lets on.

This beer gives me so many feels of old times.

Narrative: These internet dating mixers are so lame, I am above this, but, if they only would give me a chance. I know on the outside I look like a beer, same old amber bottle they are used to, but inside i have so much character and personality, I am downright sweet. Oh great, look, they go for a strong DIRTY martini, I am here for them, my Jdate account get no hits…I TASTE LIKE CHERRY AND GIVE SWEET KISSES. Nice beers finish last, even my outside just says SOUR SOUR SOUR, great, now my belgium mom is gonna be all on my case about this, first my Kriek brother, now I just will sit around reading about all these other lowbrow Belgium strong ales who pull all the chicks. I dont need this, I need a girl who likes ME FOR ME, not because I look like Leona- OH HEY I DO WATCH DEXTER! No, don’t pick up that ZIMA fuuuu-


Russian River Beatification, Just Settling in for a Nice Beat Sesh.

I have been seeking this beer for a long, long time. Last December, Russian River released a mere 250 bottles, and I thought all was lost, what with the cellarrape that entailed landing a Batch 3 of this beast. Anyway, here we are 12,000 bottles later and I have to give a major thanks to my buddy Baldo for making the drive and snagging this for me. One more tick off the top 100, boom roasted.

Let the Beat drop.

Russian River Brewing Company
California, United States
American Wild Ale | 5.50% ABV

A: This beer has that amazing radiant glow to it that I haven’t seen since Ithaca Brute was all up in the mix. It reminds me of when Vincent Vega opens up the briefcase. We happy. The lacing is minimal and lets you know of the aching acidity that lurks beneathe. The legs trickle up like those bubble coin games that they used to have at Taco Bell that were impossible to win. I was fat as a kid. now.

After about a year of searching, I finally got my hands on this gem. Happy beatday to me.

S: When it is cold you get a lot of the acidity, the wet hay, and the more musky elements. It reminds me of a halfway house somewhere in between Cantillon Classic and Fou Foune. The fruit is apricot, pineapple, nectarines, and kumquats, but it doesn’t go as far as a fruited lambic, it has its own hybrid style like the Blake Griffin of the wild ale world, slam dunking the fuck out of imitators.

T: This beer has two sides to it, when it is cold, it is just acid and mild funk, none of the awesome fruits or rad complexity. When it warms up, shit starts to get real and you get more of the lemon and grapefruit tartness that starts dry fucking your gumline like the dudes in that Next video “Too Close.” This beer can tell you like it. While this isn’t a “skin” or a tannin, it reminds me of a tart strawberry that you get if you buy them super early from a roadside vendor and its both tart and drying due to the lack of sugars. That’s what it is like ok, just like that.

There are some seriously oblivious people out there who cannot appreciate this gem. Or Spac.

M: This hurts my lips, tum tum, and gumline but I put up with its punishment in the way that a 16 year old guy will put up with a completely apeshit girlfriend: the implicit benefits far outweigh the acrimonious exchange. The crackly acidity is in line with that feeling you get when you try to merk an entire box of Sour Patch Kids to yourself at a movie. You are strangely content but it does a number on your insideface.

D: This is a great wild ale but, admittedly, not my favorite sour of all time. It is unquestionably the best beer that I have had from Russian River but I still prefer Duck Duck Gooze and Veritas 007 to this, which is really picking the fly shit out of the pepper when it comes to that level, but you know what I am saying. This is exceptional, but not the absolute best/pinnacle of the genre. I can only hope that this comes out more often than once every three years because I dont want to have to ration one bottle every 6 months. Life can be challenging, you know?

This isn't the most expensive beer in the world, but you should probably own Marvin Gardens or Pacific Avenue before seeking this shit out.

Narrative: “Alright Devin, please continue, what happened after Mitch deactivated the pressure cylinder on the mixing vat?” Mitch leaned back in his chair and nodded knowingly about the sickest practical joke ever. “Well, I went to clean the vats so that the next batch of Atomic Warheads wouldn’t have an off flavor and, just as I was climbing in the vat Mitch yells-” “APRIL FOOLS MOTHERPUCKER!” “Ok Mitch, let Devin give his statement, this is serious.” Devin was still shivering, hair whitened and his modest clothes eaten through with patchy holes where the acid had eaten through. “It just burned my nose, finger nail beds and I was screaming, God it was so sour but my tear ducts were so dry and I couldn’t cry out.” Mitch nodded with a self-content smile “and then I was like, ‘DONT BE SUCH A SOUR PUSS!’ and he was all like being like ‘ah help mannn’ couldn’t even take the sour.” Devin’s eurethra was badly burned in the practical joke and it pained him badly to urinate. Mitch however, did receive a 3 day suspension and was transferred to the spicy section of the factory, where he assured Corporate that no “hot shit would go down.”


Drie Fonteinen Hommage, Paying Hommage to all my broken bottles lost in shipment, RIP

So this beast took quite the fucking effort to land. As far as I know, not many bottles of this made it stateside and the jump across the pond involved quite a few amazing bottles and, in classic form, this bottle came in a lamp box all the way from Ireland. It didn’t speak the language, just a drain on the system, but I married it, so it’s chill. Well let’s see if all the hype is worth this sour unicorn.

This beer should pay Hommage to my Fedex account, so many damn boxes and an international trade to land this ruby bastard.

Brouwerij Drie Fonteinen
Lambic – Fruit | 6.00% ABV

I remember some nay sayer once told me “Don’t try for that beer, it’s too hard to lock down and it’s basically 3F Sch. Kriek but with raspberries.” Let me be the first to say, no fucking way. This beer is incredible in a waay even beyond the way that Sch. Kriek is amazing. I drank this side by side with Blabaer and I think this one carried the day. Just look at it, it has a radiant glow like fairy afterbirth. The lacing settles down and lets the berries and complex base beer shine like a telecaster sustained note. It doesn’t need lacing, no parlor tricks like a huge head, just balls out acid and musky complexity. You don’t like raspberries? Well too bad, this is like pink interior in a Murcielago, you fucking deal with it.

When this box arrived from Europe, I was all like this, shit was so cash.

Ok so, maybe there are some similarities to this and Sch. (cant spell it, too lazy, TL;DR) Kriek, but it is similar in the way that the way that a base v6 mustang is similar to a GT500 in that women can maybe tell the difference. Those of us who aren’t sexist generalizers will have something to say. There is a musky mossy cardboard finish to the nose of this beer. The raspberry notes do not fuck arond, even with age they are like sage old wise berries and smell delicious and almost too archetypical to be real, like this is a type of lambic bubble bath. The smell makes me think that this will melt my face like Christopher Lloyd in who Framed Roger Rabbit. Toontown up in this bitch.

This beer is mesmerizing and plays with your mind, in a sage wise old way.

There is an super drying tart raspberry taste to it that just tears the enamel off of your teeth. Your taste buds run for cover, but there will be no shelter provided under this oppressive regime. You get the tannins but then a sweetness comes in to stop the dental abuse, a halfway house. The drying nature combined with the raspberry gentleness makes this a bit more refined than Scharsbeer (I tried). It is delicious and caustic at the same time, like a well balanced Taylor Swift album. AND JUST AS BITTERING.

Despite the transatlantic voyage, violent yet classy mouthfeel, and incredible tartness, I love this lil pumpkin. My taste buds are like when Scarlett comes back to Antebellum south after Sherman’s march but, in death there is rebirth. Maybe my sour zones wont be such pussies next time. It is incredibly delicious and I am sure another vintage of this would be amazing. I just don’t know any average person that you could pop this open with at a ski lodge or, on a Grayhound bus to meet your baby’s momma. No pedestrian endeavors here, just raspberry violence and infidelity.

You taste a sip of this Belgium gem and want to embrace its European nature, kinda.


Avery Brewing Company Immitis, A Tart Zinfandel Smacker for Old Nana

I always love wrangling these Avery sours to give them the business, for better or worse. Dihos was awesome, and a recent foray, for those who recall, was less than incredible. Let’s see what Immitis has in store, get your grapes in check for today’s review.

Ya'll with tinnitus can't hear what I am spitting about Immitis. C:/run_forcedjoke.exe

Avery Brewing Company, Immitis Sour Wild Ale, 9.54% abv

A: The appearance might be the darkest wild ale I have ever seen this side of Tart of Darkness (kinda?) If you really look into it like a Kubrich film, there’s a light violet hue at the very edges but this beer is straight up soy sauce black with zero lacing or carbonation. Soy sauce swag to the maximum.

Just smelling this beer and reading the bottle, you are confused, but you are pretty sure some epic shit is gonna go down.

S: Given the low carbonation, it’s tough to rankle this beer’s jimmies to elicit an aroma profile. There’s definitely some jammy preserves like blueberry, blackberry and of course red grape. On the backend is this condiment sort of acidity that comes across like balsamic. I’m not dipping a baguette in it, but it would def pair with red sauce well. Colorado loves Italian people.

T: The taste holds its own amiably and delivers a roundhouse of cherry, currant, black cherry, and grapeity grape. The tartness isn’t lambic overload but provides a complex but nuanced deck of rares and supporting uncommons to deal some damage. The abv is hidden well and I would foresee some recent divorcee seeing the Zinfandel moniker and be all stoked to pop in some Borgias or whatever mature people watch these days. This is a beer ripe for serving at some Santa Monica hotel bar with patrons saying “there’s just NO TIME once you have your second child-” that sorta shit.

Despite the initial intimidation, this beer is ultimately amiable and downright amazing in its own strange way.

M: The mouthfeel is very light and again, the alcohol runs hand in hand with the tart acidity and just clotheslines the shit out of all opposition. The oakiness lingers for a long ass time. If you have ever been to Guitar Center and seen the dude with the wavy ass hair running apreggios on a Les Paul, that last note, this is this beer. Just bewwwwweeeeeeeesoursoursouroooohhhhhhhoakoakoakoakzzzzeeeeeeegrapegrapebeoooooooo-

D: This is fantastic on all fronts and it is unsurprisingly a secret potation to take down mid-30’s women at the knee like Cobra Kai students. If college students weren’t piss poor and bad at everything, I would suggest that they buy this to increase the shittiness of watching The Notebook for the billionth time, but they won’t listen. They won’t listen.

In retrospect, it was a confusing 12 ounces, but I am better having experienced it.

Narrative: “JANETTTTT! OMG THIS WEIRDO IS TRYING TO talk to ME!” Skyler yelled across the packed Hermosa Beach bar and pleaded for the assistance of her equally shallow hateful companion. “No, I was just saying that it’s quite humid inside, which is ironic considering the coastal layer-” “EWWW this weirdo is STILL FUCKING TALKING! Not even gonna lie, gotta leave,” Skyler lied. Mike Cureant could not understand it. He was engaging, relevant, an accomplished greco roman wrestler, but somehow, engaging in civil, cordial conversation with emotionally and intellectually bankrupt sociology majors just DID NOT SEEM TO WORK. Tonight he wore a Theory shirt and was assured that has polar properties for the attraction of labia. Notwithstanding, his shirt remained soaked with a Ketel/soda/slash of pineapple/twist of lime/grenadine dash that was spilled on him by a girl whom he could only assume was named after a state or an R.L. Stine character. It was all Mike’s fault, he was tart inside and sophisticated at the same time, but he was pushing himself on all the wrong forums, with souring results.


Avery Recolte Sauvage, Oscar Wilde Ale, It is Tart; but Sassier

Avery keeps rolling out these batches of tiny, super-esoteric batches of beer that people rate extremely highly and I feel like that fat kid pressing his face to the bakery window, just looming on the sweet treats foreboding inside. Finally a friend hooked me up and I gave some Kern River goodness and both parties had tasted the rockies, respectively. This is a beer aged with Cabernet Sauvignon Grapes and then aged in Cabernet Sauvignon barrels. Basically…wine.

An immature palate wanders into the world of wine reviews...

Avery, Recolte Sauvage, Barrel Aged Wild Ale, 11% abv

A: This seriously looks exactly like Juicy Juice. Just straight up grape juice from concentrate. I guess I could make a parallel to some Merlots but really, it looks like a deep purple, no maltiness or carbination, just juice through and through, like Tupac.

There seems to be a bit of a scheme going on here to dupe the beer consumer. Maybe I am the only one.

S: The waft is of a tannic astringency, it goes to the black cherry, then dark grape varietal and lands on an acetyl tartness at the end. It reminds me of a Consecration whose balls have been pressed fully to the wall. If you prefer your testicles wall-mounted, I have a beer for you.

T: Looks like a duck, smells like a duck, wait for it. . .tastes exactly like wine. like a beer that was made with grapes, very little malt and then aged in wine barrels without yeast. Seriously, this is basically a wine with a mild bread profile. I don’t like being tricked into being a mediocre 30 something talking about Nurse Jackie episodes. This shit went Cougartown really quickly. It has a huge acerbic finish not in the cool “oh like a Cantillon St. Lamvinus?” no, like drinking a straight up glass of Kendall Jackson Cab. I look at my one time friend, the beer looking all entreating, tricking me with its vinous foul play.

Above: one of the best RPG's of all time, if you ask me to list the best wines ever, I am at a loss unless Sephiroth is involved.

M: Have you ever tasted Cabernet Sauvignon? Well, shake it up a bit to gain some bubbles and there you go. This is literally 80% wine and 20% hateful potation. The entire glass has a deep violet hue, there’s no lacing, I am way out of my territory here and I fear wineblogs are closing in, airlock is opening, if anyone reads this space station message, just tell them, I have always hated wine. . .in every…way…

D: Well again, this is determined by the nature of your very existence. I feel like I am trapped at an educational mixer with the traditional red wines, those chuckles and heel rocking with the effusive gestures. It is a perpetual “cool” PTA meeting with the notes of tannins that dry a bit and I COULD drink a lot of this, but moreover, I dont want to. It isn’t because it is bad, far from this, it is well executed but…I have the palate of a 21 year old boy. If you give me nice things I will bury them and spike stock certificates in the ground and eat Kraft Macaroni. It is my own shortcoming, not this beer’s.

Ultimately, I have ran out of arguments against wine so I shelter myself with beer to appear more intellectual. This has never happened before.

Narrative: Janice Roth was a recent divorcee, proud in demeanor, light in expression lines, stern in demeanor. Her 6 year-old minx did not trouble her much and she still served respectfully within InGeniDyneDCorp. as a regional semi-vice-personnel overseeing director. A title she held in cold reverence. Janitors would tip their caps in an almost anachronistic reverence of Mrs. Roth and as she piled into her comfy leather highbacked chair she exhaled sharply. “Janey Janey, when did it come to this?” she ruminated to herself as she operated the corkscrew within her desk to open a Chateau Margeaux, not the ’95 the ’96. She sipped the tonic judiciously and looked out the window ingratiatingly upon the foot traffic below. “The man you loved ran away, you have two beautiful girls who adore you, but something feels so wrong-” she knocked the bottle over and watched the crimson liquid gather in stern liquid rivulets. The sum value of her being was collected in this trivial libation. She had been reduced to episodes of the Bachelor and listening to Jason Mraz mixtapes. This was her inherent value after years and years of sacrifice. And then- she gets hit in the crotch or takes a pie in the face to still make this a comedy narrative, right? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? WELL TOO BAD SAD DIVORCEE STORY IS TODAY’S NARRATIVE.


Bruery Filmishmish, Apricot Sour Blonde Ale Aged in Oak, Getting my Vitamin C the Pirate Way

This is a Bruery Reserve Society exclusive, so the expectations are already high when you had to whore yourself out to Johns on craigslist to scrape together the sheckles for this expensive club, well here were are. It’s an apricot sour, what does that mean? It is an acceptable alternative to Jamba Juice, plain and simple.

The Bruery Filmishmish, for those times when you feel like getting your fill of some mishmish. Ba dum mishmish.

The Bruery, Filmishmish 5.8% abv, Apricot Sour

A: Well, cant fault them for this one, it is a huge bright radiant beer like Ithaca Brute, all radioactive and causing birth defects but in a TIGHT ASS SOUR WAY. It’s like cool high voltage power lines that cause birth defects but you can GRIND THEM. Anyway, not a lot of lacing and carbonation is a lackluster affair like a Diane Keaton movie but you are expecting other great things so you chill out. It is a murky golden radiance and my main squeeze was all like “THAT LOOKS GOOD” and she said that about Hill Farmstead Flora, so she has a serious EYE for beers, just not a tongue for them.

There's a certain debilitating aspect to this beer, but you put up with it for the warm regards and delicious effects.

S: There is a deep wet hay musk with some fresh yard clipping smells and then of course that harsh La Bamba acidity from hoduran tears mixed with Apricots. It’s a communion to pay exorbitant prices for sour beer and bow in solemn reverence for migrant fruit harvesters, except it is inherently insensitive and modern ethical theory has no ready panacea. The label says “tart and fruity with notes of oak and grandma’s homemade jam” but it doesn’t note that g’ma was from the antebellum southern Bolivia, that changes things real quick.

T: The taste is very tart and acidic like an unfocused energy drink, instead of melted skittles however you are treated to a drying peach/apricot dryness. It is no Fou Foune but it is still on point, you get the juice and the citrus pithy acrimonious schpeal, but it doesn’t overstay its welcome. It is a chill old girlfriend who you high five and watch a couple episodes of Cash Cab with and dont call again, but things are still chill. Also your ex-girlfriend is an apricot in this scenario, I hope that is cool.

This beer takes the time worn Fou Foune and Fantasia Model of sours and flips the script to GOD MODE JUICE LEVELS.

M: The mouthfeel is light and watery and then guess what, ACID CITY recent survey indicates your upper intestine is the only resident. The taxes imposed are severe thereto. It finishes with a huge acerbic finish that lingers without a drop of herbs, wood or oak, just straight up acid that somehow works. It’s like a first date where he backhandedly berates you the entire time but somehow balances it out with coy references to Faulkner so you’re down with it, ok, only me? Moving on.

D: This causes huge ulcers and a caustic destruction of the stomach lining, but that being said it is also delicious fruit goodness for people who might not know what an apricot looks like. So for those people, this might be a juice substitute, and more power to them. It has a huge overpowering acidity that you want to embrace but, like a Filipino baby, it is just to offputting that you cant engage it for long periods. You know what I am talking about Niko, yes, I am talking about you Niko.

It may not be what bitches are into, but, then again, far be it for me to speculate as to what bitches are into.

Narrative: Steven Acriberg was born an only child and learned quickly the petulant ropes of vying for the attention of others. It did not necessary need to be positive, just a cold glance in his direction or a suspecting glance down the brow from a neighbor: it made him feel whole. Steven would often sit on the opulent porch peeling peaches and crushing them in his fist and feeling the juices run into his hang nails and watch the neighbors closely. Every person near him was a calfskin tome of secrets and ideas to be reaped. He watched an unfamiliar Edsel chug down the fresh asphalt of his block and he scampered over and placed a note, crudely scrawled, on the windshield “I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING.” It was oblique enough to raise suspicion but vague enough to make the general public avoid him. He was a dour, hateful little man, but he kept everyone lively and aware. His sour countenance came to the penultimate climax when his parents began having clandestine discussions with the locals, turning Steven’s game upon its head. At age 15 he slept with a Derringer under his pillow and fear for the sanctity of his acidic, bitter life.