This beer is incredibly tame and sessionable, like how I can watch like 51 episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker in a row and feel all shitty about myself and need to make up something that I did over the weekend on Monday. It has a nice hoppy pine presence that is balanced with the light cracker taste from the malt. They should sell these in 3L bottles, my single bottle was gone almost immediately, no complaints though, BREWS GONNA GET DRILLED, that’s how it goes in the wasteland. The little peppery citrus notes and great for sipping in a paper bag near your local YMCA.
Three Floyd’s Vanilla Aged Dark Lord, 15% abv Imperial Stout
A: The appearance is a deep murky dark brown with wispy light carbonation, but again, I didn’t obtain this in the most legitimate manner, so that likely has something to do with it. The booziness it huge and coats in clear angry strands.
S: There is an incredible vanilla sweetness like a fresh macaroon or vanilla frap. Amazing chocolate and coffee notes support the back end, there’s a waft of huge heat to this that stings the nostrils with a deep heat.
T: The initial taste is incredibly sweet with intense vanilla. The vanilla integrates seamlessly and the sweetness isn’t cloying like the normal Darklord. It is a complete improvement on the old formula. Why in the world that they don’t bottle this is beyond me. There is an amazing coffee and burnt chocolate taste to this beer that just lingers on and on. It like a kiss from an eskimo, who somehow has coffee and chocolate with him.
M: The mouthfeel is like the old school Darklord with an intense heat to it, sticky coating, and lasting sweetness that inherits your mouth in fee simple. It isn’t going anywhere any time soon. This is a good thing since the bold mouthfeel is incredible and welcome just nestled in my molars. My dentist doesn’t approve but HE IS NOT THE BOSS OF ME.
D: Oddly, for a crazy 15% abv stout, this is somehow drinkable. I wish that I had a huge serving of this amazing rare beer, but I dont have the means to perpetually land this crazy beast. I love the sweet heat of this and can only look at Vanilla Darklord as he speeds away with his hand pressed against the back window of the stationwagon as it speeds away, away from my tiny heart.
Narrative: I can’t even write a narrative because my maltboner is at full attenuation. This is insanely good and top 10 stout for sures.
3 Floyd’s Zombie Dust, 6.2% Pale Ale
A: There’s not a lot of pale in this pale ale, its more a mellow deep gold, the type you buy from Target, let’s call it a locket for a 6th grade amorous affair. Wait, got a little Corneille on you there, but for cereal, it is radiant and at the same time dull. A precise but bent blade with a nice fluffy head for dicing through mixed metaphors. It disappears and you wonder where it went like that show My Brother and Me. Seriously.
S: If this is a pale ale, then I don’t know what I will do when the zombies actually come because apparently shit is about to get hoppy very quickly. The bouquet is redolent of trillium and ivy, deep grassy notes, citrus candles from bath and body works, and grammies’ bathroom. There’s a ton of citra and galaxy hops going on, which makes me wonder if this can follow through with a taste haymaker. Sure that UFC fighter at the bar can make pretty eyes with his sweet cauliflower ears but, what will he do with his jagged dental-insurance-free smile?
T: Well the citrus is still there and the grapefruit is still very pleasant, but in a more Savage Garden listening level. I don’t get an intense alcoholic waft or a drying hoppy censure but wow, it just tastes incredibly and has such a refreshing waft to it. The juiciness just sits and stews for a moment on the palate and makes this beer seem far bigger than the britches index would dictate. I have to exercise active restraint not to swallow this entire glass with my fraternity number being called overhead like a resplendent debasing glottal fricative. SHOUTING AND LOUD NOISES.
M: It is strange because this allegedly isn’t an IPA, ok fine, I will grant you that, it is light and fun, like times with Husky Scampers in the woodshed, but it feels like it knows something that I do not. There’s just way, way too much flavor taking place for the simplicity of the canvas presented. It is minimalist like a 1960’s Carrera 911, but performs so well. It is fitting that the serving size is a 6 pack because I could see myself powering through this like an undead army.
D: If this is what we are supposed to drink when the zombie apocalypse comes, then humanity is basically in the palm of Raccoon City and Umbrella Corp. To say that this is drinkable is a wild understatement. This beer exists as a thin, wispy flavor delivery apparatus of German engineering. Not a single part of this hop buffalo is wasted and these zombie native americans also are enamored with shiny things, namely the sweet succor of perfectly executed hops. The question everyone will be asking: Does this take the crown from Hoppy Birthday, the best Pale Ale ever made? Not quite, now now, quiet down. It is good, fantastic even, but there is a mild Gose saltiness in the finish and it just doesn’t have the brightness that a Hoppy Birthday growler has. I will allow you all to file out to confront your Midwestern pals with this grave news. AND THE PUNS KEEP ON COMIN-
Narrative: The shells kept slipping out of Avery’s hands while she crouched in the desolate remains of what used to be the West Side Pavilions shopping center. “God has it only been 23 days?” she wondered to herself as she taped two bullpup clips together and deftly loaded them into her P2000. “It seems like just yesterday I was a mild mannered Korean girl studying for some irrelevant AP tests and now, here I am, killing the undead and fighting off the hopocalypse.” Some would later opine that the Bud-Miller-Coors triumvirate caused the mass hysteria and outbreak but, truthfully, it was the hop growers. Avery stared out of the slats of what used to be an Orange Julius, “shit, the vines, they’re moving like kudzu towards the northwest parking lot,” and spun a .45 magnum round in classic fashion. Those scientists who had sought to save the world with their ivory tower of alpha acids had now created hops so potent, people were completely unaware that they were becoming drunk, undead even. They roamed the earth, ravaging Taco Bells and Del Tacos, mostly. When those were depleted, even loud Linkin Park music could not stop their ravenous hunger. The hops had caused this, and the hops would end this. “AVERY!” her stringent father called from the balcony of the food court in some apparent type of boiled-down reconciliation. After 90 minutes of interaction, her harsh abrasive botanist father became a rounded character, realized that she needed her own space, and together, through their differences, music and botany or some shit, realized how to poison the hop plant and save everyone. But she still had to practice violin and go to UC Irvine. Or some shit.
3 floyds Gumball head Belgian Pale Ale, Indiana Starts Socking Fools.
A: super thin lager clarity, bright yellow gold, nice foamy carbonation, no lacing. It isn’t anything to write home about, but neither was that ornate horse that toppled the walls so lovingly crafted by Poseidon. Both involve epic things.
S: It smells of pine and orange, some lemon zest, but not in a huge hoppy DIPA/IPA way, more understated. It feels like someone who knows a good deal about hops but references then so expertly that the underlying experience is presented clearly.
T: very mellow citrus notes, quick hop finish, super refreshing, very well done. There is a light hoppy presence that is almost a garnish to the sweet refreshing notes at the outside of the taste. The final amazing closer is the cucumber crispness finish, this beer just screams summertime. Which is strange because I usually imagine summertime in Indiana as being muggy, boring, and not delicious. Paradoxes abound.
M: Just fantastic, especially for a cross-over style. They seemed to take a big risk by compromising the smallest elements, resulting in a huge payoff. In reality, they need to only sell these in growlers because that is the reasonably demanded service size of this refreshing beer.
D: This makes me hate the Midwest even further. It is strictly unfair that a place without a beach, without any coastal weather would make something with this level of refreshment. I don’t sit around reading Sherpa books, I don’t go rotating city crops in urban los angeles, because I KNOW MY PLACE. It just is not fair that Indiana makes a beer like this and then withholds it from the west coast. It is akin to the aesthetics of Mormons. Patent base denial.
Narrative: Parents were a little skeptical of Gumbalicitus, a shiny new fangled prescription drug for unruly Midwestern children. Settlers used to call it wind sickness, but they soon learned that it was an irascible desire to leave locations of concentrated boredom. That is, until this new drug arrived, served in 12oz doses, the highly enjoyable cocktail drug apparently makes even the flattest, most agricultural areas completely tolerable. Iowa parents noted that their students even volunteered to stay in-state upon being prescribed this barbituate calming drug. Side-effects include narcolepsy, contentment, desires to attend comicons, Xbox live subscriptions, and consumption of Hot Pockets. Gumbalicitus is only to be provided to those in need. Anyone living within 90 miles of the Pacific Ocean should not take this drug as it may result in an endorphine overload, burning out the neural cortex. SHIPPING IS STRICTLY DISALLOWED TO CALIFORNIA.