In Portland, it’s not unusual to order eggs for breakfast and get a bucket of hot sauce on the side. It’s not entirely strange to walk through a café on one end of a building and galumph up on into an art gallery on the other end. You can get a beer and a haircut at the same time, and no one will ask any questions, as this is not a particularly questionable combination, anyway. While we’re at it, why not throw in blowing coke in a tattoo parlor with a game of darts thrown in there, for good measure? HUH? WHY NOT? WHY NOT?
The wise folks of the Port City of Maine had thought ahead to put most of the breweries in the city in one far-flung part of the town to keep out the riff-raff. A fantastic idea this is: one big strip of road, lined with bars, with ample parking. When everyone is done drinking half their weight in beer, there’s no concern to be had with their raucous behavior, disturbing people in the streets as they stumble back to their respective destinations. No; luckily they can just drive home.
Our first stop was at the surprisingly tiny Bissell Brothers Brewing Company, right on the corner of Industrial Way. It was surprising, mostly, because of how big the operation seemed in theory. Already, the brothers have a sophisticated canning operation in place, with which they can about 20 barrels every 3 weeks or so. Not even mentioning that this brewery has been open less than a year, this is impressive when you compare to an equally pimps system, that of the Alchemist’s out of Waterbury, VT, which is a 15 barrel system that cans 180 barrels a week.
Let’s just say, when I found that out, my brains LITERALLY blew out of my ears and all over the taproom. Gray effluence everywhere, the line began to move pretty quickly. I stumbled mindlessly to the front of the line and got myself a couple of four packs. Now, bleeding profusely, fading, I stumbled to the tables outside. The weather was beautiful—such a nice October day. Collapsing upon the table, face first, my buddy Kevin helped pour me some Bucolia, the brothers’ amber ale. Now, actually dead at this point, someone had the sense to call an ambulance.
I’m only kidding. This didn’t happen.
But what did happen next really blew my mind.
Like, completely eviscerated.
Like, rent asunder.
Like, Solomon cutting a baby in half.
Like, straight cash, homie.
Picking myself and my pieces up from the ground, I peered up at the glass. I saw a slightly hazy, rust-colored beer. It had an off-white head, not a lot of carbonation, and some slight lacing. It was a sexy little piece of cake.
But it wasn’t a cake.
It was a beer.
Pine and peach, pineapple, nectarine, it smelled like a little champion. A little champion with big ol’ muscles that stood 6 inches tall and speaks Dutch plows the field with its tiny little plow for its figurine cows that graze on the microscopic grass.
Speaking of graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasssssssssssssssss
It tasted of orange and a little bit of mango. There was a slight spice to the hops. There was some good toasted malt in there—like toasted sourdough bread crust.
Uh, what? Like bread crust, bruh?
Light, crisp, vaguely floral and vegetal in nature, it had a straight-up refreshing taste, like lemon and cucumber.
WHERE AM I AT?
A FUCKIN SPA?
YOU GONNA GIVE ME A MASSAGE?
I’D RATHER EAT DONUTS
DON’T CALL THE POLICE
I DIDN’T MEAN TO COME HERE
THE DOOR WAS ALREADY OPEN
I TOLD YOU ALREADY, I
Just ever so slightly. It probably has more to do with the fact that it’s so dry.
Dry, bitter finish
The Figurine Cows is kind of an OK band name.
If only they’d stop crapping in my goddamned kicks.
*9.4 out of 10*