Tagged: Microbrewery
Review: Boulder Beer Company | Shake Chocolate Porter
I got my glass Batman mug and Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers: The Movie is on deck in the VCR.
Hot chocolate is on the boil.
Ah, powdered Nesquik, whey protein, and water.
Just like old times.
I got my stuffed animals surrounding me. I am all-powerful.
I am a prince amongst paupers.
Christ,
I was a Space Cadet champion.
Long live Windows ’98!
Give me a coffee, mom.
I’m ready to fuck the working world.
Wait
I’m not sure what that means.
Wait
Wait
…No, no.
Just get me a bowl of oatmeal instead.
Swap the hot chocolate for a glass of vanilla milk
… yes, mom, in my Batman cup.
What the fuck you thinkin’
Get me a cherry tootsie pop
And a blanket.
I need a nap.
I’m not yet
ready
to
deal
with my
multiplication tables.
*7.8 out of 10*
Review: Wolaver’s Organic Brewing | Alta Gracia Coffee Porter
“That’s the funny thing—it’s the fact that she’s an art student that makes her attractive to me. If she were an artist, hell no.”
Natalie contrived to be agreeable.
“Well… Yeah, an art student is so idealistic, so full of life… and driven. An artist is jaded, cold, and struggling to get by.”
“I don’t know, I think she just fits my type. Then again, any girl whose favorite band is Belle & Sebastian is my type. “
“Well, have you thought of asking her to get coffee at some other establishment?”
I set my cup down on the café table, which wobbled uncontrollably. I eyed the blue-eyed, straight-banged, quirkful barista bouncing from left to right, behind the bar.
She tugged upon the portafilter
like she tugged upon my heartstrings
(awwww)
“Oh, no. No, I’m not like that, I think it’s more of a passive thing. God, I can’t imagine dating. Really, I don’t want to sound anti-social at all, but I can’t stand to think of spending that much time with one person. It’d drive me insane.”
This.
This stupid crap up here.
These ridiculously decadent, yet pedestrian opinions, courtesy of yours truly (and no, I can’t believe they came out of my mouth, either), call to mind the rancidly twee sentiments of Wolaver’s Alta Gracia Coffee Porter. Wolaver’s Organic Brewing, based out of Middlebury, Vermont, is Otter Creek Brewing’s eco-conscious division. While organic craft beer should be twee enough, Wolaver’s goes a step further to include not only organic vanilla in this beer, but also single origin, organic, fair trade coffee beans in this limited, seasonal release. I mean, seriously, this beer deserves a place in Portlandia sketch.
God, I need a shower.
The snow is falling, and it’s the season for rich, dark beers. Indeed, this one is a very appropriate selection for this time of year. Nevertheless, if the beer you’re drinking takes longer than 10 syllables to order at the bar, then you must also accept the culpability of pretention that comes with it. These pretentiousnesses, these pendantic, posturing, maudlin, Napoleonic nonesuchessnesses come part and parcel with the pop of the cap.
You might as well spend the time talking about critical theory and white privilege while imbibing this concoction.
Next time you’re in the company of complete tightwads, why not crank up the NPR and open a few bottles of Alta Gracia? They’ll appreciate its deep black hue, and its subtle, ruby-red tinges when exposed to the light. They’ll swoon when they see its coffee-colored head. They’ll compare it to the likeness of a fine macchiato. They will also make keen remarks about its creamy, pleasant lacing on the glass. That one who looks a lot like a Wes Anderson character might declare how the khaki-colored head recedes quickly, leaving a thin, but decent collar. Passing the glass around, they may say it smells like a creamy, maple latte.
UGH
Personally, it reminds me something called a Five Dollar Shake, which—while tipping a hat to Mr. Quentin Tarentino— you can order at a local watering hole around here, in my hometown, called the Radio Bean. It’s a simple cocktail: some stout, a shot of espresso, and a squeeze of maple syrup on top. It’s straight-up perverted. You know, I get some cola nut in the aroma—
Yeah, that’s right,
cola nut.
Sue me.
You can also detect some rich coffee, a hint of blueberry and other dark fruits—plums… well, mostly plums, and some roasty notes.
Instantly, there’s cherry and coffee on the tongue. Then come the rich, sweet, roasted malts. I’m personally struck—struck, I tell you— by some pleasant caramel and toffee notes. It’s much more balanced than I remembered. As with the aroma, the taste of the porter has those nice berry qualities from the coffee beans. As the flavor begins to fade, I detect slight coconut and vanilla. It ends, finally, with a lingering quasi-nectarine flavor on the back end. There’s definitely a nice stone fruit flavor there. I noticed there’s more chocolate on the nose than actually in the taste, but it does develop a little bit as the flavor subsides (paired with that strangely complimentary nectarine flavor). It’s smooth, sticky, and milky in the mouth.
I’m sure that just sounds so fucking appealing.
It’s what folks may call a chewy beer. All being said, it is hard to drink more than two at a time. It’s a bit viscous. Otherwise, it’s pretty easy drinking.
Anyway, that’s it. I’m done with this crap
I’m gonna join
A
Cult
And
Live
Up
In
The
Mountains!
Coffee
Coffee
Coffee
Coffee
Single origin
Human sacrifices!
*8.5 out of 10*
Review: Jack’s Abby Brewing | Kiwi Rising Double IPL
photo credit: beerstreetjournal.com
It was an early Thanksgiving. The weather was an unseasonably warm 49 degrees—teeming with that kind of “how are you enjoying this heat wave” bullshit that you’d elicit from a passerby when you couldn’t care less about the fucking weather.
“Oh, I know, right?” You ask, not answering the question. You smile, somewhat through your teeth, forcing your arm down at your side in a somewhat Strangelovian manner, restraining the throbbing urge to flip this guy the fuck off. Feet squirming as you plodge upon the frosty ground, teeth grinding. You ask yourself—like you do, year after year—“why the fuck do I live here? What am I doing with my life? This place is practically showing me the door. It doesn’t want me here.”
Leaning to my side, practically collapsing upon the dining room table, the second (or was it third) helping of mashed potatoes was settling upon the bottommost recesses of my stomach, hammering against my pyloric sphincter in the most Gothic manner. The fucking Fall of Rome was reenacting itself in my gut as I sat there dazed, listening to my grandmother drone on about whom else she knew who died recently.
“Her husband was a firefighter, years ago…
He lives alone now…
Very lonely
Losing his mind
And his brother, did you hear?”
Right, he died too.
Uh huh
Uh huh
Uh huh
“Who else is dead, grandma?”
Now is the winter of my uncontent.
Public radio blared through the speakers as I sped my way back home. Folksy stories about decline, quiet, quaint mediocrity and resignation in a frozen Minnesotan shithole lulled me into semi-conscious stupor.
At this point, I’m about to go straight Royal Tenenbaums on this shit and calmly fling this fucking sedan into Lake Arrowhead. Just straight up cock the wheel to the left and launch myself into oblivion.
Yeah, I know that didn’t happen in the movie.
Who’s telling the story here?
It’s called creative license.
So, anyway, after I ran all those people off the highway and caused a 54-car-pileup in middle of the main road, the whole town caught on fire and pretty much everybody died except for that one guy who people thought was crazy, holed up in a bunker, snickering to himself, eating his toenail clippings.
Yeah, it was pretty weird.
Winter is a hard season to adjust to though, aside from the mass destruction of whole villages, there’s also the snow, the cold, and the shorter days.
Needless to say, it’s fucking depressing.
That’s why I have to give credit to Jack’s Abby Brewing, who went out of their way to Kiwi Rising, a Double India Pale Lager with such a sunny disposition.
I mean think about it; Framingham must suck right now too.
Talk about escapism!
No, don’t change the subject; I’m talking about beer here
So, like it’s summer in New Zealand, right?
Pretty perfect timing, Jack’s Abby.
Did you plan that?
You think you’re sooooo fucking cool.
Seriously though, it’s sunshine in a bottle.
Except without the deadly radiation. (Ok, whatever, I’m running out of material)
So, what’s the significance of this bottle of beer? Well for one, it’s stupid hoppy.
Like four pounds of hops a barrel.
I mean this beer is being ridiculous right now.
We’re talking “four kettle hop additions, whole leaf hops in the hop back, and multiple dry hop additions.”
Unadulterated porn.
Like, Brazzers level.
As in, you’re gonna need a shower after this level of hop fornication.
It’s 105 IBU of cringeworthy sex.
…and we’re not just talking hops here. We’re talking kiwi hops, which just sounds dope as hell. Turns out, they taste nothing like kiwis. First, that pissed me off, Jack’s Abby. I was furious, but then I realized that I was pretty much just drinking Heady Topper lager, which I guess is ok.
Hazy
white head
The color: honey gold to sunflower, not much lacing– Very little carbonation visible—it looks like mead… but it isn’t.
…and it smells like vacation too. There are big citrus notes on the nose, along with some other tropical fruits. There’s a residual sweetness as well (because obviously you can smell sweetness—just work with me here)—like an orange marmalade. Finally, there’s some slight pine.
God,
It made me want to parade my fat
Hairy
Ass
Around the beach
Buck-naked
Looking for a cool crowd, with which to play
Ultimate
Frisbee.
…and when I scare everyone off, I’d go bungee jumping instead.
Blimey.
And did I dive into this beer. Again, there is citrus first on the tongue. Following are strong, biscuit and bread notes—light, crisp malts, like a nice rustic, country loaf, very dry. Pine and botanical flavors linger after swallowing. It’s slightly spicy—very similar to that of a fine gin. By that, I suppose I mean somewhat akin to juniper… and then there’s mango at the end. The feeling in the mouth is rather sticky, with a dry finish. I feel it could be slightly more effervescent, but it is certainly not a detractor.
It’s a damn fine beer.
This is a beer for those who seek to escape from the cold. It’s a beer for those who dream of golden shores, sprawling hills, and mountains that lunge towards the sky. Think of the breathtaking views from the Lord of the Rings movies. That’s this beer—splendid, somewhat sordidly beautiful. You feel guilty partaking of something like this.
Happy thanksdrinking.
*9.3 out of 10*
The Portland Project part 2: Review: Foundation Brewing Company | Blaze Belgian IPA
Photo Cred: activebeergeek.com,
http://www.activebeergeek.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/1526988_648432791862174_631836455_n.jpg
An escort
Rich, golden hair
A soft smile
Whisked off
Into the city night
Street
light
strobe
Electrocardiogram
Still alive
With
Each
Pulsing
Flash
Electrocardiogram
Is hardly poetic
But
In the grand scheme
Of things
Fuck off
Move a little closer
In the back seat
Of the stretch limousine
A Lincoln
I believe
But what the hell do they do with these things?
Her skin smells of juniper
Hair of cheap bubblegum
Clearly her clients have not been
Paying
Well
I found myself bohemian
Gliding across the leather
She was effervescent
Quiet, yet somehow loquacious
Accented with a tinge of French
By way of Belgium
Mildly exotic
Vaguely romantic
Like TV dinners
That aluminum life
Is all competition
Like that of the Big Apple
When you buy tin.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
SHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTT
Brushing slightly
Her perfume emerges
More nutmeg than clove
More peach than pear
If only I could bare myself
Bare to her
But to touch is
Prohibited
To taste
I can only imagine
Grapefruit skin
Spice of a complicated kind
Bittersweet
Mango,
A kiss of jasmine,
But a kiss I ain’t having
Honey and everything sweet
With a dry sense of humor
To boot
Me from the car when the evening ends.
This Pretty Woman
Is no
Julia
Roberts
Everything
Would
Have been
Great
If
The cap
Was
Tightly
Fastened
To the
Lips
Of the bottle
Flat
As the day
I was born.
I’m literally screaming this diatribe at the brewery.
I’m “escorted” from the premises.
Man, I never should have watched Pretty Woman
Whatever, Richard Gere.
You’re not my dad.
*8.0 out of 10*
The Portland Project part 3: Review: Allagash Brewing Company | Ghoulschip (American Wild Ale)
Phot cred: Beerpulse.com
At this point in the afternoon
I was less
Than
To be desired
The taproom was occupied
Shoes swarmed the linoleum as cockroaches do
Not crowded
But certainly busy
The wait
Staff
Were courteous
But
When
Beer
Is
Free
Everyone seems courteous
The flights
Gratis,
I descended
Into
A
Melange
Of gratification and straight up
Indignation
Spooooooooooooooookkkkkky
We put our noses upon our respective glasses (seriously, who talks like this?)
“Aromas reminiscent of green apples, sharp cheese, slight caramel, wet leaves, kohlrabi, tartness somewhere between a lemon and a lime.”
Rolling my eyes
Take a sip; upfront—lemony citrus stings upon the tip of the tongue, then comes a sour funk marrying a Danish blue cheese and Camembert or brie. It’s salty. A toasty sweetness follows. (This is probably the toasted pumpkin seeds and the pumpkin, itself—I thought to myself) “Oak-i-ness” pokes through towards the back end, and then dryness emerges. Vanilla flavors develop with tart cherries as the flavor begins to dissipate.
Blueberry aftertaste.
More like Boo Berry
Christ…
Honestly
…
Happy Halloween.
Don’t die or whatever.
*9.0 out of 10*
Review: Rock Art Brewery | Vermont Spruce Stout
Photo Cred: vtbeer.org
T here is a McDonald’s off the main drag that is within walking distance from my apartment. It’s the piec e of shit sprayed over with glitter and given a fancy bow and WIFI. The tables there still stand as tall as I did when I bashed my skull against that one in the corner by the window covered in pigeon shit a nd hot picante sauce that could never quite be scraped off after the breakfast burrito incident. I’m f amily there. The otherwise despondent night manager slips a McNugget in my fries, every time. Strang ely, she never returns my calls. I spend my leisurely evenings confused, drenched in sweat, bitter, po ssessed by an atavistic sense of primal ennui—call it bloodlust, call it drunkenness—standing in line at 1 am behind that family.
“I want that McDouble with heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (I begin to contemplate my life’s meaning, here) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (nearly uncontrollable) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (slowly dying, inconsolable) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY onions
However, every time, I leave satisfied, detached from the human race, blissfully careening into the black of the night, into the emptiness of mind, emptiness of soul. The cold consumes me and I am enveloped in a thick, numbing paste of nihilistic bliss.
I’m back in my kitchen, covered in ketchup. I’m scared and alone
Where is my promised land?
I ate a box of Crayola for this?
That’s Morrisville, Vermont’s Rock Art Brewery for you.
A reward for the trip there.
Cheap, obliging, friendly, folksy, accommodating.
Mildly unsatisfying, but it’ll get the job done.
Trying so hard to make two and two make three. Their late fall/early winter/who gives a fuck release, Vermont Spruce Stout, is an imperial stout… brewed with Spruce… in Vermont.
God, who cares?
Look, it’s a dark beer brewed with pumpkins, spruce tips, and it comes out once a year.
It’s a weird fucking beer.
It pairs well with Filet O’Fish with a heaping pile of shame and a large fry, personal resentment, feelings of inferiority, white, liberal guilt, and sharp cheddar cheese.
No one cares what the beer tastes like.
I’m covered in grease, sprawled naked on the couch, sobbing.
Somehow, I got tartar sauce on my back
MY BACK
MY GODDAMNED BACK
The beauty of fall is fading,
Death ensues for every living creature
I ate that one
fry
off
the floor
Pitch
black
A creamy, khaki colored, receding head,
A slight hint of mint, sweet caramelized sugar, roasted malt, and dark fruit
A strange flavor akin to grape pop rocks—I blame it on the spruce. It barely brushes the tongue before fading into the taste of pine and Christmas.
Full bodied from the pumpkin, I’m sure.
Heavy chocolate flavor
Yet dry
I dig it.
I dig it like a night of defeat coupled with a Quarter Pounder, no cheese, medium fry, sweet and sour on the side.
Thank God I’m not into Sudoku.
That’s my one solace.
*7.8 out of 10*
Review: The Alchemist | Focal Banger
Photo credt: the Alchemist, alchemistbeer.com
OH MY FUCKING GOD
I’M JUST WAITING IN LINE TALKING ABOUT ALL THE BEERS I’VE DRANK
EACH ONE WAS BETTER THAN THE NEXT
EACH ONE WAS SO FUCKING MORE RARER THAN THE OTHER FUCKING ONE
EACH BEER WAS SO MUCH MORE BEER THAN PRECEDING BEER
INTRINSICALLY, BEER OF THIS CALIBER COULDN’T BE MORE BEER
OH, WHAT CENTENNIAL HOPS? CASCADE? COLUMBUS?
NO YOU FUCKING CRIMINAL
CITRA
AND
MOSAIC
YOU
DUMB FUCK
HOW CAN YOU DRINK BEER WITH YOUR COMPLETE
FUCKING
LACK
OF
KNOWLEDGE
I KNOW ALL ABOUT BEER
NOBODY DRINKS BETTER BEER THAN ME
I’VE WAITED ALL FUCKING DAY IN THIS GODDAMNED LINE
I’VE BEEN INSTAGRAMMING THE FUCKING CLOUDS
I’M IN THE RAIN
IT’S FUCKING VERMONT
LOOK AT THE GODDAMNED MOUNTAINS
I BROUGHT A TENT
MY FIANCE LOVES BEER
MY FIANCE IS BEER
I MUST RAKE IN A FUCKING FORTUNE TO BUY ALL THE BEER I BUY
LET ME TALK TO YOU ABOUT ALL THE BEER I JUST DRANK
OH YEAH, LAST BATCH OF FOCAL BANGER WAS SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS PIECE A SHIT
THIS SUCKS
IT DOESN’T TASTE JUST LIKE THE OTHER BATCH
BUT ITS MORE LIKE THE PREVIOUS BATCH IF IT WERE A COMPLETE REITERATION, IMITATING ITSELF, MIRRORED AND DISSECTED, A POSTULATION OF A SIMILAR SEMBLANCE, BUT TOTALLY SEPARATE
YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING? IT’S KINDA THE SAME FUCKING THING BUT DEFINITELY DIFFERENT. LIKE EVERYTHING SUCKS NOW, MOSTLY BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T HAVE THE SAME BEER I HAD WHEN I HAD IT. SO I’M SORT OF BETTER THAN YOU
LIKE IT HAD A
WYTE HEAD
AND
FUCKN
SPARSE LACING
DAMN
LIKE SO CLOUDY
GOLDEN, YELLOW, ORANGE, YELLOW
SO GORGIS
FFUCK
CREAMSICLES
PINE
PINEABBLS
MANGOES
FLOWERS
FLOWERS
FLOWERS
FLOWERS
HONEY
MANGOS
CARMLES
ITIALIAN SOURDOES
SOOOOO HOPPS
MALT KINDA
BBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER
FEELS GREAT BETTER THAN YOU, BETTER THAN BEER
YOU SUCK,
I’M THE BEST AT DRINKING BEER
BUYING BEER IS SO FUN
I CAN WAIT IN LINE LONGER THAN YOU
I’M GONNA LVIE FORECDVRE
WATERBURY
FCKN
VERMONT
FUCKN
BEER
VFNFNA
FDMASNDFKADSFKKADSFNMAS DFLASDF
ASDNFKNADSKLFKLADS AS
DFASDFLKASDFKLA SDF
ADSFNASKLDFKLASDKFANSDF ASDKFNASDFKJNASKDFASD
ANSDFLAF]A
DFASDFADSFNASDF AWEJANEKNGKRAJNFLE;LAN F AKLAEMRKELRNA EWRNANER AEWRLKAER AWERNALERKLADSFADSMLASD’[FNASFADSFADFADSFASDFASDJNGOJ RBGARLFNORNOINKRNASDLFKJMPVNLAPFDALDSF
KL;SAD;L
*10 out of 10*
Review: Stone/Beachwood/Heretic Brewing | Unapologetic IPA
Photo credit: Beerpulse.com http://beerpulse.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/unapologetic-ipa-crop-575×305.png
You know a Michael Bay preview when you see one.
You know one, five, maybe ten seconds into a trailer. You know the low, gravelly bass tone that thunders like a gargantuan, mammoth fart through the surround sound. My mouth agape, I could taste it.
“Again?”
Yes, again.
A dumbfounded Megan Fox, trying so hard to feign perspicuity, mimics my expression.
BAM
BOOM
BLAM
TEENAYGE MEWTINT NINJAH TURDLES
TURDLES
INNA
HAVE SHEL
Nope.
Nope.
Nope.
Nope.
Never mind, I’m not watching a preview for a Michael Bay movie.
I’m not watching the unfolding of a major motion picture flop.
I’m not watching the crumbling of Western Civilization.
I’m not watching the cinematized bastardization of masculinity.
I’m drinking a beer
At home
In my jean shorts.
Sigh…. Another Stone collab…
Mitch Steele is trying so hard with this one… so effortlessly.
Unapologetic IPA is a collaboration beer between Stone Brewing, Beachwood BBQ and Brewing, and Heretic Brewing, all out of California.
Unapologetic IPA is a Double IPA, coming in at 8.8% ABV, exploding with coy, light malts, and wild, schizophrenic, fancy, new, experimental hops.
Unapologetic IPA is the self-indulgent writer’s strike of 2008. It’s the Dr. Horrible of beer, it’s got the understated wit of Joss Whedon, yet the masturbatory pomp of the aforementioned king of shitty summer movies.
It’s a menacing clusterfuck of aromas and flavors.
Feel me
So, this one is a bit complicated.
It’s sexy looking. I’ll give it that. It’s a bright amber color. By that, I mean it has that classic prehistoric fossilized amber quality you see bugs and crap encapsulated in. It’s every 2nd grade boy’s dream to find in the woods. It’s beautiful. It’s romantic. It’s a fucking candle on a cupcake. It has decent, yet subtle lacing. With a soapy, white head, it wraps around the glass gently. Vigorous carbonation streams towards the top of the glass.
Its aroma is misleading. It is lighter than anticipated. There’s actually some caramel upfront; then come the hops. Candied orange, nectarine, lemon, a little boozy heat come up from the glass. Yowza, good golly, is that strawberry? I think so, but I know there’s some tropical fruit on the end, boy howdy.
I take a long, hard gulp.
Again, it’s hoppy, balanced, but not as in your face as I would have anticipated. There’s a bunch of over the top, experimental hops varietals in this beer. It’s horrifically zany—like a Stephen King novel—how much these folks (Mitch Steele of Stone, Jamil Zainasheff of Heretic, and Julian Shrago of Beachwood) obsessively dedicated themselves to paltry decadence in crafting this beer.
Here’s what’s going on here with the wacko experimental hops:
• The Azacca is going crazy with some citrus
• The Belma adds some herbal notes along with the bittersweet character of Meyer lemon
• The HBC lends a little pine, but it’s very slight
• The Steiner adds some balance with some middle of the road pine and citrus character.
Back to the beer itself—
Given the simple malt bill, it lets the hops shine, despite the muddled complexity. It’s like the “cool parents” who go off to vacation in Pennsylvania for the weekend, leaving the house to their 16-old-kid, inviting him to “just have a few friends over” and saying, “just don’t rifle through the liquor cabinet in the cabinet just to the right of the fridge… no, the next right… yeah, that cabinet.”
It’s bitter, unashamed hedonism.
Wait
Wait
Wait
It’s an UNAPOLOGETIC IPA; I GET IT
To an extent, it is very sweet. I’d find it hard to drink more than one glass (but I’m desperately trying to). Tropical fruits dominate the palate—guava is heavy, but then comes citrus—particularly lemon, Meyer lemon, maybe—then mostly orange, finally comes a nectarine finish. It’s nice, but it pounds the palate. I’m probably crazy, but I also get a hint of coconut.
If I’m wrong about the taste, there is at least some coconut on the mouthfeel. It coats the mouth oily. It then tingles, and trickles down the gullet, leaving a stickiness akin to higher ABV beers.
Yeah, nasty.
Fuck wit it tho. It’ll pump your johnnies.
What?
Alright, alright. It’s fine, it’s grand, it’s a good beer. It’s just got so much going on. I personally don’t mind it but in order to enjoy it, you just have to think of it as an IPA. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s a big, weird, IPA, and that’s it.
Wait, something witty to wrap this up?
Something about Firefly and Joss Whedon?
Buffy the Vampire Slayer?
I don’t fucking know.
*8.0 out of 10*
Review: Cigar City Brewing | Jai Alai IPA
Photo credit: BEERPULSE.COM, http://beerpulse.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Cigar-City-Jai-Alai-IPA.png
Getting intoxicated on a cruise ship with the intention of going on a “vision quest” is not necessarily a decision made in the best of judgment. Quite often, this results in one of two scenarios. Let’s say you are on a trip with your family to visit your grandfather who turns 80 in two days. You and your maternal kin are trapped at sea on a floating firmament of a dying fragment of escapist Americana of the most decadent kind. At least, there’s a ton of booze on credit. You feel that the Hemingway lifestyle is at your fingertips, and suddenly the aggravatingly indulgent pathos of The Sun Also Rises suddenly makes sense as you sip your third margarita at 10 am staring into the wide, blue, empty, passionless, void of the Atlantic. You shut out the world through your headphones.
Alas, Florida is your destination, and cruel reality asserts itself like sales staff at a floundering Men’s Wearhouse desperately praising your tastes in Joseph Abboud and paisley ties. You won’t leave without at least a pair of Florsheims.
Bet your ass on it.
The dance floor calls for you.
You’ve had two Rockstar energy drinks and Gray Geese. It ain’t no Red Bull an’ vocka, but it’s what you need
What you need
What you need
The smoke is heavy.
You’re sick
You’re sad
You’re bored and impulsive.
You’re in a dance circle,
Flailing for your life.
How did you get here?
Why are you seducing the woman 19 years your senior?
Where, honestly, are you going to bring her where she hasn’t been already?
Who the fuck do you think you are?
The sun bleeds against the blanket of the Mexican gulf, over easy, its yolk yearning to break, yearning to burn.
The sun melts into the water, fizzling, sizzling. It smolders slowly, like the ash upon wind of an eight-year-old’s breath, blowing steadily upon the ambers of a summer night’s bonfire.
You’ll have to excuse me; my dear friend Derek got me this beer. I got smashed, and spilled a little–
Rookie mistake–
I once incinerated a frog while playing, poking it with a stick.
It hopped in the fire—I hooked it, shook it into the bay,
–It’s been a while
where it burst to dust upon the water.
Happy Summer, everybody.
A hiatus is defined as a pause within a process. From the Latin …hiatus… It refers to an opening in a material object, a rupture.
I wrapped my hands upon the Jai Alai, and haitussed the fuck out of it.
Cigar City Brewing, out of Tampa Bay, offers this—Jai Alai IPA—as a flagship brew, a true representative of their talent and artistic prowess.
…and it ain’t bad.
Florida, a state known for its lax approach to adult entertainment, overbearing senior living communities, and pythons, offers a gem not available in the cold, boring north of New England.
Jai Alai is an IPA, but it’s more than that.
It’s a deadly sport originating in Basque Spain, played with a large, rubber bullet
Three walls
Baskets for guns
And a live studio audience.
Imagine a renegade,
Hunger games
Squash tournament
I’ll tell you, the beer kinda
Sorta?
Lives up to its namesake.
Jai Alai is Cigar City Brewing.
I finally grabbed one, and… well… It was, sort of tolerable.
Having heard the hype, the nationwide hype, I realized, I cannot use Heady Topper and Society and Solitude as benchmarks for good brews.
It is, however, so very hard not to.
Crawling in at 7.5 ABV, Jai Alai is an American IPA.
Jai Alai is a lot like Mott’s apple juice is appearance. It has the same color, a thin, soapy, moderate head, with some floating particulates. Perhaps, they are some hop residues of some sort… or yeast, maybe? Nearly transparent in nature, it also produces some superb lacing on the glass.
The aroma matches the appearance—apple juice, like momma used to buy, mixed with orange juice concentrate. There’s an obscene amount of tropical fruits. God damned if it doesn’t remind me of autumn, a slight pumpkin spice is on the nose… like some nutmeg… there’s also a Del Monte pear and peach medley going on here. It’s reminiscent of some strong fruit cocktail shit. Big old heavy malt pounds your nostrils. It pounds more than I expected.
Taking a sip, I get some mad apple, mandarin orange, honey, and some bright, floral hops. There’s some stupid heavy sweetness. I suppose there’s a satisfactory balance of bitter hops akin to marmalade… like a marmalade spread on some Jewish rye. There’s a hint of caraway in there… actually, it’s more than a hint. Fat, obese, heavy caraway flavors slightly bordering on anise dominate the middle of the mouth. The rye bread aspect is heavy, real heavy. It’s very malty. On the back end, I get some peach and tropical fruits—citrus, kumquat. All in all, it’s a malt heavy IPA.
It’s sticky, almost cloying, with a bittersweet finish. It lingers quite a bit. I wouldn’t say it’s a beer you can drink quickly, or want to, for that matter. It’s slightly dry. From a textural perspective, it’s not the best, but it’ll do.
When you’re out at sea, what are you going to believe in?
When you’re out at sea, when will you finally settle?
When you’re in New England, who gives a fuck?
Just shut up, and drink your Jai Alai.
You literally had to go out of your way to get this beer.
Ugh, go eat a seat cushion, you stinky freak.
Malt Fiction sucks.
*7.9 out of 10*
Review: Le Trou du Diable | La Grivoise de Noël
Foto Kred: craftbeercellar.com
Ah, January Thaw, what a cruel temptress thou art. The temperatures dip and dive and skyrocket like a rollercoaster—or a junkie. I’ve been busy making observations on the state of the world every day on the drive home from work. For once, I catch a break from the people who bitch about the cold (as if winter was known for vitamin D and rhododendrons!). I go to the gym, work the legs, the chest, the arms, the legs, the chest, the arms. I get home. I walk inside and make some disgustingly obscene noises to the cat. Jazz blasts forth from the speakers and I shout some more slurs with cathartic glee. I start to dance. I lose my shirt, my shorts, and pay homage both to Tom Cruise in Risky Business and to my preschool years.
Meat and potatoes, meat and potatoes.
It really is that time of the year.
Isn’t it?
I am surrounded by the sweet sounds of shattering resolutions—stillbirths (or abortions, really), hearty foods, and strong drink.
Winter is here, I finally admit to myself a month late. I collapse upon the kitchen table in my skivvies, seeking out the bottle opener, only to find it poking into my side as I sift through the bills waiting to be paid, newspapers now collecting dust as demoted ephemera. My weapon in hand, I approach the fridge and pull out my conquest.
To my delight, I was able to find a bottle of one of Le Trou du Diable’s many fantastic beers. Being a teeny-tiny little brewery in Shawinigan, Quebec, it’s rare to find stateside often. That being said, if you have a chance, pick up an offering when the opportunity presents itself.
Anyway—
La Grivoise de Noel loosely translates to “ribald Christmas.” In nothing but underpants, I found this masturbatory salute to be indulgently appropriate for the occasion. And how appropriate the beer! Like the Thaw, this beer is a tribute to pure deceit from its overtly invigorating nature—not something typically expected from a winter beer—to its alcohol by volume. Approaching 8% ABV, you do not get the alcohol at all.
You start to become a little suspicious shortly after the pour. It’s a bright garnet color in the glass with an off-white head and some very strong, very attractive carbonation.
God bless America.
There’s a strange coppery stench to the beer, or perhaps iron. It quickly fades as it comes to room temperature and what you’re left with is really no real hops to speak of, toasted malt, nutmeg, orange blossom, and banana. There, that’s the ticket. That’s all you really need to know right away. It is definitely a Belgian.
Then comes the brown sugar taste— well, maybe burnt sugar with plum and overripe banana finishing off. Maybe there’s some spice there. I think this may be some gross confabulation, but I kind of get some cardamom and clove in there. Of course, the nutmeg pushes through in the end.
There’s a satisfying stickiness to the beer. It establishes a fine middle ground between thick and thin on the tongue. A delightful carbonation prickles the tongue just slightly.
*8.0 out of 10.*
Malt Fiction. 
