Thor's Hammer Barley Wine Ale

"It smells like fruit." comments Diego
"Rancid Fruit ass." retorts Omar
"Carbonation OK, thick, good viscosity, tastes exactly like it smell, rancid fruit ass.  the aftertaste makes me thing I swallowed a fart!  Minda's gonna be pissed if I go home and kiss her with this mouth." ~ Diego
"More like Ass Hammer" ~ Omar
"It's Thomas' son's fault" ~Diego
"The only Esther I know is an anal retentive ginger who is into DAvid Bowie"
"The only Esther I know makes tacos."
"This clearly tastes like ass hammer that went through the sewer"
"I'd rather have joey shit in my mouth than drink this."
Now I owe Diego for mouth raping his beer face after a day of foreplay.
Worse than the watered down Guinness we had at the theater.
Goddamit, I hate this beer, After these a-holes all I can taste is fruit ass.
"Second to last thing we had was 13%, the last was 7.5% and the people next to us were a couple of Spanish folks." I couldn't hear the lisp, but Diego did.
Central City Brewers and Distillers, it's a fukkin' Canadian Beer, said Omar as he lost his shit.
They might kill me.
It had three golden balls, like James Bond's family crest! and rightfully so.  Balls!
Goddam Kanadian Beer.
"Might as well have a canuk stick his dick in my mouth."
"Doesn't taste like maple syrup." ~The Maple Avenger
"I should just brush my teeth with a curling broom." ~Omar
Diego is way ahead in drinkin', cause the Mexican in him won't let him leave a glass unfinished.  He's a chump.  We been drinkin' all day.
And now we're talking about gothic horror and Crimson Peak.  The word is that it's classic Guillermo Del Torro, beautifully crafted and poorly written.  The Alamo beer sucks, but the Mondo glass is cool.
It's a long way to the end of this glass, Diego says that is because it's a shitty beer.
And it is a shitty beer.
It is rich and full and very alcoholic (11.5% ABV), but it is blech lame.
It is too sweet.
It is too fruity.
It should have been mead if they were gonna call it "Thor's Hammer".  Those guys fucked me pretty.  Well, fuck them too!
I hate you, Thor's Hammer!
We will fight and I must break you like Drago broke Apollo Creed!  I MUST BREAK YOU!
They blame me.
They think I did this to them on purpose!
Omar and Diego are plotting against me.
They say I don't feed the cats, but I fee the shit out of these goddam cats!  They're fukkin elderly!  That's why they drool and shed all the time.  It's not me, it's just fate.
I hate my friends.  I will destroy them.  I made them drink bad beer and now they fear me.  You fear me too.
We have yet to get through one glass of this horse shit and it sucks sucks sucks.
Drink it and share our pain!
Diego finished his...
do you dare be half the man Diego is?  I don't.

Samuel Adams Honey Queen Braggot

I think we can all agree that Samuel Adams beers have had their day in the sun of craft brewing but are now fully part of the big beer establishment.  That's not say that there is anything wrong with a cold Sammy-A, they're usually just fine, not that I'm gonna grab a cold six any time soon.  So, yeah... I'm kind of surprised to see anything from Sam Adams in this blog.

Here's what happened: I was at the store, minding my own business, slobbering over the beer section at my local, when suddenly I see this weird bee-chick who is either calling me a, or identifying herself as, a "Braggot".  I don't know what I, or she, did to deserve this insult, but I do know that I would have spelled it "braggart".  Being so insulted and misspelled, I purchased this (*gasp*) Samuel Adams beer.  What choice did I have?

The label has all this bee-stuff on it, and a saucy lady giving me a "come hither" look (but she's covered in bees, so that's not gonna happen).  I like the wacky "Honey Queen" name.  The art is fun.  The back of the label has some words in a pleasing font.  All that stuff is pretty great.  So, Sam Adams name aside, I'm thinking this could be a fun beer.

Also, I looked it up, and, according to the internets, a "braggot" isn't an insult or a typo.  Who knew?

You'll never guess what this Honey Queen beer tastes like.  Go on, try.  Wrong! It tastes like honey.  A shit-load of honey.  Somewhere, there must be a field of small eviscerated plastic bears, because, wow, honey.  In fact, if I was the kind of guy who really talked himself up and commented often about my superiority, I might say my better-than-average sense of taste tells me that this stuff is like half beer and half mead.  I might point out how I, and I alone, can pick up on the distinct honey-up-front, beer-at-the-rear combo act of flavor.  That's just the kind of thing a braggot might do.  Lot's of honey, followed by beer, is all I'm sayin'.

It's pretty tasty, too.  A bit candy-sweet for my taste, but not at all bad.  I think I might have preferred just a 12oz bottle.  1 pint 6oz is a long way to the bottom for something this syrupy and rich.  I can see the broader appeal, and I'm sure many people will enjoy the crap out of this, but I think I'm gonna need some tums or something in a bit.  I am, as you know, a delicate flower.  At this moment, I am a delicate flower that is reminded why I prefer malt sugars to honey sugars.  Malt sugars aren't candy-like.  So, while I certainly like this braggot, I would really rather have a stout.

Personal tastes aside, I feel that I owe Samuel Adams, and, by extension, the Samuel Adams Brewery (a.k.a Boston Beer Co.), a nod for taking a risk, and making something that is far more interesting than it is marketable.  Way to go, you corporate beer shills, you really grew a pair with this and took back a cup-full of your Boston pride.  So what if it won't fly off the shelves, or start a new craze, you tried something different.  I'm proud of you.

But, I'm still not going to buy a six pack of your beers or one of your hoighty-toighty glasses.  I've got my pride too.

Dogfish Head Punkin Ale

I really hate pumpkin beverage season.  It is that part of the year when America yanks down it's pants and shines a pale moon on decency and taste.  Sadly, it feels more and more like I'm one of the few reasonable people left who didn't drink the pumpkin spice kool-aid.  The good folks at Dogfish Head, who's experimental beers have been both an inspiration and a disappointment, have put on their paper pants, shaved their heads and pledged their souls to the goddam gourd.  Hope is dead.

This week's beer combines the pumpkin I despise and the brewery I respect but don't like, Dogfish Head Pumpkin Ale.  I figured, why not kill myself with two birds while getting stoned.  Flawless plan, right?

So, here is how I screwed up my plan: I liked the beer.

Yeah, for seriously. Punkin Ale is a far cry from the best beer I've ever had (I miss you, Fifty/Fifty), but, dammit, it was just fine.  I might even say it was, amazingly, not bad.  The "punkin" is understated enough not to get my heckles in an upright and locked position.  The "ale" was mild, reasonable, and restrained, unusual in a Dogfish Head.  Combine those two and you have a drinkable, interesting, not hateful, beer.  You won't run back out for a six-pack, but you won't vomit a little in your mouth either.

When I realized I was kinda enjoying a pumpkin beer, then I threw up a little in my mouth.  A gastric expression of the shame I felt, tempered only by my ability to keep my mouth shut.  What do I do next?  I go and write a blog about it.  You're disappointed in me.  I'm disappointed in me.  Nobody is happy with the way this beer drinkin' turned out.  I was looking forward to drinking pumpkin-piss beer and spitting vitriol.  It seems that the hated seasonal squash and Dogfish Head Brewery have teamed up to rob me of my hate.  I finished the beer.  Maybe I even allowed myself to enjoy it for a second.  Now I feel 12 oz emptier, with a beer-size hole in my heart where my hate should have been.

Save yourselves from this existential nightmare, this fall stay away from all things liquid pumpkin, don't make my mistakes.

Some drinking thoughts at Strange Land Brewery and later at home with a bomber

Lately, I've been finding bombers from Strange Land Brewery all over the place in Austin, Texas.  I've written about a few of them, and I've generally thought good thoughts about their beers.  This weekend I had a few hours to kill and it turns out that they have a tap room.  So, I packed up Omar and away we went.

It turns out, I'm a dick.  They have a welcoming and pleasant set up, lots of seats, a great bar seating area, and one awesome dude behind the bar.  He was friendly, informative, pleasant, and remembered everyone's name.  Which is why I'm a dick: I can't remember his name.  Sorry, man.  My bad.

I started, after some deliberation, with the Root Beer Porter.  Seriously, though, they had a root beer porter.  That's cool.  And it certainly did embody the essence of root beer.  Which was also the big problem I had with it.  I like beer.  I like root beer (I'm looking at you, Thomas Kemper).  When you combine the flavors of beer with the flavors of root beer, however, you end up let down on both aspects.  It was interesting, and good for a few swallows.  About half way into my glass, the shine was gone.  By the bottom of the glass, I was glad to see it gone.  All the same, it was a valiant effort, and I salute it.

I went a little wild for my second choice.  Having a previous disastrous experience with a gruit beer, I was skeptical when I saw they had one of their own, so I went with that.  You may call me brave for this.  You may say I am a man among men.  Perhaps, even, you hope to tell your grand children-clones stories about my heroism.  I can certainly understand your feelings, but I'm far too humble to say anything.  The gruit was, in a word, extremely friggin' deliciously good.  I was expecting another lousy theory-beer, but, instead, got a new and exciting booze.  Whoever was behind the curtain on this one, pulled the right levers.  It is hard to describe the taste of it, but I'm told they used a collection of herbs or spices or something instead of hops.  It's weird, but good weird.

If you've never had a third beer with a quality Brit before, you don't know what you're missing.  We met David, a retired IT specialist with gift for gab.  David suggested I try the Dewi Sant, a dark beer with a honey kick.  The Dewi was sweeter than I usually go for, but really damn good.  In fact, the more I drank, the better and better it tasted (blame the 13.5% ABV).  I think I had two, but I was enjoying the conversation, the weather, the tap room, and definitely the beer too much to remember to take a picture.  It looked like beer, though, I promise.  If you find it, drink it.  If you find it along with a retired Brit, take both to a bar and enjoy your new, more perfect life.

I did, however, remember to take a picture of next beer I had, The Last Gentleman Bourbon Porter.  I bought it on the way home at the Flags Store on 45th and Duval.  I'm drinking it now, and it is sort of a mixed bag.  When I took my first sip, I wasn't very impressed.  There was a lot of metallic acidity getting in the way of the beer flavors.  Now, I'm about a glass in, the malt and sugars have elbowed to the front and started to dominate the conversation.  Things are getting tasty.  Sure, the acid and metallic flavors are still there, but, after two glasses, who cares.  The barrel aged body is all warm and gooey in my mouth hole, and I brain-think slippery blurred yummy thoughts.  It may be a sad-ish 6.8% ABV, but a bomber still gets the job done.  Drink this beer.  Alone if you have to, with a friend where you can, and definitely, definitely with a retired, good-natured Brit, if at all possible.

Buffalo Bayou Brewing Co., Bananas Foster, or When I Learned Not To Trust

If you order bananas foster, you have certain expectations regarding what you are about to taste.  If you buy a beer called "Bananas Foster" you have similar expectations: bananas, rum, brown sugar, vanilla, and maybe a bit of cinnamon.  What you wouldn't expect is a glass of dark, bitter, acrid, shit.  Or, at least, I didn't expect that.

Bananas Foster, from Buffalo Bayou Brewing Co. in Houston, Texas.  1 pint 6 oz, 8.6% ABV, brown-butter dark, no head to speak of, and complete horse piss.

The name is pure temptation, the bottle, large and inviting, the label, pleasant and fun, the waxed cap, a sign of care.  All of these things just claw at you to choose this bottle from the shelf, take it with you, and give it a good home in your belly.  But this beer is a changeling, a turd wrapped in gold foil.  Don't be fooled.  Don't repeat my mistake.

Here is what happened when I took my first sip: I smelled the dark, vinegar-ish odor, tasted the cold malt richness on the tip of my tongue, then the zip of copper to the sides, the bitter pucker at the back, and the air of rancid salad that settles over the whole experience like a gross rain on an already humid day.  It's nasty.  I gave some to Omar and he threw a brick at my head.  I think he did the right thing.

It is a horrible crime to toy with my (and to a lesser extent, "our") expectations.  To say to me ("us" again to a way lesser extent), "Here, have a bananas foster beer!  Remember how good the banana bread beer was? Well, this is bananas foster, so it should be equally good, and taste like bananas foster." and then to give me 1 pint 6 oz of young balsamic vinegar, malt, and disappointment.

I hate you, Buffalo Bayou Brewing Co.  I hate you for making me hope, giving me cause to feel excitement, dangling beauty in front of my face, and the ripping it all away.  I will have my revenge.  I will rage and thunder, I will burn the skies, I will pull a face and blow raspberries at you behind your back, but, rest assured, I will have my revenge.  You suck.

Hops & Grain Tap Room, 3 beers.

I finally made it to the Hops & Grain tap room before it was about to close. The nice guy bartender greeted my pleasantly and showed me the ropes. The beer tickets were 4 for $10 and mostly good for a beer per ticket.  Four beer for ten bucks... not bad.

The tap room was mostly empty. There were a few beer folk and post work bar slouchers like myself warming bar stools and bench seats. The menu had too many goddam IPA's, but I've come to expect that kind of treachery from craft brewers.  Still, the place smelled like malt, and was decorated mostly with beer barrel, like a sad polka.

Scanning the menu, I'd had the Zoe and the AltEration before. I ogled the bourbon barrel aged Porter (it looked sexy, but I decided on the Belgian pale ale to start, because I'm a coward and chickened out of diving into their Dispensary selection ("aggressively dry hopped").  Somewhere a Molly mocks me.

I waddled my beer to one of the many ubiquitous wooden benches that is required seating at tap rooms, and sipped into my first beer.

Belgian pale ale:

It was pretty tasty actually. I wasn't expecting that.
Floral but not heavy handed. Light, but with plenty of substance. 

It had a weight to it, like drinking it in the sun and heat would definitely result in passing out in a pool of your own vomit. You know the kind of beer I'm talking about. 

It left a metallic hops flavor coating on the tongue. I like it less the more of it I drink. It settles heavy.

 
A hop head or other weirdo would certainly be in love with this beer, but I'm a decent person, who sympathizes with the plight of the under-malted beer drinker.  I believe there is more to drinking than what some dumb-ass beer blog has to say.

Still, I drank it all to fortify myself. I'm going for the big ugly hoppiness next.

Imperial IPA: 

I asked the goodly barman for the baddest of the bad. The hippity-est of the hops. The most depraved of the immoral IPA's. From the super dry hopped Dispensary line, he poured me the Imperial IPA.

I was expecting to look like Preacher comic's fan-favorite character, Ass-face, but the pucker-factor was minimal. I was confused. 

This beer is round. It's like drinking a beach ball. That kind of round. Sure, hops and some bitter notes. Some floral. Some lingering tongue-salad herbiness. Fuck me, though, I like this beer.

It's like when the nerdy chick in the teen movie takes off her glasses and let's her hair down and suddenly she has a great rack. And at 10% ABV... damn. This beer just shoved it's flute up my teen sex-comedy reference.

Bourbon Barrel Porter: 

 Holy shit monkeys. I paid two fukkin' tickets for this beer, and it tastes like someone left raisins, prunes, bitter cherries, and booze in my delicious beer. Which is awesome.

I suspect some kind of demon has just traded me for my shriveled soul. Demon-chump! This beer is great. I wanna dunk my head in this tiny glass and live as a beer-fish. Is that still legal?

This beer is far too vocal to be this enjoyable. It's yammering on about all sorts of flavors and crap, but what about the flavors?! Ooohhh, such many tasty flavors. 

Hey drinky! Get off your ass and find this beer. It's mellow yet lively! Like a mongoose in a smoking jacket. 

I give up. Screw you blog, I'm busy drinkin'!

Texas Keeper Cider Weizen

Lets take a moment to appreciate good beer.

Mmmmmmm.... beer...

OK.  Did you do it?  You're a horrible bastard if you didn't, you know.  Beer, good beer more so, has done so much for us, you and me personally, that it deserves a moment of appreciation.  So, if you skipped it, take that moment now.

In the last few weeks, I have dunked my head in the finest of the world's beer rivers (pictured below).

The Fifty-Fifty Eclipse Imperial Stout, was,without a doubt, one of the finest beers ever aged in a whisky barrel and bottled for my personal joy.  I won't say much about it, except that it redefined what a goddam great beer is.  (Not available in Texas).

The Fifty-Fifty was so good, in fact, that I was tempted to try something... different for this week's beer blog.  A cider.  

I was conflicted at first: is it really a beer, does it have a place in this blog, am I being wild and brash, what are these feelings I'm feeling, do I dare do all that may become a man?  After a period of reflection and meditation, I decided to go ahead and try the cider.  What is the worst that can happen?

Texas Keeper Cider Weizen, cider made with fancy beer yeasts.  It is a dry cider, with an interesting idea behind it.  It is also horse-piss swill, and I don't even think that horse was a diabetic.  Sure I choked it down, but only to decide how much I hated it.  I hated it very many and super much.  

I have enjoyed many ciders.  Most of them were acceptable, some were even good, but there are always a few bad apples.  

"I'm funny as hell and deserve this award for Best Pun Of The Century."

~J. "Bad Apples" Dodson

9-2015

Pun Awards Dinner acceptance speech

This cider sucks, but mainly because it is a very dry cider.  I accept that some weirdos like dry ciders.  That's fine.  As long as they don't try to force their beliefs on me (I'm looking at you, IPA people).  If that's your bag, then by all means, chug away.  For me, I will continue to look for a decent and respectable beverage, something more in line with my system of beliefs.  I'm a decent person.  That's how I roll.

I hope that, if you take something away from this blog, you make an effort to drink good beverages instead of bad ones, and where bad ones enter your life, you have the good sense to recognize and shun them.  In that spirit, I invite you to join with me in a pledge:

"I, (state your name), pledge to drink mostly exclusively good booze, and will cast my vote

for the Author of this blog to win the Best Pun Of The Century Award, just as soon as I can."

Thank you