Russian River Supplication

PREVIOUSLY ON MY TOP TEN MOST WANTED LIST

7% ABV mini-magnum (BATCH OO3)

THE VICE BLOG’S 2008 ELECTION COVERAGE

The Vice Blog endorses:

NOT VOTING

They say you can’t complain if you don’t vote. BULLSHIT. You can best complain if you don’t vote. And “Rock the Vote”? Fuck you MTV. It’s borderline criminal to encourage your retarded minions to just willy nilly pull the lever like some neanderthal at a one-armed bandit. You only do it because you know 90% of them will vote for the Democrat. But it doesn’t matter, both candidates suck. Both candidates always suck.

Here’s a little secret friends. Politicians don’t care about you. They care about attaining fame and power and on-the-sly affairs with skanky women out of their league, and a whole lotta Facebook friends. And, believe me, more power to them, there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, I pen my hilariously entertaining, provocative, and intellectually stimulating blog posts in order to attract the very same things. But I don’t pretend that I’m doing it for “you.” These politicians aren’t doing anything for you. Or for “us.” No politician ever has. Sure, some are better at faking compassion and empathy than others, but no, they don’t care about you.

If they really cared about us they would go get a real job. You know, something that actually benefits us. Something that benefits society. Like…say…being a fire fighter, or a doctor, a novelist, an architect, a chef, or even a garbage man. The only problem is, the kind of person that goes into politics goes into politics because they aren’t smart enough, skilled enough, or talented enough to do anything else. The quiver of their skill set is empty, not a single arrow. Politics is the grad school of the real world. People go into grad school because they aren’t competent enough yet to begin living a productive life and people go into politics for the very same reasons.

Hmmm…how can I use my intense ambition to gain fame and fortune without any talent? A reality show? Well…yes, but you’ll lose your dignity. Ah, politics. You lose your dignity there too but you get more fame and faux-power.

And it is faux-power. With rare exception, professional sports team mascots are far more powerful than politicians.

This is not anti one side of the other. This is anti all of corporate politics. Politicians are good at only one thing. Making worthless laws. Actually, they’re also good at being foolish little nerds that produce fodder for late night comedians. But all these fucking laws…

You can’t do anything nowadays. You can’t smoke anywhere, you can barely drink. You can’t eat fatty foods. You can’t get married if you’re gay. You can’t do drugs that only harm you. You can’t fuck hookers. You can’t take multiple wives. You can’t clone yourself. You can’t even commit suicide. You can’t, you can’t , you can’t, you can’t do anything any more.

And I predict by the year 2025 we won’t even be allowed to eat meat. It’s coming folks, believe me.

What a fucking nanny state we live in. We have no freedom.

You say politicians protects us from vices? Poppycock. Those things are only vices because politicians say they are. I’d much rather write the Enjoys His Life blog.

Politicians aren’t economists but they think they can pontificate on the economy. They’re not scientists but they think they can make laws about the environment and medicine. And they’re not moral paragons by any standard but they hypocritically think they can dictate how we have to exist.

We’d be better off in an anarchy. We know best how to live our own lives.

Finally, voting is not cool. It’s just not. No one thought it was cool to vote in student council elections. And they were right, it wasn’t. I should know. I was once my high school class president, winning the (un)popular vote by I think something along the lines of a 6 to 2 total vote victory (in a class of some 700). Yeah, not exactly a good electoral turnout. And there’s no reason to turnout for a national election either. John and Barry are just as big of nerds as the people like me that were running for class office back when we were seventeen. You shouldn’t support nerds.

OK, fine, you want to exercise democracy. You want to get that stupid sticker that says “I Voted.” Wow, you voted today?! Like 130 million other people? Cooooooooool. I took a shit, masturbated twice, and ate a chicken salad sandwich. And you don’t see me affixing a sticker with all that info onto my cardigan’s lapel.

But maybe you feel bad, like I did (somewhat), when my emigre pal Ian derided me for refusing to vote when so many other people only can dream that they live in a country where they could exercise such power.

Fine, if you absolutely have to vote…

Then vote for BOB BARR.

He’s the closest to a laissez-faire candidate we have. And the closer to that, the better for us all. Plus, he has an awesome Errol Flynn-esque mustache and he makes fun of the bad breath of his very own supporters.

Ah, Supplication. I don’t know why Russian River calls it that, but it’s a perfect word to describe our election season. Supplication, a humble request from your dear Vice Blogger to not vote, and rather just sit back and enjoy glorious beer..

The great Marie said she had cellared this one for about a year. The bottle claims it’s a brown ale aged for fourteen months in pinot noir barrels. So if you do the math, that’s over two years of aging. Cool. Probably the most vintage beer I’ve ever had. Excluding that Chelada.

The label also notes that wild cherries, Brettanomyces, Lactobacillus, and Pediococcus are added to the barrel during the aging process. Then, the Supplication is bottle fermented to add carbonation and make it like a champagne or sparkling wine. Yeast sediment remains in the bottle.

Supplication pours an absolutely gorgeous color. A very unique color for a beer. Like the juice of a blood orange. Unbelievable lacing.

You can definitely tell it’s a wild ale by its smell but it’s not that overpowering. Darker than the few other wild ales I’ve started to encounter in the last few months.

Wow, it’s tart. However, it’s tart but not sour. If that makes sense. Cherries are very detectable. The flavor is so pronounced and delicious. If your like tart cherries you will adore this beer. The oak and yeast are very much noted too. I like it much better than the Cuvee de Castleton wild ale I had recently, and that one wasn’t too shabby itself.

Supplication is more flavorful, just as tart, but more balanced with other components. Of course very fizzy like a champagne. But tastes like a red wine. The other wild ales I’ve had seem more like whites. Goes down smoooooooth. Not that alcoholic or potent in taste. And the more you drink it the better it becomes.

Maybe I’m a weirdo, maybe I’m an oddball, but I like to drink the yeast sediment. On bottle conditioned bombers, my first glass I usually do a slow (recommended!) yeastless pour. For the second glass I always add the sediment though and I always, to a glass, like the second one better. Maybe it’s all in my head, maybe I’m a weirdo, but it is what it is.

A very odd, strange beer that I don’t think Joe Sixpack would like. I’d like him to try it though. I’m sad I don’t have more of it and may never get to sip it again.

Because it is WORLD-CLASS.

A+

Westmalle Trappist Dubbel

7% ABV from a bottle

I’ll spoil this review right off the bat and tell you I’m giving this beer an A+.

After giving only two A pluses in my first 100 reviews, this will now be my second A+ in my last nine. I’m starting to feel like a grade-inflating Harvard professor, doling out A pluses to every single student because we all know that every one that goes to an Ivy League institution is a brilliant, exceptional, and hard-working child that deserves nothing but the highest marks. Or, rather, they have rich parents that will make blackmailing claims of withdrawing their monetary contributions should their kid get (gasp!) a B.

Perhaps, I’m being unfair to myself. Look at my grade categories in the right column. Four A pluses, fourteen As, and fourteen A minuses compared to only eleven total Ds and three total Fs. If you plotted my grades out on some graph paper, it certainly wouldn’t be a bell curve, in fact, its “bell” would be very far to the extreme right, more so than even Jim DeMint. It would look like I’m a classic grade inflater. But I’m not. It is just that on a daily basis I am relentlessly searching out what are considered the best beers on the planet. Intentionally avoiding macro shit that I know would get Ds and Fs from me in order to drink quality. I see no reason to tipple Miller High Lives and Natural Lights and Milwaukee’s Bests* with the same frequency I drink quality stuff, just to get an accurate-looking bell curve. That’s life. That’s science. And those are my findings. And you can’t argue with scientific findings. Just like the findings have found men to be smarter than women and Jews to be the best lovers on the planet**.

So fear not, dear reader, that I will ever intentionally overrate or underrate a beer, simply because I “need” a grade. I will always honestly score them and if I keep finding myself drinking A pluses I shouldn’t be upset, I shouldn’t think it “bad” for me and my blog, but of course I should be exuberant–I’m drinking another fucking masterpiece!

Thus, after last week’s brilliant Westmalle Trippel tasting I knew I’d have to try their Dubbel.

I expected it to be great but slightly “worse” than the Tripel, a solid A brew. If you don’t know a lot about beer, you probably think what I used to think, that a dubbel is essentially just a less-alcoholic version of a tripel. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

Both smell and taste amazing, no question.

But while tripels are pale in color, dubbels such as Westmalle pour an almost stoutish dark black, with hints of ruby red appearing. While tripels have light, sweet, and citrusy flavors, this dubbel had some serious bite. Dominant tastes of malt, burnt sweetness like coffee, darker rich fruits such as plums and cherries, and caramelized sugar as if full of toffee.

And, most interesting to me, while the Westmalle Tripel was light, almost refreshingly light, on the palate, the dubbel was far more potent, despite it being 2.5% less alcoholic. A paradox!  Being a fan of bold barley wines and strong ales, though, this is just how I like my beer.

The Westmalle Dubbel is imminently drinkable, it tickles your tongue all the way down to your throat. I wish this beer wasn’t so expensive ($5.99 for a 12 ouncer is what I paid at the store) because I could drink these all night, every night. It’s so hard to savor because it is just so delicious and near perfect in every way.

I would even dare say that the Dubbel is better than the Westmalle Tripel.  It is, at least, as good.

I enjoyed this with a friend, a girl who absolutely does not drink beer–ever–and who even hates the smell of it to be near her. I urged my friend, whose drinking standards run the gamut from pear vodkas to peach vodkas with an occasional raspberry vodka when she feels like branching out, to give the Dubbel a try.  I was so impressed with the beer I needed to share it with someone else.

She refused at first, but I urged her on.

Trepidatiously, she took a small sniff. Then a little sip. The look in her eyes showed that even she was shocked she wasn’t revolted.

“This is the first beer that I actually understand how people could like it. I get it!”

What better praise then that? A beer so good even non-beer-drinkers understand its brilliance.

Now I’m only mad that Westmalle doesn’t have any more beers for me to try and award A pluses to!

A+

*Other than the fact that the worst beers seem to produce some of my funniest essays.

**Masters, William H. & Virginia E. Johnson & Robert E. Kolodny, “Human Sexuality,” 2nd edition, 1984, page 784

Westmalle Trappist Tripel

9.5% ABV from a bottle

You ever see a beautiful girl for just a fleeting second, maybe you don’t even formally meet her, or get her name, or even catch her eye in return, but nevertheless for the next few days, or weeks even, you can’t get her off your fucking mind. Her beautiful, smiling face seared into your brain, her supple body in all your thoughts as you dream of one day kissing her, fucking her, and living happily ever after with her.

Yeah, that’s never happened to me either. I’m not some psycho pervert with limited female options.

However, nearly a month ago, for reasons still unclear, I had just a small sip of my first ever Westmalle Tripel and I’ve been dying to revisit it since, knowing that a masterpiece was looming out there, waiting my approval. However, oddly enough, though it usually is easily found, for some reason Manhattan has been in short supply of it recently. I’ve seen countless Westmalle Dubels on the shelves, but the Tripel is what I really wanted to lay down with. Finally, last Friday I located a single bottle of the magical elixir at the Columbus Circle Whole Foods, the bottle so abused that it was missing its front label and only had a tattered back label to even announce what majesty lay inside. Fine by me, I wouldn’t be drinking labels, just glorious Belgian Trappist beer.

I’m not sure if your typical Joe Sixpack realizes that the finest beer in the world is not made by giant corporate machines in St. Louis or Milwaukee tended to by high school drop-outs missing digits who load the canned swill onto Clydesdales which then deliver the goods to our nation’s scuzziest Laz-E-Boys. But rather, the world’s finest beer is made by Trappist monks. Real, honest-to-God monks who simply make the beer not for profit, but rather so that they can continue affording to live as poverty-stricken monks. You know, kinda like how hookers only give $1000 blowjobs to politicians so that they can continue dressing in gauche Gucci clothes and sleeping til noon every day.

Aside from having to be completely devoted to God, having to remain at a monastery around the clock, having to live strict lives of personal poverty and with a major lack of possessions or access to pop cultural awesomeness, forced to take vows of silence and celibacy, ordered to abstain from meat, fowl, and most fishes, and not ever getting to do anything impure or Vice Blog-worthy, those monks surely live the life! Everyday awaking at sunrise to pray, pray, pray, and pray some more. And don’t knock the vow of silence, I don’t want to hear most of the diarrheal bullshit spewing out of most people’s mouths any how. Not like a monk has anything cool to talk about. They don’t watch college basketball or “From G’s to Gents.” A life of quiet contemplation is where it’s at. Especially when you’re making some of the world’s finest beer, which you of course get to drink every single day. Gratis. That’s one of the monastic perks yo.

Yeah, when I retire I’m either going to move to a giant compound in Louisville with my 24-year-old trophy wife where I’ll golf all day and drink bourbon, smoke cigars, and eat fatty southern foods drenched in gravies all night (don’t worry, I’ll still blog it) or to Belgium where I will renounce my Judaism, eliminate my Atheism, put on a comfy brown hooded robe cinched with a rope and begin peacefully making–and secretly get loaded on, shhh–beer all day long.

Eh, I doubt they’d have this loud and frequently-yakking Jew on the premises. It would kinda be like when Whoopi got “Back in the habit.”

There are actually only 7 Trappist monasteries that make beer. One in the Netherlands, Bierbrouwerij De Koningshoeven, and the big six in Belgium: Chimay, Orval, Rochefort, Achelse Kluis, the mythical Westvleteren, and of course Westmalle.

If it’s taking me a bit long to get to the review, it is exactly how I felt as I was about to drink the beer. I was literally nervous that it wouldn’t be as good as I’d built it up to be and I procrastinated. Yes, I literally procrastinated over drinking a beer. When I finally got to it, it came out in an incredibly rich and smooth foam pour. It looked beautiful and I had to wait for quite a tortuous while for it to thin down. Incredibly bubbly like a fine champagne.

The smell is fantastic, as good as it gets. It fucking smells like Belgium. There’s no way any beer expert could sniff this one and not know immediately that it was a Belgian Trappist brew.

The absolute first taste was great but fairly normal and I got a bit concerned, but by the time the gulp hit the back of my throat I could see how goddamn special it is. Nice bite, good warmth. Very alcoholic. In fact, Trappist beers are always going to be quite strong as they were originally crafted to sustain the monks through Lent, acting as “liquid bread.” Right up my alley.

I can truly say I have never really tasted a beer like this before. It is unbelievable and glorious. Bottle-fermented it is absurdly creamy, just a little bitter, very fruity with prominent tastes of banana, and a whole lotta hops and malts.

I drank it as slow as possible, savoring ever sip, not wanting it to be over. I was sad when I was through, knowing my next drink would pale in comparison. I’ll need to always have this in stock and I look forward to cellaring some.

Simply one of the best beers I’ve ever had.

A+

Samuel Adams Utopias (2007)

25.6% ABV

I’ve put my Patrick Ewing kneepads on, I’ve taken a few swigs of water for moisture, I’ve loosened up my cheek muscles, unhinged my jaw, and the dental dam is firmly in place…it’s time for me to fellate Samuel Adams Utopias.

This is not just the best beer ever, it is not just the best fermented drink ever, but it is perhaps the best alcoholic beverage in the history of mankind. Let’s just say, the long-dead American patriot shouldn’t just be honored to have his name on this, he should be greatly worried that history will remember Sam Adams Utopias the beer before they remember Sam Adams the man. This beer is so motherfucking good that people should learn the lost art of epic poetry simply so they can compose epic poems to it. It is a greater achievement than landing on the moon or discovering evolution. Jim Koch, the Samuel Adams brewmaster, should win Time’s Man of the Year.

Utopias comes in a bomber-sized, ceramic genie-bottle-shaped vessel that if you rub the side and unscrew the cap a spirit (luckily one NOT voiced by the insufferable Robin Williams) pops out, not granting you three wishes but instead telling you that if you have just a few ounces of this beer you will achieve nirvana.

Oh, have I mentioned…

It is the most alcoholic beer ever crafted!

Did you hear me?

THE MOST MOTHERFUCKING ALCOHOLIC BEER CREATED!!!

And, it is to be drunk in two-ounce servings from specially-designed Utopias glassware. Yes, the Boston Beer Company does not think any other glasses in the history of the world have been created to appropriately drink their beer from. Thus, they crafted their own (see bottom picture). How awesomely arrogant is that?!

Even more interesting, due to silly Christian laws created and inspired by the Brigham Youngs, Jerry Fallwells, and Jim Joneses of the country, Utopias is not allow to be sold in fourteen U.S. states. Here is that damnable lineup:

Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Iowa, Missouri, New Hampshire, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, South Carolina, Washington, and West Virginia.

I don’t even recognize states as being part of our union if they don’t allow this brilliant concoction to be tippled by constituents. I actually proudly fly a thirty-six star American flag over my heavily-fortified drinking compound.

I will not recognize you despicable fourteen states until you let your citizens drink Utopias!

Not that they could actually locate it as Sam Adams only releases 12,000 bottles of heaven per two years. I am lucky enough to have tried Utopias on three different occasions. Each time, loving and understanding it just a little more.

OK, so we know it’s potent, we know it’s pricey, we know it’s rare, we know it merits a blow job, but how does it taste? I thought nothing more appropriate for this beer than to actually review it like a legit beer snob (not that a legit beer snob would preface his review with a highly-graphic fellatio prologue). If any beer merits pretentiousness it is this one.

Appearance: An absolutely gorgeous amber like what that dinosaur-blood-sucking mosquito was frozen in “Jurassic Park.”

Smell: A bouquet of incredibly potent maple syrup, but this ain’t Aunt Jemima, it’s the good shit you buy at a hippie farmer’s market. The aroma goes up your nose as the Utopias’ odorants bind with olfactory neuron cell bodies. Their axons synapse in the olfactory bulb region in your brain, making you go, “God Damn! I said God Damn!” like Mrs. Mia Wallace in “Pulp Fiction.”

Taste: More full-bodied than Aretha Franklin. Maple syrup, vanilla, cinnamon, honey, several different types of yeast, caramel malts, and a whole lotta hops though not much bite. Earthy with some spice and hints of bourbon and sherry due to aging I believe. A creamy, chocolate and coffee-like finish. More sublime than “40 Oz. to Freedom.”

Mouthfeel: Nearly indescribable. As complex as beer, if not any alcohol, can possibly get. God did not create a human with enough writing prowess to adequately discuss the Utopias’s feel. It is absolutely unlike beer, lacking in carbonation and with no need for refrigeration. It would best be described as nearer to being a potent barley wine, a sherry, an aged port, maybe a bourbon, or most likely fine cognac as composed to a measly brew. The difference between the “beers” of Utopias and, say, Bud Light is more pronounced than the the slugging difference between George Herman Ruth and Dr. Ruth Westheimer.

Drinkability: Eminently drinkable though one will probably never consume more than an ounce or two in a sitting as it is like drinking money. Figuratively of course.

Consuming this beer will ruin you for the rest of the day (if not your entire existence on planet earth). Not cause it’s that potent–remember, you’re only savoring a few ounces of it max–but, rather, because everything afterward will taste so goddamn sub-par. After my most recent drinking of Utopias I followed it up with some Allagash Odyssey, a world-class beer in itself, that I was barely able to enjoy at first. My tongue was still tingling from the Utopias and my memory so seared by its brilliance that I had to eat damn near a loaf of bread to get the greatness out of my mouth and mind. I had to not just cleanse my palate, but cleanse everything I’d known about the world previous, just to appropriately review the Odyssey.

Let it be said, Utopias will change your thoughts about beer and imbibing for the rest of time. If you are ever lucky enough to find this beer, pay whatever is asked for it (or do the “Hey, look over there!” trick and filch it).

I don’t believe in a higher power but I still love Ben Franklin’s famous saying, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” He could have easily been referring to Utopias.

My absolutely highest recommendation. A masterpiece.

A+

Stone Old Guardian Barley Wine Style Ale

11.26% ABV from a bomber (“limited early 2008 release”)

Any one who becomes known as a beer connoisseur—or a suppose a connoisseur of anything for that matter—will most frequently be asked to list their favorite(s) of whatever it is they lord a connoisseurship over. So the strip club connoisseur (read: your one asocial, sleazy, and most importantly lazy friend) gets asked to list his favorite peel joints across this great land, while someone like me is often asked what my favorite beer is. Most frequently to that question I answer Old Guardian. My favorite style of beer from my favorite American brewer. I’m not sure if it truly is my absolute favorite on all 365 days of the year, no matter the mood, but it’s certainly close. The thing is, though, that I intentionally avoid drinking this masterpiece 365 days a year, no matter the mood. That used to be unavoidable as it was pretty darn tough to even locate this bottling in New York City. I knew a few specialty beer stores that got Stone brewings (most usually Arrogant Bastard or their IPAs) but Old Guardian was rarely stocked. Thus, there was a time or two when I came upon a fresh shipment of the product and absolutely cleared a store out of bombers. (And do you know how hard it is to lug 12 bombers down a Manhattan sidewalk, clanking them around like you’ve stolen an alley’s bowling pins?!)

But, now, Old Guardian is fairly easy to find as most all Whole Foods have it at all times. So, now my rare drinking of the beer is done on purpose for, you see, I don’t want to ever not love this one. And, with my ever-present goal of trying as many different beers as possible, I often neglect to drink the ones that I’ve always loved, intentionally, and dumbly, avoiding them on the shelves. I probably hadn’t had an Old Guardian in a half-year or so when I saw it on the shelf and realized, It’s time again. A part of me is worried every single time that I retry an all-time favorite that it just won’t be the same. I simply won’t enjoy it as much. I’ll have somehow grown in my beer-drinking ways since my last sampling and realize a certain beer just ain’t what I used to think it was. I mean, my favorite movie used to be “Flight of the Navigator.” And then I turned 8. Therefore, I was a bit leery as I opened a gorgeous bottle of Old Guardian. Wow, my fears were quickly assuaged and I was taken to heaven. This beer is so potent and so tasty. It’s almost not like beer, more akin to a Sam Adam’s high ABV Utopia, though clearly not as intense. The orange and banana alcoholic taste shocks your tongue. You don’t take big gulps, just tiny little sips, savoring every single whiff and drink of this beauty. The flavor staying with you well after you put your beer back down. I like to stick my face completely into the glass as far as it will go and inhale this beer deeply for a good minute or so like I’m some sixteen-year-old redneck that stole a nitrous tank.

I wanted to time how long it would take to drink, to savor, an entire bomber of Old Guardian. I started the stopwatch at 9:18 PM and with the final sip I clicked it off. It was 11:15. A two-hour beer! In fact, a two hour high. It’s like floating on a cloud, not like getting wasted or fucked up as a bad macrobrew makes you feel. In fact, I didn’t even realize I was drunk until my friend came home and I started rambling on and on about how sorry I was that his favorite NBA team, the Spurs, had just lost their playoff series to the Lakers. Only then did I realize how wasted I was. Someone must have roofied my Old Guardian. Then again, funny thing, I was by myself all night. And, I haven’t roofied myself since freshman year. Nope, the beer had done it’s work. And I went to bed happy. I love you Old Guardian, see you again in October or so.

A+