Portland Food Coma

Paris Food Coma Part 8 - And So It Ends...

2011-12-10T16:22:00.001-08:00

Before reading I would recommend re-visiting parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,and 7 - if you have a few hours to spare...

Day 8 – Hell Awaits

The last thing that I remember before falling into acoma-like sleep is Joel bursting into the room at 3:00 am like a gay carnivalon fire, dying to tell me all about what had happened on his way back fromHellfest.

“So I’m waiting for the shuttle busses and it’s the usualshit-show of people trying to get the fuck out of there, right? Some whitetrash bitch starts chatting me up, and it turns out she’s from Kentucky orAlabama or somewhere along those lines. Her dumpy, sulky boyfriend is justhanging out next to her, not saying anything. She starts complaining aboutpeople being rude and not waiting their turn for one of the wildly infrequent shuttles,just as one pulls up in the general vicinity of our group.

The girl, thinking she is somehow doing the right thing,steps aside to let someone else, who she claims has been there longer than her,get on the shuttle first, expecting to be let on shortly after. Instead, themob begins to shove her and her dead fish boyfriend out of the way, and in asplit second I saw one opening in the bus and I jumped straight in, forcing mymoney directly into the hands of the driver. As the shuttle door begins toslide shut, the girl catches a glimpse of me in the backseat, and just startsscreaming ‘HOW COULD YOU?!?! YOU EVEN TALKED TO MEEEE!!’ Oh well bitch, havefun waiting patiently in line for the next three hours!

While telling his story, Joel has begun neatly arranging hisnewly acquired trinkets, consisting of another plastic Hellfest pitcher andfour cups bearing the identical logo. He seems quite proud of what he has puttogether, and joins me for a quick glass of wine, explaining our itinerary forlineup of bands before turning the lights down.

With the eighth day of our adventure in France comes thefinal and most exciting leg of Hellfest, featuring such rock legends as JudasPriest, Ozzy Osbourne, and the reason we have travelled this distance to beginwith, Opeth. It is also the final time I will have to deal with being outsideall day drinking shitty beer and eating shittier food, all the while knowingthat there are about a million more preferable dining options only a half hour awayin Nantes.

Though I only sleep for five hours, it feels like eighteen.I feel rejuvenated, and even, dare I say, a bit hungry due to an early dinner.I allow princess Joel get the remainder of his beauty rest as I shower up, puton my increasingly beat up Cole Haans, and slip out into the streets of Nantesin search of something reasonable to eat. I am painfully aware that it is 10:30am, so the chance of finding anything remotely satisfying to snack on is aboutas likely as me getting laid with my limited grasp of the French language. Atleast with anyone worth writing about...

After about an hour of meandering about, I begin to growtired of being painfully reminded that only complete assholes eat at this timeof day in France. Just as I’m about to throw in the towel and start hammeringdown beers instead of food, I catch a particularly tantalizing scent comingfrom a block away. Further investigation reveals a rotisserie grill set up onthe sidewalk in front of a small cafe, with four beautiful golden birds twirlingand dripping juices everywhere.

As I saunter closer, it appears that this is no mirage. Theonly question is how the fuck am I going to get my paws on some of this yardbird? There is no way that this place could possibly be open, right? I suddenlybecome very self-conscious, not wanting to walk up and try the door for fear ofbeing told in a very condescending manner that it is not lunchtime yet. I’m not sure where this fear is coming from,as I think it is readily apparent that I’m not from anywhere around here and it's not like I'll ever see any of these people again.

Regardless, I decide to slink around the corner and watchthe door, waiting for someone else to go in first and give me the green light.While lurking, I scare the living shit out of some poor woman in front of abakery window, as I bowl straight into her, knocking the baguette right out ofher hands. Honestly, I don’t think I recovered well from this, after pickingher bread up I stammer and mumble a few things in English before backing awaywhile barking “Have a GREAT day!” at this poor citizen.

It has been seven minutes and no one has gone in the shop. Iwant to give up but the chickens smell so good that I stick around, patientlywaiting for my opportunity to be inevitably disappointed. Three minutes later, a middle aged man in atweed sport coat makes a move towards the door, and after waiting a moment tosee if he is shooed right back out, I know it is time.

Inside the shop, a large elderly woman tends to severalroasted chickens in the case as the tweeded-up man purchases a few whole birds to go. Sheseems to expect me to do the same, and appears puzzled when I ask her, in bustedup Franglish, if I can have an order to eat right now. I realize that I amprobably asking for the equivalent of a Bloody Mary at 9PM, but I have beenvery patient to try one of these goddamn beak-wearing shitheads, so I followthrough with my request.

She obliges me with a reasonable portion of chicken withbuttered potatoes, served in a small plastic container with flimsy plasticflatware. Her mood doesn’t improve when I turn right around and perch myself onone of her tiny stools to devour my meal right then and there. My first bite ofchicken is dry and lacking flavor, so I dip the next one in the accumulatedjuices at the bottom of the container, with marginally better results. Thepotatoes are lacking any kind of seasoning, and I find myself growingincreasingly upset, resisting the urge to turn around and start flinging themat this fowl-ruining harlot of a cafe owner.

I take three deep breaths, finish a few more bites, politelythank the woman, and take the rest with me to its final destination, thenearest trash can. In my wretched newfound mood, all of the festive Nintendo mosaics onthe city walls are really starting to piss me off. In the distance, I see thepastel-colored signage of the juice bar chain I had enjoyed the detox beveragefrom at the train station in Tours. My spirits start to rise, kind of like theman in the shower from the 1988 Coast soap commercial, as I begin makingheadway towards what would surely make me feel much better about myself. As Iget within the final six feet of the sidewalk sign, it becomes obvious thatsomeone had left it out from last night and that they are, of course, closed. Iwant to smash things, but wisely begin the long trudge back towardsthe hotel, swearing in a colorful new language under my breath.

When I get back, Joel is just waking up so I spare him thedetails of my “Rotisseratastrophe.” Instead, I pretend as if I have not eatenyet, complaining that I was waiting for him to get up before I ate because Ididn’t want him to miss anything good. Though I think he believes me, I do notthink, however, that he really gives a shit. Upon consulting his new RailEurope iPhone app, he discovers with horror that because it is Sunday, there isa four-hour window with zero trains bound for Clisson, throwing his Hellfestitinerary into a discombobulated mess.

I suggest that this allows for a long lunch, which cheershim up a bit. Personally, I’m not that concerned that my outdoor festival timeis being cut short, as I know all of the bands I want to see are coming on muchlater. It is now around 12:45, and our train leaves at 3:15, so we set out onceagain to scavenge for an amazing lunch experience in the city. During my solowine drinking Internet time last night, I discovered the Vegan Black Metal Chefepisode involving the creation of an awesomely satanic Pad Thai. While watchingit for a second time with Joel, we had both decided that Thai food soundedperfect, setting ourselves up for predictable disappointment when all ten ofthe places we try to go are closed on Sunday afternoon.

As I begin to descend into Crankyland, Joel recognizes thatwe must get situated soon to preserve the sanity of the group. We pass by ChezMaman, remembering it as one of our reliable and pretty concierge’s recommendations. Shehadn’t let us down yet, so we decide to give it a try. The hostess agrees toseat us, giving the impression that we have just made it in under the wire. Shepromptly illustrates her point by denying another American couple entrance twominutes later, informing them that lunch is done for the day.

Due to being quite famished, we are unfazed at first by thefact that the entire restaurant is done up head to toe in Playmobil toys ofvarying sizes and ethnicities. It is only when Joel points out the alarminglylarge angel poised right over my head that I begin to question the sanity ofwhoever owns this godforsaken place, that and the fact that we are listening tothe Bee Gees at a fairly loud volume over the speakers.

While waiting patiently for our swashbuckler-looking serverto acknowledge our existence, I select a bottle of Domaine La Genestiere TavelRose to put our heads back in the game. The musketeer’s demeanor changes when hetakes the order and sees that we are ready to do some serious mid-day drinking,which seems to be common among French server folk. My advice to anyonetravelling in France – don’t be on the wagon. Save that kind of behavior forIndia or your first day teaching kindergarten.

As Tavel is the AOC for rosé favored by French kings andpopes of Avignon, the wine, served in funky mismatched stemware, possesses afuller bodied character with flavors of berries, flowers, and spice. Whilepowering through glass number one, I consider a very difficult decision. Thereis a Thai chicken curry dish on the menu, corresponding to the cravings I wasexperiencing not long ago, and though I know not to order it based on the factthat we are in a French restaurant, I also realize that this place is definitelya little bit non-traditional so maybe, just maybe, it might be a specialty ofthe chef. My language skills prevent me from consulting with the server so Idecide to take the plunge and get it anyway.

When I consult my notes from this portion of the trip, I seethat I wrote down something about “Joel begins the sassington process, that is,the process of being sassy.” Maybe he can shed light on these meaninglessramblings, but probably not.

My appetizer strikes me as the inspiration for whatever American shithead coined the term "Chef's Salad," though instead of the way Amato's does it with turkey, ham, cheese and hard-boiled egg, they have substituted creamy chicken livers, smoky bacon, soft house madecroutons, and a perfectly poached, runny egg. Joel, still not overhis fetish with meat spread, hungrily tears into his chicken liver terrine,smearing it on the warm, crusty bread provided for the table.

We reach the halfway mark with our bottle, and I am feelinggreat. So great, in fact, that I am almost prepared for my bad decision to cometo life as I am presented with a large dome of white rice surrounded on allsides by a moat of acceptable but completely run-of-the-mill chicken curry. Ipeer across the table at Joel, who seems quite pleased with his choice of beefCarpaccio with elephant-sized asparagus and a small boat of frites. This makesme feel like throwing something at him, but refrain by insuring myself that Ihad plenty of time to make my decision and now I must live with it.

To ease my pain, I steal half of Joel’s fries, which I cansay in 100% honesty, are some of the best fucking fried potatoes I have everhad in my life. They are perfectly seasoned, crunchy on the outside, soft onthe inside, and dripping with whatever fat they were cooked in. They are sogood that the thought of using a condiment is almost as unnecessary as playing“Night Fever” while people are trying to eat.

When I am satisfied with my performance of decimating thebest part of Joel’s meal for him, I hit the loo, only to discover a largePlaymobil man with his hand reaching out towards me stationed right next to thetoilet. As I resist the urge to piss in its creepy, lifeless face, I notice aportrait of who I perceive to be famous World War I French flying ace ReneFonck. Officially credited with 75 kills during the war, only 6 fewer than theRed Baron himself, Manfred Von Richtofen, Fonck was the Allied “Ace of Aces,”famously claiming that he “put bullets into his target as if he placed themthere by hand.” Though I cannot quite confirm whether the portrait is him ornot, I do enjoy speaking on the subject.

Dessert menus have been rested on the table, in the form ofsmall, leather bound novels with the first page replaced by pastry offerings.It is refreshing to see that no one uses the Copperplate Gothic Bold font on menus here in France, as I morethan get my fill of it in Portland. Both Joel and I agree that the Le Kouing Amann sounds like the mostappealing dessert, plus it is marked as a house specialty, so we pull thetrigger on one for each of us. This proves to be the most satisfying andperfect confection of the entire trip. It is like a perfect sticky bun, servedwith butter ice cream and tart cherry puree, a wonderful combination oftextures and flavors that actually leaves us wanting another.

Before we can act on such impulses, the swashbucklermaterializes holding two snifters, identifying them as “Almond liequer, on the house.”I guess we have managed to make a favorable impression after all, so we try notto look like pikers when it comes time to ask for the check, asserting when weare ready for it rather than making hand gestures or just sitting motionless,waiting for it to happen to us.

The walk back to the hotel is uneventful, save for the JapN’ Go, a small shop advertising, most interesting to me, merchandise pertainingto “Gothic Lolitas.” And, of course, there are more obligatory church pictures!

The time for departure to Clisson is drawing near, so wechange into our festival attire, enjoy a large shot of absinthe, and make ourway to the neighboring train station. The usual array of Vikings and marauders,disgruntled with the Sunday train schedule chicanery, are packed into thelobby. Again, I enjoy the views of Muscadet vines on the countryside as wespeed towards the village, where, this time, there are no police withdrug-sniffing dogs awaiting our arrival. It is actually quite peaceful and theboarding of shuttles takes place in an organized and civil manner. When wereach the festival grounds, I notice the mood to be equally subdued, especiallyamongst those who have been camping out for four straight days, without sleep,no doubt. Hellfest has finally begun to wear people down, and I am thankful formy break from day 2.

While getting settled in, I decide to try the local wineemblazoned with the Hellfest logo, testing it to find out if it is, at best,drinkable. It is not, and reminds me of eating particularly old green grapesfrom the supermarket. Discouraged, but with that mistake safely behind me, Ichoose Guinness as my poison for the duration of the evening. I order three ata time, shotgunning one immediately and quickly gulping down the other two, toreduce risk of spillage when I am inevitably and repeatedly bumped into. Joel devises his own system of delivery, involving two cups at once, which, to me, has too much potential to end upall over the used-condom and cigarette butt laden grounds.

The first main stage act we witness is Mr. Big, an Americanrock supergroup popular in the late eighties and early nineties. Though I wasquick to trash on them when I first saw that they were in the lineup, I noticedthat all of my guitar-geek friends were swift to come to their defense.

“You just wait, you wait until you hear Paul Gilbert onguitar and Billy Sheehan on bass. You’re going to shit yourself. Trust me” aremy pal Jeff’s words of warning in response to my statement that “Mr. Big sucksass.”

And proven wrong I was. With Joel as my witness, we watchedthese guys, clearly seasoned concert veterans, tear through a ridiculous setthat actually left me wishing I knew the words to any of their songs. Thisimage is from a face-melting duel between bass and guitar, complete withbass-shredding and all.

For Doro, Germany’s crazy cougar bombshell answer to LitaFord, Joel insists that we make our way towards the front of the crowd, forwhat I assume is an enhanced view of the former Warlock vocalists impressiverack. Three minutes into the first song, I look up to see a man in a wheelchairbeing passed over the crowd, towards the stage. Miraculously, he makes it allthe way, and the crowd goes berserk as he is grabbed and wheeled away bysecurity, wildly flailing his arms in an effort to get Doro to notice him.

It doesn’t take long for this show to get a bit repetitivefor me, so I signal to Joel that we are in desperate need of more beer. Heseems to share my sentiment, and we begin the long journey through a sea ofbodies to reach the Guinness kiosk. Judas Priest is due up in 45 minutes, justlong enough for me to drain five beers and join thousands of others for a goodpiss in the woods/vineyards.

The sea of bodies has now shifted back to Maine Stage 1, sowe are forced to watch Judas Priest from afar, aided by the massive centrallylocated jumbotron. As Rob Halford tears through all of the classics, not tomention about 9 wardrobe changes – including an outfit made entirely of sequinsthat he wears while revving a motorcycle on stage like some kind of MetalLiberace – we notice a group of boys starting to make a scene about ten feetaway.

At first glance they might be mistaken for the band“Silverchair,” three of them probably in their late-teens/early twenties, thetwo more normal looking ones accompanied by fairly cute, metal-poser chicks.The girlfriend-less boy, who by the looks of him is probably named “Gideon” or“Yancy,” has long, dirty blond hair, light blue bug eyes, and is wearingskin-tight leopard print jeggings. They are flailing and thrashing about, likeassholes, bumping into and spilling beer on several increasingly angry Vikings.At one point, Gideon, in a feeble attempt to impress the girls and at the sametime demonstrate that he is comfortable with his sexuality, mounts theshoulders of one of his friends. While he is up there, he yells and screams,spilling yet more beer, before we all watch him get dropped, from about 6 feetup, directly onto the side of his ugly face. He gets up, in a daze, and triesto laugh and act like his entire world isn’t throbbing and ringing in his ears.This makes the Alphas of Silverchair laugh, setting them into a fist pumping,singing frenzy during “Breaking the Law.”

Throughout all of this, I have been observing a stout butclearly rugged character standing in front of me, as he grows more and morevisibly angry about the beer that has been spilled on his denim vest covered inJudas Priest patches by this group of wankers and poofters. Finally, afterbeing bumped for a third time, he has had enough. He winds up and shoves one ofthe boys in the back, sending him flying about 10 feet, causing them all to,without even looking back, quickly relocate about 100 feet away. We all patJudas Priest Berserker, who seems quite satisfied with himself, on the back.

Joel goes on to explain, “When someone shoves you like that,you either turn around expecting to fight or just move on without looking.” Atleast these kids knew the rules, I guess...

I am finally hungry again, and I opt to seek out the ArgentineanSausage stand, as it was my favorite amongst all of the disgusting shit that Iconsumed on day one. To remedy the problem I experienced the last time, thatthere was too much subpar bun for one sausage, I order two, throwing one of thebuns away and jamming two sausages at once right into the other, whileslathering it with chimmichurri and mayo. It is just as delicious as it sounds,until about 4 bites in when I am covered head to toe in sand by a gust of wind.I take one look at the sandwich, start to nibble, and then whip it onto theground before marching over the beer kiosk.

Ozzy Osbourne takes the stage, and I am happy to see that hedeviates from the whole “Randy Rhodes Tribute” set that I’ve witnessed himperform over and over. Instead, he plays “Shot in the Dark,” “Road to Nowhere,”and a few others that I know and love but aren’t completely fucking tired of.As is his usual practice, Ozzy complains between every song that “He can’tfucking hear us!” or that we are not going ‘Extra, Extra, Extra Crazy!” forhim, threatening to not play anymore if these demands are not met. I would liketo remind Ozzy that the reason he cannot fucking hear us is that he is 113years old, and his ears are no doubt failing him.

At this point I’m completely running on empty, beer is doingvery little to alter my mood, and my feet feel like they are going to fall off.I know that I must press on because Opeth is slated to begin at 1:30AM, thelast show of the festival, so I press on back to the beer kiosk. Somegoofy-looking French asshole, upon hearing me order, “Three Guinness, please,”corrects me by saying “Don’t you mean, SiVous Plait?” I pretend that I don’t hear him, and after collecting mydrinks I turn and throw an elbow into the beer he is holding, knocking it to theground. He looks angry, but does nothing as I look him straight in the eye andsay “Merci.”

As Joel and I wander about, we notice what appears to be adead hippie collecting dust while the crowd walks around him. Upon furtherexamination, it appears to be a sleeping hippie, passed out in to the kind ofdeep sleep that can only result from being up for three straight days blowingmeth, when you start to hallucinate and your body simply can take no more. Inmy exhausted state I find this quite amusing, and kick a bit of extra dirt onhim, for good measure.

When Opeth finally takes the stage, I forget everythingabout my surroundings and physical condition. The set list is exactly as Ihoped it would be, and at one point, during “The Drapery Falls,” I notice I’veactually got a tear streaming down my cheek. Both Joel and I are completelymesmerized, until I snap out of it and observe that the show is drawing to aclose. I suggest we get a head startwalking towards the shuttles and taxis, about ¾ of a mile away, to hopefullyshave an hour off of our long journey home.

The mass exodus from Hellfest begins, but thankfully a largepercentage of the festivalgoers are campers heading back to the site. When wefinally reach the taxi and shuttle area, there is the usual frustrationbeginning to occur. A single cab driver, clearly waiting for someone specific,fends off countless attempts for hire. We start chatting with two wispy Britishcollege students, who offer to split a cab back to Nantes with us, which seemslike a fine idea to us. Joel and I get our money ready in our hands, and as twotaxis pull around we immediately rush to the door of one, completely ignoringthe police officer yelling for us to get out of the road. We shove money intothe hands of the cab driver, which welcomes us in, and we beckon to our newBritish friends to get the fuck moving. One of them feels it is a good idea tohaggle over the price with the driver, a move that costs him dearly as twowomen push by them and into the car with us.

I really, really wish those kids had pulled it together as Ifind myself wedged in the back seat with two awful French women, both reekingof terrible perfume and each closely resembling Ursula from The Little Mermaid. While Joel enjoysthe comforts of the front seat, I am forced to listen to these two wildebeestswhisper and giggle in French for about 35 minutes, all the while searchingaround for some kind of “eject” button to send them both crashing into the roofof the vehicle, before we are mercifully dropped off at our hotel.

It is now 3:30 AM, and with a 7:45 wake up call to catch ourtrain to Paris at 9:15, we should be heading off to bed, after draining a quickbottle of Vouvray, of course. I feel completely wired with nervous energy thatis both keeping me awake and muddling my thoughts at the same time, leaving mewith no choice but to absently stare off into the distance while sipping myglass of wine. My last memory is tryingto focus my thoughts by drunkenly playing AngryBirds before finally surrendering to sleep.

Day 9 – The VoyageHome

The morning arrives swiftly and painfully, and I am at leastthankful for the quality of the showers at the Mercure as I let the hot waterrun over my head for a solid 35 minutes. As we begin packing, I take one lookat my sneakers, filthy from the festival, and toss them into the trashcan. Inthe name of travelling light, we have emptied all but 3 bottles of Champagne,the remaining of which being reserved for consumption with privileged companyback home. I am also sure to leave the anorexic yet astonishingly attractivemaid a bit of absinthe, assuming that for her it probably won’ t take much tohave her bouncing off of walls and fucking random sailors.

The mass exodus from Hellfest is underway when we arrive atthe train station, but due to purchasing first class tickets we are able toavoid the crowded sections of the train. Instead, we find ourselves seateddirectly across from friendly old couple with a dog. Joel’s über gay side isalways at it’s most pronounced when he is exposed to cute little doggies,prompting him to use his special “dog voice,” which sounds a little bit like ahigh pitched Stewie from Family Guy.At one point, when I point this out to him, he defends his behavior by claimingthat his dog is like his child, and I respond that I strongly dislike children,officially rendering this comparison ineffective.

The elderly man yammers at length, in French, about theHellfest festivities he is currently reading about in the newspaper. Apparently,attendance of the show reached 80,000, a figure that doubles our originalhypothesis. The man seems surprised that Joel and I were among the attendees,and after listening to him for about four more minutes I signal that I am“taking a break” by donning my headphones for the duration of the three hourride to Paris.

Upon arrival at Charles De Gaulle Airport, the plan is tocheck our bags first before we try to scare up some lunch. This is goingsmoothly, until the electronic check-in machine prompts me with an option toupgrade my seat for 50 Euro, which I eagerly accept. When it asks for me toinsert my credit card, it becomes apparent, once again, that without the goldeuro-chip on the face of the card, this isn’t going to work. Because I am unableto proceed, my transaction is cancelled. When I attempt to restart, it showsthat I am already checked in but not upgraded, and after repeating this processseveral times with no success, I begin to descend into mental overload,becoming a tad bit enraged. When I attempt to ask for help, I am rudelydirected to a very long line forming twenty feet away.

By now Joel has been through checkout for about ten minutes,and as I wait in line, growing increasingly “stormy” due to dehydration andhunger, he sits on a bench mapping out the easiest method to calm me down whenI finally make it through. He is successful in this endeavor, as the firstthing out of his mouth before I can start a tirade is “Let’s get you somelunch.”

Our flight is slated to depart in three hours, so we decidethat a leisurely lunch is most certainly in order. Because I am pushing towardsthe state of emergency, we settle on the first sit-down restaurant that we see,a chain called “Paul.” The Maitre’d seems a bit out of place, with a sleek,well-fitting black suit amidst the stewardess-style uniforms sported by thewait staff. He leads us to our table, where we are abandoned for a solid 10minutes until we are finally able to track down a server and order a bottle ofRiesling from Alsace. As we peruse the menu we debate whether “Paul” is inreference to Bocuse, Prudhomme, or Newman, before deciding that it doesn’treally matter as long as the burgers we are about to order do not suck.

About halfway through our bottle of wine, my excessive useof the word “fuck” begins bothering two elderly women seated next to us. One ofthem makes little noises to signal displeasure, which only serves to elevatethe volume of my profanity. Luckily, before things get too heated, our foodarrives. The burger, surprisingly, is fantastic, cooked to a perfect medium andtopped with creamy béarnaise sauce and tangy cornichon. Coupled with the salty,delicious frites, it is exactly what I required to quiet down my rage, andtensions ease between the neighboring tables.

Joel picks up the lunch tab, claiming that he is officially“Done spending money, babe.” We split up for a bit, and when I run into him inthe terminal twenty minutes later he has purchased a pair of Prada sunglasses.“Well, NOW I’m done spending money,” he lies.

I seem to be developing a severe cold at an alarmingly rapidspeed, so to combat this I purchase two splits of Piper Heidsick Monopolechampagne and a bottle of orange juice from one of the cafes in the terminal.As I quickly dispatch all three, I inform Joel that it is “Just what the doctorordered.”

“Which doctor? Doctor Feelgood?” is his typically bitchyresponse.

Unfazed, I manhandle two more splits before we are informedthat our flight is being delayed by two hours. At this point we are bothgetting pretty desperate to get our asses home, so we try to stay cheerful. Igo to the newsstand and purchase ten magazines; most importantly Star because I want to be caught up onwhat has been happening in the States since I’ve been gone.

After an hour and three cans of Moretti lager, I check theschedule to find out that we are now facing an additional two-hour delay, dueto Air France experiencing a strike. Now, getting a tad bent out of shape, Ichug three more Morettis, desperately trying to fend off a cold that is gettingworse and worse.

Tired of the options in the cafe, I suddenly become awarethat if I am allowed to drink anywhere in the terminal, what is to stop me fromgoing to the duty free shop and buying really good Champagne and just openingit on the spot? To test my theory, I chat up the store clerk, who not onlydirects me to a cooler with cold bottles ready to drink, but also supplies mewith plastic cups!

I purchase two half bottles of Ruinart Rose, and hurry backto tell Joel about my brilliant plan.

“Yeah, that’s just what you need. Great job!” He mumbleswhile happily accepting a glass of the Ruinart. I can barely feel my body as wefinally receive word, four and a half hours late, that our plane is ready to board.I tip up the last of bottle number two, hoping to pass out the minute I reachmy seat. Unfortunately my “upgrade” with “more legroom” has actually justlanded us right in front of the boarding door, in seats that actually feel morenarrow and uncomfortable than the regular ones.

Though ready to blow a fuse in my head, I sit calmly,smiling at one of the stewardesses during takeoff. Once we are in the air, Iapproach her, politely explaining that I am, in so many words, much too widefor the seats we have paid to upgrade to, requesting, if at all possible and nobig deal if it isn’t, that we may move to a more comfortable arrangement. Shelooks around, and whispers to me that if we remain quiet about it, she willmove us to the second floor of the plane, the “business elite” section, if thatis ok. Yes, I played the “fat card.” So what.

After we are re-situated, Joel genuinely compliments me on myhandling of the situation. Because of my now severe cold, I am unable to sleepeven after three more mini-bottles of red wine, and am subjected to severalgag-reflex inducing movies, including one particular pile of shit involvingAshton Kutcher and Natalie Portman.

After what feels like three days but is actually only 7hours, we arrive back in Boston, where it is a bit surreal to freelycommunicate in English again. All I can think about is making it home to my ownbed. In my crippled state, I make the usual “on the wagon for a month afterthis” kind of bullshit plans, knowing that all I really need is a good night’ssleep and a bowl of pho before I’mback after it all over again.

Looking back, I can safely say we accomplished what we setout to do in France. Though our French could use a lot of work, we managed toget by speaking the universal language of drinking and eating. A lot.

Third Annual Pumpkin Beer Tasting - Oh, The Horror

2011-10-04T14:47:00.000-07:00

Curiously, there's something about October that causes my consistent feeling of self-loathing to take a slight dip. Because being this content simply will not do, I began the annual tradition of gathering my beer geek friendstogether and tasting every pumpkin beer available on the market, if for no other reason than to demonstrate why this product has no business existing in the first place.

If you missed out, here are the results of the 2009 and 2010“PumCaCaFest”

Our third official tasting brings with it many new andexciting changes, not to mention a dramatic increase in offerings from variousbreweries. First, due to the release of Shipyard’s "Smashed Blueberry," we have added a new category built around blueberries, not to mention we have aged some of last year's entries to see just how much worse they can get.

Each year brings new challenges for the tasters, and we are all looking forward to Shipyard's release of Smashed Durian sometime in 2016.

Let's meet the 2011 "Unlucky Six"

Nolan

The only veteran of each festival of pumpkininny bullshit thus far,Nolan is the beer buyer for Downeast Beverage in Portland (who, along with ourpals at Novare Res and RSVP, supplied our materials), not to mention an avidhome brewer.

Brad

Returning from PumKake 2010, Brad is also a seasoned homebrewer, farmer, and professional cook.

Chris

A newcomer to the Pumpkin circuit, Chris brings extensivehome brewing knowledge to the table, in addition to being a dedicated drinker whohas much higher standards in beer than he does in people (he said that).

Matt

Also in his rookie year guzzling PumCrap, Matt works in theretail beer world. As we soon find out, he is not afraid to share his opinion evenat risk of ridicule from fellow tasters.

Dietz

Anyone who reads this blog knows that Dietz, my roommate and a longtimestaple in the Portland wholesale wine scene , knows a lotabout drinking.

Joe

Well, you know where I stand on this.

Moving right along into the first round of 2011’s nauseatingmadness:

Pumpkin

(Unfortunately, Smashed Pumpkin was sold out, presumably purchased bychefs to braise short ribs in as the package suggests, at the time of thistasting).

#1 Woodchuck Hard Cider Pumpkin Private Reserve

According to the website:

Every once in a whileyou know you stumble upon something glorious. That something just so happens tobe our Private Reserve Pumpkin. We have combined our signature taste with arefreshing pumpkin finish. Limited to just two and half hours on the productionline this is a true connoisseur's cider

Judge’s Corner:

Nolan:

This has a pleasant, warm bile aroma with hints of angrypiss. It is much too sweet, displaying a foul, rancid flavor.

Joe:

It smells like chemical cleanup after a rather large mess,and the flavor walks the line between Pepto Bismol and rotten Big League Chew, if gum can go rotten?

Matt:

This is far to sweet and syrupy, and tastes much like Iwould imagine eating a urinal cake would be like.

Dietz:

Reminiscent of the bathroom at Amigo’s, it is super oxidized and candy-sweet, and by candy I am referring to the multi-colored dots that used to be eaten off of paper strips.

Chris:

Hard cider smell, sweet shitty taste, kind of like an orangeBetty Rubble Flintstones Vitamin.

Brad:

A sweaty, boozy nose that reminds me of Wild Turkey AmericanHoney. Sweet like apple juice with no flavors of pumpkin whatsoever, but ratherthat of cough syrup.

#2 Brooklyn Brewery Post Road Pumpkin Ale

According to the website:

Available from Augustthrough November. Early American Colonialists, seeking natural ingredients forbrewing ales, turned to pumpkins, which were plentiful, flavorful, andnutritious.

Judge’s Corner:

Nolan:

Smells like beer and cinnamon, tastes like cinnamon and notmuch else. It is mouth-strippingly dry and bitter.

Joe:

Smells like cinnamon, and is so overwhelmingly bitter thatit actually hurts your mouth. I can’t understand why anyone would drink this.

Matt:

This is like eating nutmeg flavored toothpaste.

Dietz:

Smells like pumpkin pie filling, with a nutmeggy, dry, bitter palate.A little malt would go a long way here, and might make it a little bit lesssoapy.

Chris:

Not much going on outside of cinnamon and nutmeg here.

Brad:

Astringent, kind of like chewing an Advil tablet, andtasting a bit like Gargamel’s asshole.

#3 Shipyard Brewing Pumpkinhead Ale

According to the website:

Shipyard PumpkinheadAle is a crisp and refreshing wheat ale with delighftul aromatics and subtlespiced flavor.

Judge’s Corner:

Nolan:

This smells like the brewers at Shipyard each took off theirsocks, filled them with dead squirrels, and “dry-rodented” their beer. Tasteslike dirt and spicy shit.

Joe:

A perennial crowd pleaser here, it’s aroma reminds me ofwhat the jar would smell like after you caught bugs in it, when you were young.The flavor, which reminds me of Dentyne gum, is actually making my eyes tearup.

Matt:

Light beer with nice bitterness. Reminds me of pumpkin pie,and I like pie.

Dietz:

Tastes like Dentyne and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, I enjoy thedark, urine hue.

Chris:

It smells like moth ass – I’m not kidding this actuallysmells like a dead fucking moth.

Brad:

“Stinkyard Blumpkinhead” has a nose of cinnamon and feet,and tastes like Big Red gum.

#4 Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale

According to the website:

AvailableSeptember-November

* Amber-colored ale

* Brewed with a bountyof fall flavors like vine-ripened pumpkin, allspice, cloves, and nutmeg

* Together with atouch of wheat, Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale has a smooth, lightly spicedfinish

* Pairs well with beefdishes and seasonal soups

Judge’s Corner:

Nolan:

I’m sad.

Joe:

Smells like a banana peel that has been hanging out in thetrashcan for awhile. This tastes like a combination of banana flavored Runts and caramelmade with Splenda.

Matt:

Rotten smell, super crappy, kind of gives me a stomach ache.

Dietz:

Dark in color, light in flavor.

Chris:

Shit

Brad:

Smells like pumpkin guts, needs more malt, I’m actually notoverly offended by this one.

#5 Jolly Pumpkin "La Parcella" Number One Pumpkin Ale

According to the website:

Packed with realpumpkins, hints of spice and a gentle kiss of cacao to lighten the soul. Aneveryday easy way to fill your squashy quotient. Only available for a few shortmonths. Not to be missed.

Judge’s Corner:

Nolan:

Nice tart aroma, with huge carbonation. It is buttery fromthe oak, with a pleasant tangy and spicy character. I would actually drink thisfor fun!

Joe:

Nose is mild, with a nice sweet and sour flavor morereminiscent of citrus than pumpkin.

Matt:

I like the sour funk and flavors of lime zest, but there isno detectable pumpkin.

Dietz:

Definite sourness, with more aromas of bubblegum (not sure where this is coming from). Violently foamy, with coriander and citrus notes.

Chris:

Nice flavors of lime and butter to offset the sourness.

Brad:

It has a sour nose, and appears to be a tad off. It is slightlybitter, with notes of citrus, but no pumpkin.

#6 Wolaver’s Organic Brewing Pumpkin Ale

According to the website:

Conveniently underconstruction

Judge’s Corner:

Nolan:

Uninviting nose, mouth numbing clove flavors.

Joe:

This is like ripping a Djarum cigarette that you bummed offof a sketchy goth chick.

Matt:

Chestnuts on the nose, with dull, overpoweringly bad flavorsof clove.

Dietz:

Allspice and nutmeg on the nose, with flavors completelyruined by cloves.

Chris:

All spice, no back.

Brad:

Too much spice. It tastes like a bong hit after you’ve beenmunching on cloves and Szechuan Peppercorns.

#7 Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale

According to the website:

A perennial favoriteat our brewery Halloween party, Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale is brewed withover 11 pounds of real pumpkin per barrel, adding a full body and sweetness tothis dark reddish amber brew. Deep roastedmalts, including a smoked malt, lend a distinct roasted character whiletraditional pumpkin pie spices give the beer a subtle spice note.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

It has an aroma of A&W root beer, it is actually muchless offensive than I expected and tastes mildly of pumpkin! It’s even a littlebit smoky, not too bad!

Joe:

What really grabs me about this one is the lacing! Actually,no – it’s the Sasparilla nose and the mellow flavors of caramelized pumpkin. Iguess Samuel Adams actually has the budget to buy real pumpkins!

Matt:

Smells like pumpkin, tastes like beer with a bit ofpumpkinseed oil.

Dietz:

Candy shell of Chicklets gum on nose, pie spice goes in an odd direction, with caramelized pumpkin and cola flavors.

Chris:

Tastes like caramelized pumpkin.

Brad:

Nice, dark amber color with a great head. Root beer nosewith malty, rich, and sweet flavors, not half bad!

#8 Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat

According to the website:

Shock Top PumpkinWheat is the first seasonal ale from Shock Top. With a flavor that’srefreshingly fall and distinctly Shock Top, it’s guaranteed not to be the last.

Shock Top Pumpkin Wheatis a traditional Belgian-style wheat ale brewed with ripe pumpkins and avariety of autumnal spices, including nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves. Thisseasonal unfiltered wheat ale has a deep amber color and is crafted with arefreshingly distinct pumpkin spice that fully captures all the flavors offall.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

After watching my friends furiously spit this out, I’m notsure I want to taste this. This tastes like a Miller Lite that was opened amonth ago, and a small orange man has been living in there ever since.

Joe:

Shock and Awful. I want this out of my mouth immediately.The label looks like one of the bad guys from Final Fight 3. Apparently,according to the label, we didn’t pour it properly.

Matt:

I’m actually afraid to taste this – it’s a lot like cinnamonwith Bud Light.

Dietz:

Zero body, with a Budlightesque, cinnamon nose. This doesn’ttaste good at all. I feel physically unwell.

Chris:

Fucked up, chemically nose.

Brad:

Bad, thin, and cheap tasting.

#9 Harpoon Brewery UFO Pumpkin

According to website:

Imagine a pumpkin vinewound its way in a field of barley, and a brewer harvested it all to make abeer. Add Northwestern hops and a blend of spices, and you've got UFO Pumpkin.The malt combination provides a smooth body and slightly sweet flavor, whichbalances perfectly with the earthy notes derived from the pure pumpkin. Andlike all of our UFO beers, UFO Pumpkin is unfiltered so all the wonderfulflavors are right there in your glass. Cheers!

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

Why did you do this?!?!?!

Joe:

This smells like the comic strip out of a Bazooka Joe Gumwrapper, and tastes like shitty beer that a small child mashed up his grahamcrackers in.

Matt:

Tastes like Shock Top, but with more bubble gum thancinnamon.

Dietz:

Slightly bitter, cinnamon nose with high sweet tones.

Chris:

Bubblegum and burnt sugar.

Brad:

Yet another awful wheat beer, with a bubblegum nose andterrible spices - Not good.

#10 Dogfish Head Brewery Punkin Ale

According to the website:

A full-bodied brownale with smooth hints of pumpkin and brown sugar. We brew our Punkin Ale withpumpkin meat, organic brown sugar and spices. This is the perfect beer towarm-up with, as the season cools.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

Wow! It’s Beer! Roasted pumpkin and spice, everything workstogether here.

Joe:

This is always a breath of fresh air during these tastings.Mellow, chocolate flavors with notes of real pumpkin. Unlike many others, theydidn’t just steep the beer with shitty spice packets.

Matt:

This has great spice and actually tastes like pumpkin. Icould drink this warm or cold and be pretty happy.

Dietz:

This is actual beer!! I swallowed it (the only one)!! Chocolate malts, faint wiff of spice and brown sugar - not bad.

Chris:

Malty with a light body and a nice amount of cocoa on thenose.

Brad:

Mild, slightly hopped nose. Malty, roasted, vanillacharacteristics make it sweet but not unpleasant.

#11 Southern Tier Brewing Co. "Pumking" Imperial Pumpkin Ale

According to the website:

Pumking is an ode toPúca, a creature of Celtic folklore, who is both feared and respected by thosewho believe in it. Púca is said to waylay travelers throughout the night,tossing them on its back, and providing them the ride of their lives, fromwhichthey return forever changed! Brewed in the spirit of All Hallows Eve, atime of year when spirits can make contact with the physical world and whenmagic is most potent. Pour Pumking into a goblet and allow it’s alluring spiritto overflow. As spicy aromas present themselves, let its deep copper colorentrance you as your journey into this mystical brew has just begun. As thefirst drops touch your tongue a magical spell will bewitch your taste buds makingit difficult to escape. This beer is brewed with pagan spirit yet should beenjoyed responsibly.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

This smells like amaretto, and something is very wrong here.It tastes like beer that has been strained through a 90 year old’s cardigan,did they just dump potpourri into this? Aggressively bad.

Joe:

This immediately kicks my gag reflex into motion. It tasteslike eating an old person’s toilet seat that has been in use for thirty years.

Matt:

I smell tater tots in this malty, potpourri tasting crap, Itsmells like old people, and tastes like bad whiskey, which would be fine if itwere bad whiskey. I feel sick.

Dietz:

Crazy graham cracker on the nose, McDonald's Apple Pie spice profile, perfumey palate, super shitty. Plastic or vinyl notes. Floral hops + pie spice = gross.

Chris:

I think I need a pair of Depends..

Brad:

Amaretto nose with absolutely no head. Sickly sweetmedicinal flavors make me wonder why this beer has been unleashed upon us,maybe the brewer’s wife likes it or something? If you could drink plastic, thisis what that would be like.

#12 Cisco Brewers Pumple Drumkin Ale

Our Pumple Drumkin Aleis a fall favorite on the island. A deep orange hue and a subtle pumpkin piearoma meet a robust malt character in this ale which, true to its seasonalreveling, tastes like toasted pie crust in your mouth. It will finish clean anddry on the palate and leave you wishing that every day could be autumn onNantucket!

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

Mild, tastes like beer with a smoky, almost chipotle spice.This is much less evil than some of the others.

Joe:

Smells faintly of cinnamon, and tastes nothing like pumpkin,in addition to being fairly bitter. Meh...

Matt:

I like the beers from this brewery and this one is noexception. Medium sweet, with flavors of coriander.

Dietz:

Smells not totally unlike beer, tastes like beer but not good beer, with a bit of floral hops along with sweet, malty flavors. Again, some cola notes as well.

Chris:

This tastes like it is only partially fermented.

Brad:

I get a lot of cola on the nose, and it tastes like beerwithout much else added. Is this pumpkin getting fermented at all?

#13 Heavy Seas "Great Pumpkin" Imperial Pumpkin Ale

According to the website:

We add the pumpkinduring the mash at precisely the right time to create just the perfect balanceof malt, hops, pumpkin and spice.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

Walks a fine line between palatable and shitty, with mildlyoverwhelming spices.

Joe:

This smells like pumpkin pie to me, but not the good kind.It’s rich, but completely overwhelmed by vanilla. I’m going to jump ship onthis one..

Matt:

Smells like really sweet pumpkin pie, tastes overlymetallic.

Dietz:

Good pumpkin pie spice, sweet and higher gravity with a cloying, spicy, and awful finish.

Chris:

Tastes starchy, with very unpleasant spices.

Brad:

Warm, sweet and malty – not too spicy with flavors ofvanilla and anise.

#14 Cape Ann Brewing Co. Fisherman’s Pumpkin Stout

According to the website:

Fisherman's PumpkinStout is a dark stout accentuated by flavors of the Autumn season. Using realPumpkin, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice, the Cape Ann Brewing Company took afresh take at the common fall seasonal. This rich dark stout offers an invitingpumpkin spice aroma that gives way to the delicate essence of real pumpkin.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

Honestly, my glass still smells like Pumking. Tastes like aroasty, mild stout. Meh.

Joe:

Smells like vanilla stout, tastes like coffee. Not muchgoing on here.

Matt:

This is a weak stout that tastes like watery coffee.

Dietz:

Tastes like cheap stout with a bit of spice.

Brad:

Chocolate malt, it’s thin with a tiny bit of spice. Thoughwe have had many beers today that are much worse, it’s still not my favorite.

#15 Rock Art Brewing Imperial Spruce Stout

no info on website

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

Root beer nose with mellow spices. Not a bad stout, thoughits got a little bit of a metallic taste to it.

Joe:

Smells like root beer barrel hard candy, and tastes likeburnt chicory, kind of like Cafe du Monde coffee.

Matt:

Tastes like a stout with chicory and licorice but with nopumpkin. I also get a metallic flavor out of it.

Dietz:

Not bad, really long finish of bitter chicory.

Chris:

Metallic.

Brad:

The nose of this is quite worty and green. It’s boozy,malty, and bitter – like burnt espresso. Where’s the pumpkin?

Judge’s Results:

Top 3

Nolan:

1. Jolly Pumpkin La Parcella

2. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale

3. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale

Joe:

1. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale

2. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale

3. Jolly Pumpkin La Parcella

Matt:

1. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale

2. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale

3. Shipyard Pumpkinhead

Dietz:

1. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale

2. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin

3. Rock Art Spruce Stout

Chris:

1. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale

2. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale

3. Jolly Pumpkin La Parcella

Brad:

1. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale

2. Cisco Brewers Pumple Drumkin Ale

3. Jolly Pumpkin La Parcella

The Bottom 3 (1 being the worst)

Nolan:

1. Southern Tier Pumking

2. Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale

3. Woodchuck Pumpkin Cider

Joe:

1. Southern Tie Pumking

2. Post Road Pumpkin Ale

3. Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat

Matt:

1. Southern Tier Pumking

2. Harpoon UFO Pumpkin

3. Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat

Dietz:

1. Southern Tier Pumking

2. Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat

3. Post Road Pumpkin Ale

Chris:

1. Southern Tier Pumking

2. Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale

3. Woodchuck Pumpkin Cider

Brad:

1. Post Road Pumpkin Ale

2. Southern Tier Pumking

3. Harpoon UFO Pumpkin

Aged Pumpkin

After tasting through all of these, none of us were feelingvery good about ourselves. The morale of the story is:

If you’re going to drink pumpkin beer to begin with, don’tbother aging it. Those that aged gracefully were pretty much the same as lastyear, and those that did not were just plain fucking hideous.

We will not be re-visiting this category next year.

Blueberry!

#1 Sea Dog Brewing Co. Blue Paw Ale

According to the website:

Our uniquecontribution to the fruit ale category features the nutty quench of wheat alecombined with the delightful aromatics and subtle fruit flavor contributed byMaine wild blueberries.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

The aroma is much like one of those smelly blue markers.Fucking awful.

Joe:

This is what it would smell like if I tucked severalblueberries under my scrotum and went jogging. It tastes like stale BOOBERRRYcereal.

Matt:

The artificial blueberry in this reminds me of a scratch andsniff book.

Dietz:

Holy fucking artificial blueberry, like a blueberry vodka snatch and sniff. Tastes like shitty warm beer, which it is - heavy on the BOOBERRY.

Chris:

The smell of this islike plastic toy blueberries nestled in dirty laundry.

Brad:

This doesn’t smell remotely like real blueberries, and theflavor is musty, moldy, and stale.

#2 Atlantic Brewing Co. Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale

According to the website:

A light fruit ale,made with Maine wild blueberries. As opposed to many of the sweeter fruit beerson the market, our addition of fresh Maine wild blueberries in this light aleyields a subtle blueberry aroma, without the sweet aftertaste. A mixture of thefollowing Mutton malts, pale, crystal, and Munich, are combined with wheat togive this ale its lighter body, and we only use minimal amounts of Target andWillamette hops.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

Mild, tastes like beer and real blueberry, but I still don’tlike it.

Joe:

I think this is perfectly drinkable, as it tastes like realblueberries. One of the best things we’ve tasted today, for sure.

Matt:

Tastes like real blueberries, and that’s good enough for me!

Dietz:

Doesn't smell bad, and actually tastes like blueberries. Totally ok with this.

Chris:

Light, malty nose with real blueberry flavor – who knew?

Brad:

This tastes about right to me. I could drink this.

#3 Bar Harbor Brewing Co. “True Blue” Blueberry Wheat Ale

According to the website:

This beer is brewedwith a blend of barley malts and crushed wheat to gently lighten the body. TrueBlue is a crisp blueberry ale with an assertive blueberry nose followed by amore subtle blueberry flavor in the body of the beer. We feel you won't findanother beer quite like it.

Judge’s Table

Nolan:

Tastes like rubber to me, too bad, considering these guysmake some pretty decent beers!

Joe:

This is like tongue-jacking a Michelin tire that has beenriding through a scorched blueberry patch.

Matt:

This has a very unpleasant bitterness to it, and theblueberry comes through in an inappropriate manner.

Dietz:

Not as good but still not shitty, wait, no - it is actually. I don't prefer it.

Chris:

Tastes like zinc and dirt.

Brad:

No likey. There’s blueberry flavor, and then something goeshorribly wrong with notes of resin and rubber.

#4 Shipyard Brewing Co. “Smashed Blueberry”

According to the website:

Smashed Blueberry isthe newest beer in Shipyard Brewing Company's Pugsley's Signature Series line.This beer is a hybrid between a Porter and a Scotch Ale and has a rich mouthfeel and a body of complex intensity. Upfront, there are distinct flavors ofcoffee and chocolate beautifully accentuated by the aroma of fresh blueberries.The finish features a delicate balance of sweet fruit and dry hops.

This beer pairs wellwith glazed duck, ribs, barbeque, chocolate, and blueberry deserts. To fullyexperience all the flavors, Smashed Blueberry is best drunk at 55 degreesFahrenheit.

Judge’s Table:

Nolan:

It has a medicinal flavor that makes me wonder if theybrewed with Robitussin instead of water. I don’t feel very good.

Joe:

The nose reminds me of Dimetap, and it tastes like a purplefreezer pop cut with ink.

Matt:

Medicinal, overly sweet, and just plain awful.

Dietz:

Artificial blueberry with chocolate, porter style notes. It's like mixing Louis Blue Raspberry Otter Pops with shitty porter.

Brad:

Let me start by pointing out that this beer has very poorslamability. It is sweet like aspartame and Splenda, and isover-carbonated. Also, the flavor ismore like currant, than blueberry. Can we be done now?

Judge's Results:

Nolan: