Thursday, March 29, 2012
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Paris Food Coma Part 8 - And So It Ends...
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 a
coma-like sleep is Joel bursting into the room at 3:00 am like a gay carnival
on fire, dying to tell me all about what had happened on his way back from
Hellfest.
“So I’m waiting for the shuttle busses and it’s the usual
shit-show of people trying to get the fuck out of there, right? Some white
trash bitch starts chatting me up, and it turns out she’s from Kentucky or
Alabama or somewhere along those lines. Her dumpy, sulky boyfriend is just
hanging out next to her, not saying anything. She starts complaining about
people 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, the
mob begins to shove her and her dead fish boyfriend out of the way, and in a
split second I saw one opening in the bus and I jumped straight in, forcing my
money directly into the hands of the driver. As the shuttle door begins to
slide shut, the girl catches a glimpse of me in the backseat, and just starts
screaming ‘HOW COULD YOU?!?! YOU EVEN TALKED TO MEEEE!!’ Oh well bitch, have
fun waiting patiently in line for the next three hours!
While telling his story, Joel has begun neatly arranging his
newly acquired trinkets, consisting of another plastic Hellfest pitcher and
four cups bearing the identical logo. He seems quite proud of what he has put
together, and joins me for a quick glass of wine, explaining our itinerary for
lineup of bands before turning the lights down.
With the eighth day of our adventure in France comes the
final and most exciting leg of Hellfest, featuring such rock legends as Judas
Priest, Ozzy Osbourne, and the reason we have travelled this distance to begin
with, Opeth. It is also the final time I will have to deal with being outside
all day drinking shitty beer and eating shittier food, all the while knowing
that there are about a million more preferable dining options only a half hour away
in 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, put
on my increasingly beat up Cole Haans, and slip out into the streets of Nantes
in search of something reasonable to eat. I am painfully aware that it is 10:30
am, so the chance of finding anything remotely satisfying to snack on is about
as likely as me getting laid with my limited grasp of the French language. At
least with anyone worth writing about...
As I saunter closer, it appears that this is no mirage. The
only question is how the fuck am I going to get my paws on some of this yard
bird? There is no way that this place could possibly be open, right? I suddenly
become very self-conscious, not wanting to walk up and try the door for fear of
being 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 watch
the 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 a
bakery window, as I bowl straight into her, knocking the baguette right out of
her hands. Honestly, I don’t think I recovered well from this, after picking
her bread up I stammer and mumble a few things in English before backing away
while barking “Have a GREAT day!” at this poor citizen.
It has been seven minutes and no one has gone in the shop. I
want to give up but the chickens smell so good that I stick around, patiently
waiting for my opportunity to be inevitably disappointed. Three minutes later, a middle aged man in a
tweed sport coat makes a move towards the door, and after waiting a moment to
see if he is shooed right back out, I know it is time.
Inside the shop, a large elderly woman tends to several
roasted chickens in the case as the tweeded-up man purchases a few whole birds to go. She
seems to expect me to do the same, and appears puzzled when I ask her, in busted
up Franglish, if I can have an order to eat right now. I realize that I am
probably asking for the equivalent of a Bloody Mary at 9PM, but I have been
very patient to try one of these goddamn beak-wearing shitheads, so I follow
through with my request.
She obliges me with a reasonable portion of chicken with
buttered potatoes, served in a small plastic container with flimsy plastic
flatware. Her mood doesn’t improve when I turn right around and perch myself on
one of her tiny stools to devour my meal right then and there. My first bite of
chicken is dry and lacking flavor, so I dip the next one in the accumulated
juices at the bottom of the container, with marginally better results. The
potatoes are lacking any kind of seasoning, and I find myself growing
increasingly upset, resisting the urge to turn around and start flinging them
at this fowl-ruining harlot of a cafe owner.
When I get back, Joel is just waking up so I spare him the
details of my “Rotisseratastrophe.” Instead, I pretend as if I have not eaten
yet, complaining that I was waiting for him to get up before I ate because I
didn’t want him to miss anything good. Though I think he believes me, I do not
think, however, that he really gives a shit. Upon consulting his new Rail
Europe iPhone app, he discovers with horror that because it is Sunday, there is
a four-hour window with zero trains bound for Clisson, throwing his Hellfest
itinerary into a discombobulated mess.
I suggest that this allows for a long lunch, which cheers
him up a bit. Personally, I’m not that concerned that my outdoor festival time
is being cut short, as I know all of the bands I want to see are coming on much
later. It is now around 12:45, and our train leaves at 3:15, so we set out once
again to scavenge for an amazing lunch experience in the city. During my solo
wine drinking Internet time last night, I discovered the Vegan Black Metal Chef
episode involving the creation of an awesomely satanic Pad Thai. While watching
it for a second time with Joel, we had both decided that Thai food sounded
perfect, setting ourselves up for predictable disappointment when all ten of
the places we try to go are closed on Sunday afternoon.
As I begin to descend into Crankyland, Joel recognizes that
we must get situated soon to preserve the sanity of the group. We pass by Chez
Maman, remembering it as one of our reliable and pretty concierge’s recommendations. She
hadn’t let us down yet, so we decide to give it a try. The hostess agrees to
seat us, giving the impression that we have just made it in under the wire. She
promptly illustrates her point by denying another American couple entrance two
minutes later, informing them that lunch is done for the day.
Due to being quite famished, we are unfazed at first by the fact that the entire restaurant is done up head to toe in Playmobil toys of varying sizes and ethnicities. It is only when Joel points out the alarmingly large angel poised right over my head that I begin to question the sanity of whoever owns this godforsaken place, that and the fact that we are listening to the Bee Gees at a fairly loud volume over the speakers.
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 made
croutons, and a perfectly poached, runny egg. Joel, still not over
his fetish with meat spread, hungrily tears into his chicken liver terrine,
smearing it on the warm, crusty bread provided for the table.
Dessert menus have been rested on the table, in the form of
small, 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 more
than get my fill of it in Portland. Both Joel and I agree that the Le Kouing Amann sounds like the most
appealing dessert, plus it is marked as a house specialty, so we pull the
trigger on one for each of us. This proves to be the most satisfying and
perfect confection of the entire trip. It is like a perfect sticky bun, served
with butter ice cream and tart cherry puree, a wonderful combination of
textures and flavors that actually leaves us wanting another.
The time for departure to Clisson is drawing near, so we
change into our festival attire, enjoy a large shot of absinthe, and make our
way to the neighboring train station. The usual array of Vikings and marauders,
disgruntled with the Sunday train schedule chicanery, are packed into the
lobby. Again, I enjoy the views of Muscadet vines on the countryside as we
speed towards the village, where, this time, there are no police with
drug-sniffing dogs awaiting our arrival. It is actually quite peaceful and the
boarding of shuttles takes place in an organized and civil manner. When we
reach the festival grounds, I notice the mood to be equally subdued, especially
amongst 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 for
my break from day 2.
While getting settled in, I decide to try the local wine
emblazoned 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 grapes
from the supermarket. Discouraged, but with that mistake safely behind me, I
choose Guinness as my poison for the duration of the evening. I order three at
a time, shotgunning one immediately and quickly gulping down the other two, to
reduce 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 up
all over the used-condom and cigarette butt laden grounds.
The first main stage act we witness is Mr. Big, an American
rock supergroup popular in the late eighties and early nineties. Though I was
quick to trash on them when I first saw that they were in the lineup, I noticed
that all of my guitar-geek friends were swift to come to their defense.
“You just wait, you wait until you hear Paul Gilbert on
guitar and Billy Sheehan on bass. You’re going to shit yourself. Trust me” are
my pal Jeff’s words of warning in response to my statement that “Mr. Big sucks
ass.”
And proven wrong I was. With Joel as my witness, we watched
these guys, clearly seasoned concert veterans, tear through a ridiculous set
that actually left me wishing I knew the words to any of their songs. This
image is from a face-melting duel between bass and guitar, complete with
bass-shredding and all.
For Doro, Germany’s crazy cougar bombshell answer to Lita
Ford, Joel insists that we make our way towards the front of the crowd, for
what I assume is an enhanced view of the former Warlock vocalists impressive
rack. Three minutes into the first song, I look up to see a man in a wheelchair
being passed over the crowd, towards the stage. Miraculously, he makes it all
the way, and the crowd goes berserk as he is grabbed and wheeled away by
security, 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 repetitive
for me, so I signal to Joel that we are in desperate need of more beer. He
seems to share my sentiment, and we begin the long journey through a sea of
bodies to reach the Guinness kiosk. Judas Priest is due up in 45 minutes, just
long enough for me to drain five beers and join thousands of others for a good
piss in the woods/vineyards.
The sea of bodies has now shifted back to Maine Stage 1, so
we are forced to watch Judas Priest from afar, aided by the massive centrally
located jumbotron. As Rob Halford tears through all of the classics, not to
mention about 9 wardrobe changes – including an outfit made entirely of sequins
that he wears while revving a motorcycle on stage like some kind of Metal
Liberace – we notice a group of boys starting to make a scene about ten feet
away.
At first glance they might be mistaken for the band
“Silverchair,” three of them probably in their late-teens/early twenties, the
two 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 wearing
skin-tight leopard print jeggings. They are flailing and thrashing about, like
assholes, 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 same
time demonstrate that he is comfortable with his sexuality, mounts the
shoulders 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 feet
up, directly onto the side of his ugly face. He gets up, in a daze, and tries
to 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 but
clearly rugged character standing in front of me, as he grows more and more
visibly angry about the beer that has been spilled on his denim vest covered in
Judas Priest patches by this group of wankers and poofters. Finally, after
being bumped for a third time, he has had enough. He winds up and shoves one of
the 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 pat
Judas 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.” At
least these kids knew the rules, I guess...
I am finally hungry again, and I opt to seek out the Argentinean
Sausage stand, as it was my favorite amongst all of the disgusting shit that I
consumed on day one. To remedy the problem I experienced the last time, that
there was too much subpar bun for one sausage, I order two, throwing one of the
buns away and jamming two sausages at once right into the other, while
slathering 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 the
ground before marching over the beer kiosk.
Ozzy Osbourne takes the stage, and I am happy to see that he
deviates from the whole “Randy Rhodes Tribute” set that I’ve witnessed him
perform 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’t
fucking hear us!” or that we are not going ‘Extra, Extra, Extra Crazy!” for
him, threatening to not play anymore if these demands are not met. I would like
to remind Ozzy that the reason he cannot fucking hear us is that he is 113
years old, and his ears are no doubt failing him.
At this point I’m completely running on empty, beer is doing
very 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, the
last show of the festival, so I press on back to the beer kiosk. Some
goofy-looking French asshole, upon hearing me order, “Three Guinness, please,”
corrects me by saying “Don’t you mean, Si
Vous Plait?” I pretend that I don’t hear him, and after collecting my
drinks I turn and throw an elbow into the beer he is holding, knocking it to the
ground. He looks angry, but does nothing as I look him straight in the eye and
say “Merci.”
As Joel and I wander about, we notice what appears to be a
dead hippie collecting dust while the crowd walks around him. Upon further
examination, it appears to be a sleeping hippie, passed out in to the kind of
deep sleep that can only result from being up for three straight days blowing
meth, when you start to hallucinate and your body simply can take no more. In
my exhausted state I find this quite amusing, and kick a bit of extra dirt on
him, for good measure.
When Opeth finally takes the stage, I forget everything
about my surroundings and physical condition. The set list is exactly as I
hoped it would be, and at one point, during “The Drapery Falls,” I notice I’ve
actually got a tear streaming down my cheek. Both Joel and I are completely
mesmerized, until I snap out of it and observe that the show is drawing to a
close. I suggest we get a head start
walking towards the shuttles and taxis, about ¾ of a mile away, to hopefully
shave an hour off of our long journey home.
The mass exodus from Hellfest begins, but thankfully a large
percentage of the festivalgoers are campers heading back to the site. When we
finally reach the taxi and shuttle area, there is the usual frustration
beginning to occur. A single cab driver, clearly waiting for someone specific,
fends off countless attempts for hire. We start chatting with two wispy British
college students, who offer to split a cab back to Nantes with us, which seems
like a fine idea to us. Joel and I get our money ready in our hands, and as two
taxis pull around we immediately rush to the door of one, completely ignoring
the police officer yelling for us to get out of the road. We shove money into
the hands of the cab driver, which welcomes us in, and we beckon to our new
British friends to get the fuck moving. One of them feels it is a good idea to
haggle over the price with the driver, a move that costs him dearly as two
women push by them and into the car with us.
I really, really wish those kids had pulled it together as I
find myself wedged in the back seat with two awful French women, both reeking
of terrible perfume and each closely resembling Ursula from The Little Mermaid. While Joel enjoys
the comforts of the front seat, I am forced to listen to these two wildebeests
whisper and giggle in French for about 35 minutes, all the while searching
around for some kind of “eject” button to send them both crashing into the roof
of 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 our
train to Paris at 9:15, we should be heading off to bed, after draining a quick
bottle of Vouvray, of course. I feel completely wired with nervous energy that
is both keeping me awake and muddling my thoughts at the same time, leaving me
with no choice but to absently stare off into the distance while sipping my
glass of wine. My last memory is trying
to focus my thoughts by drunkenly playing Angry
Birds before finally surrendering to sleep.
Day 9 – The Voyage
Home
The morning arrives swiftly and painfully, and I am at least
thankful for the quality of the showers at the Mercure as I let the hot water
run over my head for a solid 35 minutes. As we begin packing, I take one look
at my sneakers, filthy from the festival, and toss them into the trashcan. In
the name of travelling light, we have emptied all but 3 bottles of Champagne,
the remaining of which being reserved for consumption with privileged company
back home. I am also sure to leave the anorexic yet astonishingly attractive
maid a bit of absinthe, assuming that for her it probably won’ t take much to
have her bouncing off of walls and fucking random sailors.
The mass exodus from Hellfest is underway when we arrive at
the train station, but due to purchasing first class tickets we are able to
avoid the crowded sections of the train. Instead, we find ourselves seated
directly across from friendly old couple with a dog. Joel’s über gay side is
always 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 a
high pitched Stewie from Family Guy.
At one point, when I point this out to him, he defends his behavior by claiming
that 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 the
Hellfest festivities he is currently reading about in the newspaper. Apparently,
attendance of the show reached 80,000, a figure that doubles our original
hypothesis. 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 hour
ride to Paris.
Upon arrival at Charles De Gaulle Airport, the plan is to
check our bags first before we try to scare up some lunch. This is going
smoothly, until the electronic check-in machine prompts me with an option to
upgrade my seat for 50 Euro, which I eagerly accept. When it asks for me to
insert my credit card, it becomes apparent, once again, that without the gold
euro-chip on the face of the card, this isn’t going to work. Because I am unable
to proceed, my transaction is cancelled. When I attempt to restart, it shows
that I am already checked in but not upgraded, and after repeating this process
several 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 rudely
directed 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 and
hunger, he sits on a bench mapping out the easiest method to calm me down when
I finally make it through. He is successful in this endeavor, as the first
thing out of his mouth before I can start a tirade is “Let’s get you some
lunch.”
Our flight is slated to depart in three hours, so we decide
that a leisurely lunch is most certainly in order. Because I am pushing towards
the 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 the
wait staff. He leads us to our table, where we are abandoned for a solid 10
minutes until we are finally able to track down a server and order a bottle of
Riesling from Alsace. As we peruse the menu we debate whether “Paul” is in
reference to Bocuse, Prudhomme, or Newman, before deciding that it doesn’t
really matter as long as the burgers we are about to order do not suck.
About halfway through our bottle of wine, my excessive use
of the word “fuck” begins bothering two elderly women seated next to us. One of
them makes little noises to signal displeasure, which only serves to elevate
the volume of my profanity. Luckily, before things get too heated, our food
arrives. The burger, surprisingly, is fantastic, cooked to a perfect medium and
topped with creamy béarnaise sauce and tangy cornichon. Coupled with the salty,
delicious frites, it is exactly what I required to quiet down my rage, and
tensions 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 in
the 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 rapid
speed, so to combat this I purchase two splits of Piper Heidsick Monopole
champagne 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 doctor
ordered.”
“Which doctor? Doctor Feelgood?” is his typically bitchy
response.
Unfazed, I manhandle two more splits before we are informed
that our flight is being delayed by two hours. At this point we are both
getting pretty desperate to get our asses home, so we try to stay cheerful. I
go to the newsstand and purchase ten magazines; most importantly Star because I want to be caught up on
what has been happening in the States since I’ve been gone.
After an hour and three cans of Moretti lager, I check the
schedule to find out that we are now facing an additional two-hour delay, due
to Air France experiencing a strike. Now, getting a tad bent out of shape, I
chug three more Morettis, desperately trying to fend off a cold that is getting
worse and worse.
Tired of the options in the cafe, I suddenly become aware
that if I am allowed to drink anywhere in the terminal, what is to stop me from
going to the duty free shop and buying really good Champagne and just opening
it on the spot? To test my theory, I chat up the store clerk, who not only
directs me to a cooler with cold bottles ready to drink, but also supplies me
with plastic cups!
I purchase two half bottles of Ruinart Rose, and hurry back
to tell Joel about my brilliant plan.
“Yeah, that’s just what you need. Great job!” He mumbles
while happily accepting a glass of the Ruinart. I can barely feel my body as we
finally 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 reach
my seat. Unfortunately my “upgrade” with “more legroom” has actually just
landed us right in front of the boarding door, in seats that actually feel more
narrow 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, I
approach her, politely explaining that I am, in so many words, much too wide
for the seats we have paid to upgrade to, requesting, if at all possible and no
big deal if it isn’t, that we may move to a more comfortable arrangement. She
looks around, and whispers to me that if we remain quiet about it, she will
move us to the second floor of the plane, the “business elite” section, if that
is ok. Yes, I played the “fat card.” So what.
After we are re-situated, Joel genuinely compliments me on my
handling of the situation. Because of my now severe cold, I am unable to sleep
even after three more mini-bottles of red wine, and am subjected to several
gag-reflex inducing movies, including one particular pile of shit involving
Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman.
After what feels like three days but is actually only 7
hours, we arrive back in Boston, where it is a bit surreal to freely
communicate in English again. All I can think about is making it home to my own
bed. In my crippled state, I make the usual “on the wagon for a month after
this” kind of bullshit plans, knowing that all I really need is a good night’s
sleep and a bowl of pho before I’m
back after it all over again.
Looking back, I can safely say we accomplished what we set out to do in France. Though our French could use a lot of work, we managed to get by speaking the universal language of drinking and eating. A lot.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Third Annual Pumpkin Beer Tasting - Oh, The Horror
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 friends
together 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.
Our third official tasting brings with it many new and
exciting changes, not to mention a dramatic increase in offerings from various
breweries. 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 our
pals at Novare Res and RSVP, supplied our materials), not to mention an avid
home brewer.
Brad
Returning from PumKake 2010, Brad is also a seasoned home
brewer, farmer, and professional cook.
Chris
A newcomer to the Pumpkin circuit, Chris brings extensive
home brewing knowledge to the table, in addition to being a dedicated drinker who
has much higher standards in beer than he does in people (he said that).
Matt
Also in his rookie year guzzling PumCrap, Matt works in the
retail beer world. As we soon find out, he is not afraid to share his opinion even
at risk of ridicule from fellow tasters.
Dietz
Anyone who reads this blog knows that Dietz, my roommate and a longtime
staple in the Portland wholesale wine scene , knows a lot
about drinking.
Joe
Well, you know where I stand on this.
Moving right along into the first round of 2011’s nauseating
madness:
Pumpkin
(Unfortunately, Smashed Pumpkin was sold out, presumably purchased by
chefs to braise short ribs in as the package suggests, at the time of this
tasting).
#1 Woodchuck Hard Cider Pumpkin Private Reserve
According to the website:
Every once in a while
you know you stumble upon something glorious. That something just so happens to
be our Private Reserve Pumpkin. We have combined our signature taste with a
refreshing pumpkin finish. Limited to just two and half hours on the production
line this is a true connoisseur's cider
Judge’s Corner:
Nolan:
This has a pleasant, warm bile aroma with hints of angry
piss. 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 I
would 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 orange
Betty Rubble Flintstones Vitamin.
Brad:
A sweaty, boozy nose that reminds me of Wild Turkey American
Honey. Sweet like apple juice with no flavors of pumpkin whatsoever, but rather
that of cough syrup.
#2 Brooklyn Brewery Post Road Pumpkin Ale
According to the website:
Available from August
through November. Early American Colonialists, seeking natural ingredients for
brewing ales, turned to pumpkins, which were plentiful, flavorful, and
nutritious.
Judge’s Corner:
Nolan:
Smells like beer and cinnamon, tastes like cinnamon and not
much else. It is mouth-strippingly dry and bitter.
Joe:
Smells like cinnamon, and is so overwhelmingly bitter that
it 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 less
soapy.
Chris:
Not much going on outside of cinnamon and nutmeg here.
Brad:
Astringent, kind of like chewing an Advil tablet, and
tasting a bit like Gargamel’s asshole.
#3 Shipyard Brewing Pumpkinhead Ale
According to the website:
Shipyard Pumpkinhead
Ale is a crisp and refreshing wheat ale with delighftul aromatics and subtle
spiced flavor.
Judge’s Corner:
Nolan:
This smells like the brewers at Shipyard each took off their
socks, filled them with dead squirrels, and “dry-rodented” their beer. Tastes
like dirt and spicy shit.
Joe:
A perennial crowd pleaser here, it’s aroma reminds me of
what 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 tear
up.
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 the
dark, urine hue.
Chris:
It smells like moth ass – I’m not kidding this actually
smells 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:
Available
September-November
* Amber-colored ale
* Brewed with a bounty
of fall flavors like vine-ripened pumpkin, allspice, cloves, and nutmeg
* Together with a
touch of wheat, Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale has a smooth, lightly spiced
finish
* Pairs well with beef
dishes and seasonal soups
Judge’s Corner:
Nolan:
I’m sad.
Joe:
Smells like a banana peel that has been hanging out in the
trashcan for awhile. This tastes like a combination of banana flavored Runts and caramel
made 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 not
overly offended by this one.
#5 Jolly Pumpkin "La Parcella" Number One Pumpkin Ale
According to the website:
Packed with real
pumpkins, hints of spice and a gentle kiss of cacao to lighten the soul. An
everyday easy way to fill your squashy quotient. Only available for a few short
months. Not to be missed.
Judge’s Corner:
Nolan:
Nice tart aroma, with huge carbonation. It is buttery from
the oak, with a pleasant tangy and spicy character. I would actually drink this
for fun!
Joe:
Nose is mild, with a nice sweet and sour flavor more
reminiscent of citrus than pumpkin.
Matt:
I like the sour funk and flavors of lime zest, but there is
no 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 slightly
bitter, with notes of citrus, but no pumpkin.
#6 Wolaver’s Organic Brewing Pumpkin Ale
According to the website:
Conveniently under
construction
Judge’s Corner:
Nolan:
Uninviting nose, mouth numbing clove flavors.
Joe:
This is like ripping a Djarum cigarette that you bummed off
of a sketchy goth chick.
Matt:
Chestnuts on the nose, with dull, overpoweringly bad flavors
of clove.
Dietz:
Allspice and nutmeg on the nose, with flavors completely
ruined by cloves.
Chris:
All spice, no back.
Brad:
Too much spice. It tastes like a bong hit after you’ve been
munching on cloves and Szechuan Peppercorns.
#7 Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale
According to the website:
A perennial favorite
at our brewery Halloween party, Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale is brewed with
over 11 pounds of real pumpkin per barrel, adding a full body and sweetness to
this dark reddish amber brew. Deep roasted
malts, including a smoked malt, lend a distinct roasted character while
traditional 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 much
less offensive than I expected and tastes mildly of pumpkin! It’s even a little
bit 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. I
guess Samuel Adams actually has the budget to buy real pumpkins!
Matt:
Smells like pumpkin, tastes like beer with a bit of
pumpkinseed 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 nose
with malty, rich, and sweet flavors, not half bad!
#8 Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat
According to the website:
Shock Top Pumpkin
Wheat is the first seasonal ale from Shock Top. With a flavor that’s
refreshingly fall and distinctly Shock Top, it’s guaranteed not to be the last.
Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat
is a traditional Belgian-style wheat ale brewed with ripe pumpkins and a
variety of autumnal spices, including nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves. This
seasonal unfiltered wheat ale has a deep amber color and is crafted with a
refreshingly distinct pumpkin spice that fully captures all the flavors of
fall.
Judge’s Table:
Nolan:
After watching my friends furiously spit this out, I’m not
sure I want to taste this. This tastes like a Miller Lite that was opened a
month 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 cinnamon
with Bud Light.
Dietz:
Zero body, with a Budlightesque, cinnamon nose. This doesn’t
taste 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 vine
wound its way in a field of barley, and a brewer harvested it all to make a
beer. 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, which
balances perfectly with the earthy notes derived from the pure pumpkin. And
like all of our UFO beers, UFO Pumpkin is unfiltered so all the wonderful
flavors 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 Gum
wrapper, and tastes like shitty beer that a small child mashed up his graham
crackers in.
Matt:
Tastes like Shock Top, but with more bubble gum than
cinnamon.
Dietz:
Slightly bitter, cinnamon nose with high sweet tones.
Chris:
Bubblegum and burnt sugar.
Brad:
Yet another awful wheat beer, with a bubblegum nose and
terrible spices - Not good.
#10 Dogfish Head Brewery Punkin Ale
According to the website:
A full-bodied brown
ale with smooth hints of pumpkin and brown sugar. We brew our Punkin Ale with
pumpkin meat, organic brown sugar and spices. This is the perfect beer to
warm-up with, as the season cools.
Judge’s Table:
Nolan:
Wow! It’s Beer! Roasted pumpkin and spice, everything works
together here.
Joe:
This is always a breath of fresh air during these tastings.
Mellow, chocolate flavors with notes of real pumpkin. Unlike many others, they
didn’t just steep the beer with shitty spice packets.
Matt:
This has great spice and actually tastes like pumpkin. I
could 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 the
nose.
Brad:
Mild, slightly hopped nose. Malty, roasted, vanilla
characteristics make it sweet but not unpleasant.
#11 Southern Tier Brewing Co. "Pumking" Imperial Pumpkin Ale
According to the website:
Pumking is an ode to
Púca, a creature of Celtic folklore, who is both feared and respected by those
who 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, from
whichthey return forever changed! Brewed in the spirit of All Hallows Eve, a
time of year when spirits can make contact with the physical world and when
magic is most potent. Pour Pumking into a goblet and allow it’s alluring spirit
to overflow. As spicy aromas present themselves, let its deep copper color
entrance you as your journey into this mystical brew has just begun. As the
first drops touch your tongue a magical spell will bewitch your taste buds making
it difficult to escape. This beer is brewed with pagan spirit yet should be
enjoyed 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 tastes
like 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, It
smells like old people, and tastes like bad whiskey, which would be fine if it
were bad whiskey. I feel sick.
Dietz:
Chris:
I think I need a pair of Depends..
Brad:
Amaretto nose with absolutely no head. Sickly sweet
medicinal 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, this
is what that would be like.
#12 Cisco Brewers Pumple Drumkin Ale
Our Pumple Drumkin Ale
is a fall favorite on the island. A deep orange hue and a subtle pumpkin pie
aroma meet a robust malt character in this ale which, true to its seasonal
reveling, tastes like toasted pie crust in your mouth. It will finish clean and
dry on the palate and leave you wishing that every day could be autumn on
Nantucket!
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 no
exception. 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 beer
without 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 pumpkin
during the mash at precisely the right time to create just the perfect balance
of malt, hops, pumpkin and spice.
Judge’s Table:
Nolan:
Walks a fine line between palatable and shitty, with mildly
overwhelming 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 on
this one..
Matt:
Smells like really sweet pumpkin pie, tastes overly
metallic.
Dietz:
Chris:
Tastes starchy, with very unpleasant spices.
Brad:
Warm, sweet and malty – not too spicy with flavors of
vanilla and anise.
#14 Cape Ann Brewing Co. Fisherman’s Pumpkin Stout
According to the website:
Fisherman's Pumpkin
Stout is a dark stout accentuated by flavors of the Autumn season. Using real
Pumpkin, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice, the Cape Ann Brewing Company took a
fresh take at the common fall seasonal. This rich dark stout offers an inviting
pumpkin 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 a
roasty, mild stout. Meh.
Joe:
Smells like vanilla stout, tastes like coffee. Not much
going on here.
Matt:
This is a weak stout that tastes like watery coffee.
Dietz:
Brad:
Chocolate malt, it’s thin with a tiny bit of spice. Though
we 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, though
its got a little bit of a metallic taste to it.
Joe:
Smells like root beer barrel hard candy, and tastes like
burnt chicory, kind of like Cafe du Monde coffee.
Matt:
Tastes like a stout with chicory and licorice but with no
pumpkin. I also get a metallic flavor out of it.
Dietz:
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:
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 feeling
very good about ourselves. The morale of the story is:
If you’re going to drink pumpkin beer to begin with, don’t
bother aging it. Those that aged gracefully were pretty much the same as last
year, 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 unique
contribution to the fruit ale category features the nutty quench of wheat ale
combined with the delightful aromatics and subtle fruit flavor contributed by
Maine 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 several
blueberries under my scrotum and went jogging. It tastes like stale BOOBERRRY
cereal.
Matt:
The artificial blueberry in this reminds me of a scratch and
sniff 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 is
like plastic toy blueberries nestled in dirty laundry.
Brad:
This doesn’t smell remotely like real blueberries, and the
flavor 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 beers
on the market, our addition of fresh Maine wild blueberries in this light ale
yields a subtle blueberry aroma, without the sweet aftertaste. A mixture of the
following Mutton malts, pale, crystal, and Munich, are combined with wheat to
give this ale its lighter body, and we only use minimal amounts of Target and
Willamette hops.
Judge’s Table:
Nolan:
Mild, tastes like beer and real blueberry, but I still don’t
like it.
Joe:
I think this is perfectly drinkable, as it tastes like real
blueberries. One of the best things we’ve tasted today, for sure.
Matt:
Tastes like real blueberries, and that’s good enough for me!
Dietz:
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 brewed
with a blend of barley malts and crushed wheat to gently lighten the body. True
Blue is a crisp blueberry ale with an assertive blueberry nose followed by a
more subtle blueberry flavor in the body of the beer. We feel you won't find
another beer quite like it.
Judge’s Table
Nolan:
Tastes like rubber to me, too bad, considering these guys
make some pretty decent beers!
Joe:
This is like tongue-jacking a Michelin tire that has been
riding through a scorched blueberry patch.
Matt:
This has a very unpleasant bitterness to it, and the
blueberry comes through in an inappropriate manner.
Dietz:
Chris:
Tastes like zinc and dirt.
Brad:
No likey. There’s blueberry flavor, and then something goes
horribly wrong with notes of resin and rubber.
#4 Shipyard Brewing Co. “Smashed Blueberry”
According to the website:
Smashed Blueberry is
the 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 mouth
feel and a body of complex intensity. Upfront, there are distinct flavors of
coffee 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 well
with glazed duck, ribs, barbeque, chocolate, and blueberry deserts. To fully
experience all the flavors, Smashed Blueberry is best drunk at 55 degrees
Fahrenheit.
Judge’s Table:
Nolan:
It has a medicinal flavor that makes me wonder if they
brewed with Robitussin instead of water. I don’t feel very good.
Joe:
The nose reminds me of Dimetap, and it tastes like a purple
freezer pop cut with ink.
Matt:
Medicinal, overly sweet, and just plain awful.
Dietz:
Brad:
Let me start by pointing out that this beer has very poor
slamability. It is sweet like aspartame and Splenda, and is
over-carbonated. Also, the flavor is
more like currant, than blueberry. Can we be done now?
Judge's Results:
Nolan:
Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale
Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale
Joe:
Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale
Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale
Matt:
Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale
Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale
Dietz:
Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale
Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale
Chris:
Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale
Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale
Brad:
Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale
Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale
All of the tasters are noticeably grumpier by the time this
is over.
For a solid day following the tasting, my house continues to
smell like artificial spices and stale beer. Why do we do this to ourselves
year after year?
So you don’t have to.
Until next year....
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