This has been a bad week for my stomach.  First, we went to the county fair, where I had — you better sit down for this — 1) a deep-fried twinkie, 2) deep-fried oreos, 3) deep-fried Spam, and best of all, 4) a deep-fried WHITE CASTLE BURGER.  I believe these are coincidentally the forms that the four horsemen of the apocalypse will take when they reappear on earth.  Fortunately for us all, I neutralized them with my stomach.  Then, I found this beverage.  It was a moment that will forever live in infamy, a moment that will have entire chapters devoted to it in my children’s high school history textbooks, a moment that as we speak is forming the foundations of new religions.  The moment that I found…   Budweiser and Clamato.   Yeah, that’s right — Budweiser, a perfectly normal, profitable company, has put out a product that consists of a can, a can that contains beer, tomato sauce, and clam juice.  The resulting concotion is salmon-colored, cloudy, and carbonated.   And it looked just as disgusting as it sloshed down the kitchen sink drain as it did sitting on the shelf in the store.

 Clamato, as I read in wikipedia, is a mix of reconstituted tomato juice concentrate, reconstituted dried clam broth, and high fructose corn syrup.   Oh, and MSG.  Who the hell decided they needed to add beer to the mix?  It’s apparently very popular, particularly in Canada, but it is easily THE WORST BEER I’VE EVER TASTED.  And keep in mind, I’m the guy who actually finished forty-ounce bottles of Schlitz, King Cobra, and something called “Country Club”.  I managed two sips of this abomination before I had to eat a mop to get rid of the flavor.  It takes quite a lot to disgust me, and the fine folks at Budweiser have done it.  I raise a glass of Tums to you in salute.

 Sadly, I had poured it all down the drain before I realized I had not maximized the potential of this drink — clearly, what it’s meant for is dipping sauce for deep-fried White Castles.  Maybe next year, unless I wise up before then.  If I could give this drink a negative six, I could, but let’s just say that my digestive system will never be the same…

Old Milwaukee… just sounds delicious, doesn’t it? This beer dates back before they named brews after snakes. I’m not sure if this is technically malt liquor or merely cheap beer, but I drank it from a 40-ounce bottle shaped like a Saturn rocket booster, so I’ll refer to it as the malt variety. Once Frosty hires a fact-checker for us, I’ll be more diligent in my terminology.

This one was not terrible, but it really stands out for fizziness. The “beer” was astoundingly carbonated. Just so much bubbles, fizz, and accompanying bloated feeling, that I wondered how much actual beer there was in the bottle along with the CO2. If it’s warmer this month than usual, blame my beer review for doubling the global warming effect. Malt liquors in general are more carbonated, and oddly carbonated, than regular old beer — you can tell that whereas a homebrewed beer, for example, contains bubbles from natural fermentation processes, malt liquors contain bubbles thanks to the support of some scary industrial surfactant. Needless to say, I was absolutely charming in the eyes of Mrs. Liquor that night, with my horrible beer breath and need to burp every 3 seconds.

What’s this I see on the label? Lo and behold, Old Milwaukee is brewed and distributed by Schlitz, which makes my least-favorite malt liquor to date. Given the flavors of both, it seems that Old Mil is the upscale, high-quality product, the Lexus to Schlitz’ Toyota. I’d drink this over Schlitz, but not much else — I really can’t recommend it for taste. If you’re entering a burping contest in the next 30 seconds, or you need to inflate a lot of backyard jumpy toys by hand this evening, I heartily recommend it. Otherwise, save your money, and save our world from more global warming!

…aka Aftertaste attack, OMG the aftertaste…did I mention the aftertaste?

Some time ago, Skylark was waxing poetic about this brewery in Eugene, Oregon called Ninkasi. It had something to do with the brewmaster but I can’t remember whether he met him, slept with him, stole his dog or what. He spoke with a salvating tone about the opportunity to try one of these hard to find beers.

So imagine my delight when I saw a bottle at my local beer pusher. ‘Here’s my chance to see what all the fuss is about’, I thought. I’ve often been a big fan of the red ales (Karl Strauss Red Trolley was an early favorite), so I decided to grab the intriguingly titled “Believer Double Red Ale”. From the bottle:

The ancient Sumerians worshipped the beer they made, and praised the Goddess Ninkasi for the miracle of fermentation. Beer is a staple of civilization. Worship the Goddess.

Well, my friends, count me among the non-believers. ‘Cause OMG the aftertaste. The shame is that the flavor of the beer as you drink it is actually pretty good. Its when you stop that all hell breaks loose. Its like it alive. The face twisting after taste literally feels like it wandering around my mouth, punching every taste bud it finds. I’ve had cheek smash before, but this is more like cheek ultra-violence. “Like rubbing a piece of cedar on your cheeks”, the wife says.

I’m not ready to write of Ninkasi just yet, as they have some good sounding beers in the stable. Instead I just warn you to proceed with caution, its “that time of the month” and  this Goddess is vengeful.

I haven’t had this beer in a long time. And yet, it hasn’t been long enough. I can’t even describe the bad that was the taste of this beer. This beer, if you want to call it that, holds the distinction of being the only beer I would not and could not finish. I know that Trader Joe’s isn’t known for its proper beer storage ways, but that can’t be the reason behind the flavor of the Bavarian Hefeweizen. It goes way beyond that. Only a temporary lack of sanity could lead to this sorry beer’s release.

It was an indecisive day at the wall of beer. As I sat contemplating what to buy, my local beer pusher, Sally, remarked how many of the beers on the wall seemed to have a devil, evil, end of the world theme. Perhaps the brewers of America know something we don’t? I figured, well, if I have to go, I should heed the message at hand. Theme week! What better way to understand brewmaster revelations than to drink the beers themselves. For the next couple weeks or until the world ends, whichever comes first, I will be subjecting myself to and revealing to you … the Beers of Evil.

This first beer I chose, some french* job named Belzebuth, immediately grabbed my attention with its gratuitous marketing. Taking up most of the neck was the massive announcement that this beer was 13% alcohol. Savoring dreams of being piss drunk after just one bottle, I poured the bottle into a glass and realized the second thing evil about this beer.

It didn’t fill the glass! (See the picture to the right). I knew the french were annoying, but to make me angry before I’ve even had a single sip was a special accomplishment. I soon discovered however, that the bottler was actual doing me a favor.

A little bitter, but still excited, I took a sip. Reaction: “WTF is this?”. It was like I was chewing it. Full of all sorts of heavy flavors, like gulping a rotten fruit salad. I was a trooper though and resolved to get through a bit more. Thankfully the next sip didn’t taste so rotten. As a matter of fact, it didn’t taste like beer at all. It was more like tonic water with a bunch of whiskey poured in. The kind of whiskey that comes in a plastic bottle. Evil indeed. This stuff was so nasty that even though I poured it out after only three small swigs, the boozy hobo aftertaste stuck with me for the rest of the evening.

If one can call this beer, then I wouldn’t hesitate to call it about the worst beer ever. Quoth Mike Myers: “It’s not just evil, its ‘e-veel’. Like the fru-its of the de-veel”

The next entry in my tongue-pummeling series on malt licka’s, Country Club Malt Liquor is interestingly one of the very few not to go with uber-macho iconography like Steel Reserve or King Cobra. Maybe only Old English, in the world of low-class beverages, even attempts to masquerade as similar heights of culture, but both brews are equally tragic in the futility of trying to fit in as a cheap malt liquor in the grocery store next to all the genuinely classy foodstuff like water crackers or the wines they keep behind glass. Old English at least has thinly veiled menace to keep it from being outright ridiculed by the high-class food — no amount of gothic font will hide that it could call on cousins Colt 45 and Steel Reserve to kick some butt in the fine cheese aisle if need be.  Snoop Dogg probably drinks Old English, after all.  Country Club, on the other hand, leads a pitiable existence, shunned (of course) by the food and beverages you actually would expect to find consumed in a country club, and equally scorned by the other malt liquors for being such a dweeb. Country Club is perhaps the only malt licka whose artwork most definitely cannot kick your ass, whose artwork in fact you could steal lunch money from, give a wedie, then a swirlie. I wonder if it hangs out with other supermarket outcasts, like the sardines, or the little thin cigars with plastic mouthpieces.

The picture I include with this post is intended as testimony that I actually drank the thing. And I did make it all the way through, though just barely. It’s not outright undrinkable, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant.  It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had (see my post on Schlitz), but if you’re looking for a 2-dollar night of fun, you could do better than this.  It is actually pretty bland for a malt liquor — the flavor is bad, but in just a general way, without any of the surprising and novel petrochemical pungencies you get with Schlitz or Steel Reserve.  Heck, Mickey’s may not be much better, but it’s at least got character.  I may not enjoy drinking Mickey’s, but I can at least imagine myself while drinking to be a South Boston street rat who’s tryin’ to make good on his lousy life by makin’ a new start in the boxin’ ring.  Drinking Country Club, what possible scenario can I envision myself in?  A WASP-y guy named Bennett with a trust fund who incongruously drives a beat-up Pinto?  Nah, the cognitive dissonance between the pretensions of the wrapper and the contents inside are just too much for me.

But it is still better than Schlitz.

I present his here to you as a cautionary tale.

Grandpa Goodness was in town, and we shared some of the yummy Hitachino Nest, both coming away with what we thought was a new appreciation for Japanese beer. Sadly, one day while I was away at the salt mines, Grandpa, flush from the success of the previous evening, decided to go to the local beer pusher and pick up something new from Japan to try.

And so begets what is about the worst beer I’ve tried in the 60+ reviews on this site. It’s been a long time since I’ve had those college mainstays Keystone and Natural Light, but if my memory for nausea serves me right, they have a Japanese equivalent. Light like urine, rancid tang like urine (wait, how would I know that?) this stuff was … less than stellar.

There are quite a few things I like to recall from college, but what the frat party beer tasted like isn’t one of them.

I’m not sure I should be reviewing beer. I don’t seem to be qualified. I mean, I paid almost $5 each for two beers at Fred Meyer. I have heard a lot about Hair of the Dog but had never tried one of their brews for myself. They’ve got a cool logo after all, and we all know I am a total sucker for good branding.

I was not in the mood for a whole six pack and although $4.79 or something a bottle made me think twice, I also thought, “this is going to be some NICE beer!” As I poured the beer in to my pilsner glass (I thought it would be fitting) I was sure my thinking was right. The beer was dark with a beautiful head. I mean, gorgeous. My mouth watered in anticipation.

But before I talk about the first sip, let’s talk about Hair of the Dog. Their reputation precedes them. This is real beer-o-phile beer. The first, called Fred, piqued my interest with the name alone. Fred Eckhard, famed beer reviewer and historian had recently passed away and although I had never heard of the man, I quickly became a fan albeit posthumously. The label on the beer paid tribute to Mr. Eckhardt, sighting him as one of the inspirations for getting in to the beer biz. Cool.

Cool, that is until the first sip. Jesus. Satan? My face contorted and I forced it down. My wife gave me a sideways glance. Typical burnt-chocolaty taste, but this time followed by a finish laced with the distinct flavor or vomit. Yes. Vomit. Not kinda vomit, or vomit-like, or faintly reminiscent of vomit. V-O-M-I-T. If this is a tribute, I’d hate to see what they do for people they hate. Fred Eckhardt is spinning in his grave. Or maybe not. Maybe its me.

I soldiered on. I was determined to enjoy this beer and count myself among the true beer lovers. I screwed up my face and worked through the rest of the pilsner glass. Worked through it like hard labor or passing a kidney stone. Again, sidelong glances from the wife asking, “why?”

On to the second glass. Surely the second glass will be better. This one, Adam (not sure which departed soul this one is meant to offend), offered the same thick brown head and chocolaty aroma. It also unfortunately included the same bitter-vomit taste. I was able to withstand about half the glass. Withstand is the key word here.

So, maybe I should turn in my gun & badge or login credentials or whatever. Maybe Fred Eckhardt would give me a good brow-beating for dogging (pun intended) on his namesake. Maybe. But until Mr. Eckhardt comes down from heaven and tells slaps me on the head, I’m sticking to my guns.

This beers sucks. If this is how we honor our fallen beer lovers then I’m thinking we need to stick to simple burials. The next time I spend $4.79 on a beer it better either be good or accompanied by some good house music.

Not really sure what to make of this other than a bunch of executives get to make more money while dumbing down the worlds taste buds with their overpriced stadium swill. For frosty readers it definitely something on the radar:

Miller and Molson Coors to Merge in U.S.

Bonus points if you can tell me what each person in the picture is thinking. Also points in trying to come up with any anagrams for the names. Heres one to get you started

Cool misnomer rolls

I thought when my wife purchase 2 cases (48 bottles) of this beer for my birthday party this past weekend, I thought hmm fun? It turns out that just because there is alot of it, as you may have read in earlier posts, that this doesn’t mean that its gonna be any good. You would think that someone who posts about beer would have learned this lesson by now. I’m here to report that I am a beer failure. The very fact that I let this crap in my house, and that I still have 24 bottles left of it ruins any of my credentials as a beer reviewer. But since my pain is your gain, I’d like to share with you how they want you to believe Pacifico tastes:

This is in fact, a bold face lie. Below is not only how it really tastes, but also how you feel afterwards.

Sure I might have eaten most of the 3 tri-tip roasts I BBQ’d that evening, but with that much brew I shouldn’t feel like the bloated passed out drunk that I do this Monday morning. Oh did I say drunk? What was I thinking this beer was maybe 1% and thats only if you consider the case as a collective. You’ve been warned.