– This is a beer called “Beer From Mars”, and has a picture of Mars on the label.

– Despite being from Mars, the name is in French.

– Comes in a big fat bottle with a champagne-style cork.

– Prominently mentions that its brewed with Brettanomyces Bruxellensis, a wild yeast that creates more sediment than I’ve had in a beer since I accidentally (on purpose) dropped an onion ring into my Pabst.

– Brewed by the Ommegang Brewery, who also brew “Ommegeddon”.

Clearly, this is a beer in need of a hook.  Too subtle!  No personality!  Wait, no, I got that wrong — this is a beer that needs about three less hooks.  “Beer from Mars”?  OK, you got me, I’m a science nerd and I pretty much have no choice but to try it.  But why is it in French?  Here’s my guess:  wild mutant yeast, concocted in a clandestine baguette / beret laboratory in Paris, achieves sentience and immediately set about pursuing a space program.  Thwarted at every turn by lack of reliable second stage boosters and opposable thumbs for golfing on the moon, the Brettanomyces colony forms a thick sludge at the bottom of a bottle, which I then purchase and drink.  Yeah, that sounds about right.

Thankfully, the flavor is quite subtle and understated, a soothing contrast to the jarring thematic juxtapositions on the label.  Nooo, not really!  It’s good, but it’s a big bold mess,  just as WTF-y as the outside.  (It’s a word now.  Rhymes with “swifty”.  So there.)   Really flavorful, very tart, almost like you did a tequila-like ritual involving a shot of beer, a bite of lemon wedge, and a lick of Greek yogurt off your hand.  (Regretting that image.  Much happier about bringing “WTF-y” into the world than that yogurt metaphor abomination.)  It’s very tart, fruity, all-around really bold zesty beer.  This is apparently a result of the wild yeast, which (according to the label) “imparts added tartness, extra zing, and a touch of funk”.  I thought I tasted some Rick James…   Anyway, I do recommend this beer, though it ain’t for sipping in quiet contemplation by the fire.  This beer is best paired with any type of food that requires you clean your fingers with a wet-nap afterward, and best enjoyed while listening to loud live music, preferably a band named “A Touch of Funk”.  Except in French.

And so goes the story with Seven Brides Lauren’s Pale Ale. At first, it was great. The initial taste was fantastic. A flavorful British style pale, with enough malty flavor to keep any hoppy cheek smash at bay. But then I was done…and the taste … was still there. Only it wasn’t good anymore. In fact, it was real bad. The wife said it reminded her of gym socks (tasted those before huh babe?) .

And while I wouldn’t say it tastes like socks (wait, how would I know that), I sit here 20 minutes later, still making that ’smack smack, dog with peanut butter’ mouth noise. I feel like this beer is stalking me. While tasty upfront, LPA wouldn’t go away. Just like Em.

(On a side note, I would like to give general kudos and props to the Seven Brides Brewery in Silverton, Oregon.  In addition to being another jewel in the Oregon Beervana crown, they are ‘keeping it in the family’ by using all local ingredients, and recycling the water and spent grain. We’re a bunch of ‘local rules’ treehuggers here at FG, so keep it up!)

You’d think I’d learn after trying an import from Poland (“cool!”) that turned out to be their Malt Liquor (“dag nabbit!”) that trying odd Eastern European imports with labels in foreign languages is a wild gamble.  But if you’ve been reading my posts so far, you now know that I never learn.  Those brain cells died in a puddle of Schlitz long ago.  This time, it’s from Mother Russia — Baltika Number 6, which is something called a “Baltic Porter”.  In keeping with my policy of never learning, I have also not done my homework to figure out exactly what that is, but I drink on, nonetheless.

Baltika Numero Six is not bad, just off a bit.  Not skunky, despite the intercontinental trip to Socal.  None of the flavors are bad, though there are a LOT of them.  Not too astringent, though I was expecting the first sip to dissolve my front teeth, as so often happens with extra-strong imports.  But it’s just… different — an odd mismash of flavors that don’t quite all work together.  Something’s just not quite right — maybe something’s lost in the translation, maybe this is what Baltic Porters are supposed to be, but I’m not buyin’ it.  Why not?  Check out their website – you can look up the Baltika’s official homepage for all their beers (they run from 1 through 9).  For Number 6, you’ll see a strange juxtaposition of hip, modern Russian youngster spinnin’ trax on the DJ set on the left, next to this description of Baltika No. 6 on the right:

“Baltika’s porter is one of the most eminent varieties of Russian beer with a long heritage.  Energy value: 60 kilocalories per 100 g of beer.  Nutritional value: not more than 6.0 g of carbohydrates per 100 g of beer.”

Wow — that has to be the most arid, scientific beer slogan I’ve ever seen.  Keep in mind, this is on their official website, where you’re supposed to sing the praises of your product, not post half of an AP Chemistry word problem.  And it about sums it up for Baltika No. 6 — like the emergence of Russian glam rock bands after glastnost, Baltika No. 6 is just a little too alien for my taste.

At least I didn’t have to pay for it. Except in watching the Charger game with the buddy who brought it over. But I’m not bitter, really. Jubelale on the other hand …

But as time wore on, and I tried more and more beer, I began to notice the flaws in Widmer. The Hefe was just a touch too bland and overdone. The Drop Top was well, not so great for parties anymore, and the Snow Plow tasted like a burned tree. And so, like that girl in college who pasted a “I didn’t really want to break up, I just wanted to scare you into being more serious” note to my apartment door, Widmer and I were done.

And so it was with Brrr. I wanted to give the local boys another shot, after all, the bottle wrapper was excellent. I poured a glass and drank. At first, it was good. Crisp, a little bite, but tasty. But then I drank more, and the bite continued. With one last swig I tried ot give it a go, and it had just turned undrinkable. I can’t explain exactly what it was. It may as well pasted a note as well, cause I just wasn’t able to take it any more.

I know I can be a cranky drinker, but this one at least is coroberated by Chris of Ruby McGowan, who caught me in the hall to remark that he too had a quick break up … and that he has a winter ale brewing as we speak.

So the lesson to take away is this, no matter how fancy her wrapper is, she has to be smooth on the inside. No wait. No matter how fancy her wrapper is, the second time down she’ll start to bite. No wait thats worse…er…dont drink bad beer.

So goes Hibernation Ale by Great Divide. Someone in the brewery said, lets give it more flavor! And out came the funk dropper. The label says “Robust”. But what they really mean is “Really f*@$!ing Rubust”. Rubust like a sweaty sumo wrestler. And tasting the same too.

Juan de la Cueva may have been a loon. For some reason in 1575 he wrote about some dish that combined Jalapenos and ale. Crazy? Maybe. But the real fools in this instance are the guys at Rogue Brewery who decided that this obscure story would make for a great beer.

Have you ever tasted a shoe? No? Well, I’m not sure I ever have either, but immediately after taking a sip of this beer I was convinced it tasted like one. Then the shoe flavor left, and the real horror crept in. Repeat after me: Peppers do not belong in beer.

The aftertaste was so wrong, completely awful on so many levels, that I was convinced I couldn’t really have tasted that. I tried again. I had Grandpa Goodbeer try it. All to no avail. This beer is gross. As soon as the otherwise odd flavor goes away, Rogue Chipotle Ale attacks you with the nuclear bomb of all Aftertaste Attacks. Dry, tangy, salty, throat scratchy, gross old jalapeno flavor. Its actually much worse than it sounds, if you can believe that.

On the other hand…

I did have to give it a 2. It worked pretty awesome as a marinade for Tilapia.

I applaud Rogue for trying new things, I really do. But much like that random hallucinogen I tried in college, not all experiments are a good idea.

And yet the beer itself didn’t quite live up to the label — maybe I’m unfairly comparing it to Samischlaus, the 28-proof brewed-only-once-a-year uber beer I just reviewed. If I’d been drinking Coors all week, I’m sure SkullSplitter would have knocked me on my shield (which is oddly shiny and clean, for a Viking). This is definitely not a weak beer, and I’m sure it earns its name the next morning after drinking a six-pack. My wife (Mrs. Liquor) took one sip and her appendix burst (not really, but same facial expression), so it might be me. I may have to conclude that I’ve broken my taste buds. I also inexplicably taste licorice in all Scottish beers, including this one, leading me to think I can’t be trusted to objectively rate beers anymore. And why does a Scottish beer have viking iconography? Historical glee at how the Vikings were one of the few cultures to subjugate the British, subjugators of Scots, Irish, Welsh, India, and the rest of the world?

It’s not a bad beer, though, and definitely packs a wallop in alcohol. It has a vaguely thick fruity taste, strong initial bite, not bad aftertaste, and possibly discovered America hundreds of years before Columbus. I would in fact judge it to be about halfway between McEwan’s and Samischlaus (though I haven’t tried enough other Scottish beers to really fill out the coordinate system there). If not quite conjuring up feelings of gnawing on a giant roast wildebeast leg at Valhalla, it’s an interesting beer experience and worth a swig or two.

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.

So you can imagine my total shock and dismay when I took a swig of Hale’s Irish Style Nut Brown, and immediately cringed with an intense cheek smash. Hale’s Brewery best never go to the Emerald Isle, because apparently they consider “Irish Style” to mean “tastes like crap”.

You see, where I was hoping for a nice nutty flavor, possibly with a hint of “brown tang”, I was met instead with an insane amount of hoppy teeth kick. Admittedly, I don’t like IPAs all that much (even when they taste like crotch), but I don’t even think IPA guys would like this. Its like a beer that can’t decide what to be. I can only imagine the brewers sitting around … “We can’t get this to taste right, lets just throw a bunch of hops in it”.

To their credit, Hale’s only offers this as a seasonal brew. I mean, why offend the Irish all year round?