– 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.

Naturally, I had to pick up a bottle — just weird enough for me to drink. After popping off the cap, a dense wad of beer foam oozed up to say hello, at roughly the pace and shape of one of those black snake firecrackers that never fail to disappoint on the 4th of July. “That’s odd”, I thought, making a mental note not to make a “happy to see me?” joke about it in my beer review, since that would be unoriginal and lame.  Nearly as unoriginal and lame as naming an Indian beer “maharaja”…

At first, it seemed strikingly sour, but it turned out this was because I had just consumed the World’s Sweetest Drink In The World (in case you’re interested, the “creamsicle”: amaretto, triple sec, OJ, sour mix, tonic, and some dental fillings, because you’re going to need them), without adequately rebooting my palate. After a sip or two, it turned out to be surprisingly good. I was almost shocked — I saw a beer imported from India, picked it up expecting (even looking forward to) some serious skunkiness, but it tasted as fresh as an MGD. Compared to some of the skunky disappointments I’ve gotten from other parts of the world (like half the stuff from Ireland), this was a definite pleasant surprise. I guess there must be a lot more demand for Indian beers than Irish beers in my neighborhood.  Which I can live with.  Because this Irish dude is multiculturally sensitive, hyper-aware of the un-PC leanings of beer labels, but most importantly, much happier to live in a neighborhood with Indian food (“mmm, buttery garlic nan”) than Irish food (“huh — did they have to boil everything, even the check?”).

  In keeping with my pattern of either drinking 1) leprous domestic malt liquor or 2) run-of-the-mill imports, I recently tried out the Heineken Keg Can.  As you might imagine, it failed to live up to the hype — it’s essentially just a 24-oz can o’ beer with a little slope to the shape near the top and bottom.  About all it did was give me the illusion that I had somehow been shrunk to 2/3 my original size, and was now having a hard time getting my hand around a standard can of beer.  Perhaps I’ve lost the right to be snobbish given what else I’ve imbibed, but a can makes every beer taste like Coors Light to me — I suppose I could have poured it into a glass, but I decided to drink straight from the can as nature  intended, and of course I wound up imagining that I tasted aluminum with every sip. 

    Now that I got that complaint out of the way, I will say the can would be excellent if put to use for other purposes after you finish off the beer.  If you’re a little handy with tools, you could make yourself a nifty pencil holder, bacon-grease storage can, or a truly horrible-sounding addition to a drumset if mounted on a cymbal stand.  Not being handy myself (it once took me 5 hours to replace the leaky toilet hardware innards in my bathroom, true story) I’ll have to settle for a night of imagining I’m some sort of troll stealing brews from a regular-size human.  Hmmm, maybe I need to get out more…

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 …

The joke of the label itself is a little broad, given the off-kilter Monty Python humor — the beer artwork says “Holy Grail”, with the “GR” crossed out and “ALE” written in below.  Yes, thanks, I got the joke — broadcasting your joke that loudly I’d expect instead from something Jay Leno pasted to a black card, not from the folks at Monty Python.  And yet, the beer is actually really tasty…  it’s got a nice thick ale taste to it, something you might imagine enjoying with a bratwurst or salt & vinegar chips in a British pub somewhere.  I had figured that an essentially gag one-off beer would show the signs of a lack of priority on taste, but it’s the real deal.  Of course after five straight reviews of the very worst in beer (again, see my Stanley-Cup-winning series on Beer Whose Artwork Can Kick Your Ass), Formula 409 might get three out of six from me at this point.  For that reason I give myself a handicap of one off my first impression of 5 out of 6 for this beer.  I heartily recommend it.   And I wear high heels.  And I like to press wildflowers…

All you have to do is get past the horrible wrapper. It took me a few beers to realize that that was in fact not a bear…but a wolf. At least I know that if my current career doesn’t work out, I could have a future in wrapper design.

The main problem I have with this beer has nothing to do with the taste, its the goofy wrapper. A snail? Really? I mean maybe they market this beer to France, or perhaps it just has some ingredient that the distributor chose not to mention. Either way, it’s a terrible visual choice, and makes me wonder what exactly it was that brought me to pick it up in the first place. Sacre bleu!