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Archive for the ‘Style: Spiced Beer’ Category

Cannabis the Beer (Red Power)

May 28th, 2009 by Aaron Goldfarb | 16 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Eurobrau, Country: Germany, Grade: D-, Style: Spiced Beer, Video Reviews

8% bottled

OK sportsfans, here’s my THIRD in the unrelentless video series in which I review some of the, purportedly, worst beers on Allah’s green earth in the hopes that I may…I don’t know:  throw up, gag, ruin my weekend, die? Make you laugh?

Previously, I drank Mamma Mia! Pizza Beer and Crazy Ed’s Cave Creek Chili Beer.


The Taste:

Alright, so the beer was truly terrible but it didn’t make me…throw up, gag, die, or probably even make you laugh. Mea culpa. However, match this list to the same list at the top of this review and you will notice one item lacking.

“Ruined my weekend.”

Ruined my extended holiday weekend.

Oh, if only my camera crew had followed me for the next ten hours after I drank Cannabis the Beer, perhaps then I would know what happened, the progression of events that happened which led to a ruined weekend.  I would know how the liquid THC seeped into my brain and how next thing I know I’m playing darts in a bar at 2 AM, and then the next thing I know I come out of a drunken fugue to find myself in some sort of a supply closet at some pseudo-club in Jersey City, surrounded by cleaning products and mops, laying on a dingy sleeping bag atop a concrete floor, hooking up with the third and fourth ugliest women I’ve ever hooked up with in my life.  How I got to this point, how I came to be there at 8:50 AM, I do not know.  But I can only blame the Cannabis for causing me to time-travel.  Perhaps, in retrospect, in light of these post-video-review facts, I should give the beer an F.  But I won’t, because at least Ms. Fourth Ugliest gave me a car ride back to Manhattan.

I hate myself.

(Though, as always, I’m still looking for more terrible beers to video review.  Hit me up at theviceblog [at] gmail.com)

Mamma Mia! Pizza Beer

December 4th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 23 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Pizza Beer Company, Country: America, Grade: D-, Style: Spiced Beer, Video Reviews

4.6% ABV bottled

From my Top 10 Least Wanted List, the beer steeped with pizza!

A very rare, very special, first time ever, first time only, Vice Blog video post. Read on to find out why.




And here’s the pervert that orchestrated this bet!


Dogfish Head Midas Touch Golden Elixir

October 28th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 5 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Dogfish Head, Country: America, Grade: B regular, Style: Spiced Beer

9% ABV bottled

Here’s to the idiots that order stupid drinks.

To the drunk buffoon in Murray Hill who approached the bartender and nonchalantly asked for a round of Starry Night shots.  “And what the fuck are those?” eye-rolled the bartender, humiliating the fellow enough that he amended his order to straight tequila.  After the guy went back to his group of undesirables, the bartender and I snickered at the order, before realizing, hey, that shot probably looks pretty cool when executed correctly.  For the record, the recipe is Goldschlager floated on a Jaegermeister shot.

To the just-out-of-college girl I played the game of seduction with on the Lower East Side.  I thought I was successfully hitting on her, especially when she suggested we leave her group of friends and head to the bar to toast our near-future fornication with some Redheaded Slut shots, her treat.  I didn’t really enjoy them but we had several.  The girl was a Brunettehead and by the end of the night I learned that either my game was not that tight…or she just wasn’t a slut.

To the thirtysomething chap at a recent wedding who claimed “his” drink was a White Russian.  Seriously guy?  That’s no one’s drink.   Except The Dude’s.  And we all know you’re just trying to copy him to be cool.  But that’s not cool, because everyone’s seen “The Big Lebowski” and everyone–the Vice Blogger included–tried to make and/or order him or herself a White Russian in the days after first seeing the legendary picture.  And that was like a decade ago.  Now true, it’s a solid enough cocktail, no question, but it’s no one’s “drink.”  No one could possibly spend all evening drinking cocktails full of heavy cream, Kahlua, and vodka.  Get real.

To the girl I saw just last week at The Ginger Man order a vodka martini with “alotta olives, please.”  When she got handed her cocktail, the bottom of the glass was so full of olives, at least a dozen of them, that I was forced to sardonically remark:  “Jeez, ya’ trying to steal a free meal to go along with your drink?”  She coquettishly laughed, thinking I was flirting, staying near my side for a few seconds longer, expecting me to continue conversing with her, to further slay her with my alluring repartee.  I, however, turned back to my drink without a follow-up, leaving her to walk away confused.  “That girl liked you, why didn’t you keep hitting on her?,” asked my equally confused, and desperate, drinking buddy.  He didn’t understand either, that line, delivered as I delivered it, would have indeed been flirtateous in nature were it hurled toward an attractive woman.  But it was nothing but pure scorn when said to the kind of disgusting fat bitch that eats an entire glass of bar olives marinating in a splash of Stoli.

And, finally…

To the girl I was on a recent drinking date with, our first time out together.  We entered the pub and sat at a table in the far back.  The place lacked waitress service so, in a rare bout of chivalry, I offered to go up to the bar and get our first round.  I told my 24-year-old companion that I was in the mood for bourbon, and what would she like?  “A slippery nipple,” she shot back.  I pinky-cleaned some excess shower water from my ear canals before asking, just to be sure, “HUH?!”  “A slippery nipple, with ice,” she replied.  I smiled wide at her without saying anything further, turned to head to the bar, then bypassed the bartender, walked out of the establishment, and sprinted up the street to the Russian Vodka Room.  I’m getting too old to spend my time with idiots, I thought to myself as I turned off my cell and ordered two shots of infused vodka.

Come on people, you’re adults.  Ordering these drinks at watering holes is akin to going into a fine steakhouse and asking for a cardboard stick of hot pink cotton candy as your entree.  Grow the fuck up.

But the funny thing is, the irony is, that I constantly see these buffoons drinking beverages more childish than Ecto Cooler, yet I’m the one that gets stared at, that gets questioned, when I order the most normal of libations.

“Hey man, what’s that WEIRD drink ya just ordered?” is a refrain I constantly hear from needling strangers.

Well, in this case, the hoi polloi would be correct, Midas Touch is one fucking weird drink.  I nearly called it one fucking weird beer, but I’m not quite sure that’s a fully accurate label.

It pours orange/red like a strong apple cider you’d get at a farmers’ market.  It smells like a sour/wild ale, very interesting.  And, wow, what an odd taste.  There’s a clear reason why.   A handcrafted ancient ale brewed with a recipe of barley, honey, white muscat grapes, and saffron among other things, this brew is Dogfish Head’s attempt to recreate an elixir found to have been drank by THE King Midas countless centuries earlier.

Overall, it tastes at times like a mead (a beverage I’ve had only once or twice in my life), a white wine chardonnay, a barley wine, and a wild ale mix.  Very bready, and carbonated like a weak champagne.  It took me nearly two hours to polish off a twelve-ounce bottle.  The beer is so potent–in complexity, not necessarily alcohol, though that too–that I could only handle eye drop size sips each time my mouth went to glass.

I’m damn glad I had the Midas Touch, but I’m not sure I’d ever want to have another!  It’s just not a complete success.  Having said that, I insist that any beer lover give this one a whirl.  It is something that demands to be experienced.


Banks Shandy Sorrel

October 9th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 3 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Banks, Country: Barbados, Grade: F regular, Style: Spiced Beer

1.5% ABV bottled

Fairway Market is where the Upper West Side’s finest go to grocery shop. Based on that sentence alone, the place looks absolutely nothing like what you might think it would. It’s a fucking zoo. And it’s not full of “weird” gourmet shit, just a lot of incredibly fresh and varied produce, cheeses from every animal that can be milked, countless coffee beans, a stellar meat, fish, and deli section, and as many oddball jarred culinary items as can possibly exist, all at amazingly low prices. Hey, even the rich like to save a little loot. Especially the elderly rich.

I absolutely detest trying to negotiate the place and its madding crowd, with all the small moving pushcart people on the brink of death, but I do anyways because they have a borderline sublime beer selection. We’re talking the best of the best from Belgium, Germany, the UK, and California. I think the absolute “worst” beer they have is Samuel Smith’s entire solid line. So when I was visiting a friend uptown the other day, you know I had to pop in. And what I saw blew my mind.

Nestled between some Stone and Ommegang bombers was this weird clear-bottled grenadine-colored beer.  Sure didn’t look like a beer, but indeed it was called a lager on the bottle. It looked like something more befitting my Ten Least Wanted List. Yet I absolutely had to have it.

I gleefully sprinted to the register, the same place where just a few months prior a girl had rung up a single 12-ounce bottle of Orval I was buying, saw that it cost $6.99 and then lifted it above her head and under the fluorescents so she could study it better.  After a dramatic ten seconds she turned to me with the most perplexed look on her face.

“This beer?”


“For 7 dolla?!  You know you can get a whole six-pack for that much.”

“Well, uh, it’s considered one of the best beers in the world.”

“I sure hope it gets you 7 dolla drunk,” she said as she swiped the beer on the bar code reader, shaking her head in disbelief.

Well this red cocotion didn’t ring up, in fact, if I recall, the cash register made a GOOOOOOOONG sound when the zebra code was swiped.

Time for a price check as the cashier sent an overaged bag boy to fetch the info. I usually do price checks myself as bag boys are incredibly slow and often monolingual (but obviously the wrong lingual for our purposes).  However, this time I decided to hold back.  Not a smart decision.  Fairway is also famous for incredibly long and slow-moving lines.  Lines that amass quickly, like nerds camping outside to meet Stan Lee at a ComiCon.

And indeed by now the queue behind me was building, a lot of pissed-off people staring at the douchebag holding things up, his red bottle of fluid still standing on the conveyer belt taunting them. Their eyes drove bullets through my head. Why do I put myself in these situations?  Oh right, because I am a maniac.

The woman behind me was a fetching late-twenties business women, sexy as hell in her skirted power suit, her hair down and slightly disheveled. She just wanted to get home to eat her pre-prepared dinner alone, watch “Gossip Girl,” and blow off losers on JDate. She had already slapped down the divisor stick, and her meager amount of groceries was already laid on the conveyor belt behind my single Stop-Sign-red brew.

With a cocked stance and anger in her contact-lensed eyes, she glared at the offending bottle. The bag boy was taking for-fucking-ever. The girl’s toe-tapping got more agitated, she was about to explode.  Finally, she spoke to me, in that jutting way the rich and over-educated but not too bright or tactful speak.

GIRL:  What. is that. thiiiiing?

Usually I’m pretty confident in my dealings with the fairer sex, but this time I couldn’t even make eye contact I was so ashamed by my purchase.

AARON: Not sure.

GIRL: (incredulous) Not. sure?!

AARON: Uhn-uh.

GIRL: Weeeeell, is it. a. soooooottta?

She grabbed the my beer and ogled it curiously like it was some ancient civilization’s artifact.

I paused for a second, skipped the formalities, and immediately went to my end game.

“Look, it’s a beer.  Just a beer.  And, I’m guessing, and hoping, it’s one teeeerrible beer.”

“Why. would. ya want. a teeeerrible bay-ear?”

“Because I write a very successful beer blog where I sometimes get a kick out of drinking terrible beers in order to write hilarious anecdotes and reviews about them.”  I grabbed my trusty pen from my pocket like the Sundance Kid whipping his guns from his belt, uncapped it, and wrote www.theviceblog.com on her box of Wheat Thins (Low Sodium).

“Visit it tomorrow.”

For a millisecond, a millimeter of a grin came across her face as the bag boy finally returned with the price. I did a quick, keep-the-change pay, grabbed my beer, ducked my head, and left the store.

Shandy Sorrel is a Caribbean lager made by Banks brewery in Barbados, a place that seems to actually produce some adequate stuff.  It is colored (obv.) and flavored with artificial ingredients.   Also, sorrel, which with a little googling I come to find is a wild herb that supposedly tastes like sour strawberry.  I tasted something completely different.  Just last week I was visiting a friend’s fancy office and swiped a fistful of hard candies from one of her coworkers’ desks.  Later, while sucking on a cinnamon disc as I similtaneously drank a Diet Mountain Dew, I noticed a great taste sensation.  A big soda fan, I wondered why there is no cinnamon soda, at least as far as I know.  Well, Banks Shandy Sorrel is that cinnamon soda.  And, it’s not half bad.  But it’s not beer.  I think I was more sober after drinking it than I was before I started.  And then I noticed the ABV, 1.5%.  Good lord.

So while I actually kinda enjoyed the taste of this one, when your alcohol content is less than half as much as the pathetic Amstel Light, well, ya got trouble, my friends.  And in River City that means you get an…