How many times will I end up paying a dollar an ounce for stale, middling Denmarkian beer before I “get the picture” and start spending my money on something useful, like that Kickstarter that’s trying to raise enough money to get Mike O’Malley to shoot a reboot pilot for Get the Picture? This time I had an excuse, though. This time, Mr. Mikkeller was wearing a fancy new paper scarf, and he looked as handsome as man from the talkies, he did, all done up with black paper and a face and a moustache. Looked like a regular Adolf Valantino… I—I couldn’t’ say no. Not to that paper.

Uhh… fuck. Sours tend to hold up. And this one was somehow, for some reason, not priced as exorbitantly as the rest of them (is it poisoned? A gimmick beer brewed with ground-up human teeth?). And—heeeeey, lookie here, there’s some words coming out of the sketch of the man on the bottle: “Nelson Sauvin Brut.” I’ve heard of that. It’s a beer de Chamaple, one of those things that, like the hybrid dog-turkeys of old, refuse to be pigeonholed and demand to act as emissary from two terrifyingly incongruous kingdoms.

Only unlike the grotesquely delicious and uncannily loyal dog-turkey, this is champ-ale’s good parts don’t offset one another like some kind of abomination of god. They instead accentuate one another, and the result is like one of the most intense and refreshing saisons you’ve ever drank.

A real masher. A+.

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