|Steer clear away when you see this sign.|
|Observe Scott's body language. He is here,|
but he ain't having none of it.
|West Coast IPAs don't look like this.|
They don't taste like this. They certainly
shouldn't taste like a sucking on a scab.
|Dan and Jason are sampling the "fun" size serving, but|
no "fun" was being had.
Here are the exact notes, as best as I can transcribe them: "mostly malty nose, ...ah! Oh! oooh! UGH. thick malt, (indecipherable) hot, holy hell! BAND-AID!! ....doesn't look like a WC IPA, doesn't smell, doesn't taste, wrong, wrong, wrong!"
|I never want to make this face again.|
Now, here's where a new question comes up. If you've read this blog, you know there's a a phrase I use from time to time. "It's good beer, and you can drink it." That doesn't always mean faint praise, it means just what it says. It is good beer, and you can drink it. This was terrible beer, and I could not drink it. So, people have asked me, "did I say anything?" I did not. Is it because I don't want to be rude, don't want to confront or cause a scene, want to be "Minnesota nice"? Or is it because Scott already told me that he'd told the brewer that his beers were flawed and was blown off, basically told that he didn't believe him or didn't care.
I honestly can't believe that the owners and brewers and servers can't know how bad it is. How are they serving this stuff? I've read all kinds of reviews, heard from people who said that some of them were "okay" and "drinkable" and I believe them. Maybe I picked the wrong one that day, and some of the other beer were passable, but after all the things I've heard, I can't give them the benefit of the doubt. It's not that I got the one bad one, and the others are good enough. No, these were the indicators that the whole operation is misguided. I've had the one bad beer from the great brewery. If someone had the okay beer from this travesty of a taproom, congratulations, they won the lottery. We should all be so lucky.
Should I have told them that their beer was crap? Maybe, but would they have believed me? I've been in this story before, trying to tell people who don't know bad beer from good that their bad beer ain't good, and they think I'm the one who's wrong. They look around their taproom and point to the people sucking it back and say, "See, they like it." Here's the true tragedy, that there would be people who drink it down and think that this is craft beer, that it is as good as it gets. Do I go around to the tables, smack the pints out of their mitts, crashing to the floor below and bellow at them that they are wrong and march them over to Forager, just a block away? In the movie of my life, maybe. In the real world, I just shake my head and shiver.
In truth, I did more than shiver and shake. I wept. I sunk. I was deflated, my soul shrunk and shriveled from forcing down almost half a pint of this wretchedness. And we abandoned our glasses and hoped that these unfinished pours would be some testament to the badness we could no longer endure. And we set off to the fourth brewery in Rochester, hoping to find something to wash away the bitter aftertaste of bad, bad beer.