|Twisted citra: a hoppy horror (in a good way)|
from the Danish doyennes
What's also good is that this beauty popped its little head out of the calendar this morning and brought a big, beer-drinking grin to my face. Colour me a huge fan of Mikkeller and their Spontan range (spontaneously fermented. With wild yeast. Think 'really tangy') in particular.
First taste of it was a good couple of years ago at the terrific Draft House on Charlotte Street, foisted on to me by the 'beer gateway' that is former manager of the place, Max Chater. I couldn't believe what I was tasting. I bought a bottle on the strength of one sip despite its staggeringly steep price tag.
It was a Spontanpeach and tasted like nothing I'd had in years. Utterly beguiling. I took my bottle and sat outside at one of the tables supping on it quietly and reverently and marvelling at the passing crowds. I was to have a few more, which the pub no doubt delighted in. Much more so than my bank manager, for example.
No matter. Today's promises great things and was considerably cheaper from the joyous booze, chilli and records outlet that is Hop, Burns and Black. You can build some things up too much, but something tells me I won't be disappointed here. Let's see. And be sure to tune in later when I might have managed a second today.
Beer: Mikkeller Spontandryhop Citra
Strength: A delightfully prim 5.5%
Smell: Remember those stink bombs in little glass capsules? A burst one of them. And iron filings.
Tasting notes: Hahaha. Forget about the smell, this is hilariously good. Starts out by forcibly prising open your upper and lower jaw, wrenching your tongue out slightly and using it as a lemon juicer. Sits there watching as your face grimaces in abject agony while you're simultaneously unable to scream. It hasn't finished, though. No. That would be merciful and that's not what this malevolent miscreant is all about. Once it's squeezed every last drop of its plunged lemon out onto your now-blighted tongue, it turns the spent citrus fruit around and grinds the rind right against the roof of your complaining mouth, cackling maniacally as it does so. As if to add insult, it then smooths everything out with the pith, rolls your tongue back into your now utterly confused mouth and smacks a gentle half-snog of citrus on your quivering lips before buggering off into the night.
Session factor: More. I want more of this. Though the above might sound hard work, it's really highly pleasurable. Though perhaps that's just me.
Arbitrary score: 18,451,612
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