So the other night Mrs. Beer and myself gathered several bottles of (mostly) fine brau and settled down with Michael Jackson’s “Ultimate Beer Guide” for an evening of sipping and chugging and sipping. Everything was going well, until we got to this beer. More underwhelmed, I have rarely been. It made me angry. Angry and tired. Let the basically total panning begin!

First I should note that the bottle notes that “butt” from the older English refers to a very large cask for holding beer, so at least there’s a pun. Which helps… none. As James Carville, the Ragin’ Cajun would say… “Hi nice to meet you. I’m James Carville.”

OK… Santa’s Butt Winter Porter pours out nice n’ dark. The head diminished quickly, leaving behind a very watery porter. The roasted malt character was very light and hidden behind… well, water. The hops were neither pronounced nor complex. In fact, to really nurse much taste at all outta this brau, I had to vigorously swish it around my mouth and practically gargle. When I did that, the littlest bit of chocolate and toasted bread taste crept out but, as the frosty air touched its nose, it ran like a horrified Albanian gymnast before a troop of Ser–hmm… too soon.

Anyway, the slate of winter/holiday beer tasting and recommending will continue, but man, skip this’n.