Craft Beer Stories – Cry Me A River

Cry Me A River

Driftwood Brewery

Victoria, BC

Gose, 5 %


It started out innocent enough. I told a friend that I could detect a Saison beer with nothing but my sense of smell. But then it took a dark turn. If anyone reads this…let me out.


It was pitch black and the blindfolds might have had something to do with it. My buddy enjoyed the power and demonstrated it by pouring the beer close to my ears without warning.

“I got two beers for you. One’s a Saison and one is not. Or is it neither? I’ll let you decide”, he giggled mischievously. “But remember the rule, once you made a choice, you have to finish the whole bottle.”

This could not have been so bad. He had a decent taste in craft beers, there shouldn’t have been anything in his fridge giving cause to frighten me. He handed me a glass of what he just poured. I brought it to my nose and immediately sensed a faint smell of that Saison yeast. He must have thought his speech would make me question my senses, but even the weakest Saison had its distinctive aroma.

“Nice try, bud”, I said and took a big swig of the drink.

It caught me by surprise. It was not what I expected, not what the scent hinted towards. But I couldn’t stop. Not because of that stupid rule my buddy made up. No, there was something else. Something sinister and yet intriguing, beckoning me to keep drinking and find it. It was hiding in the shadows, somewhere in the background, whispering softly. Every sip made it hum. Every gulp made it sing. So I drank more and more, and let the citrus tart flavours wash down my throat.

What was it? It was different yet familiar? Something…sour, just a hint at the beginning, but then it grew. Stronger and more potent than before, and it sang its song. Blue are the violets. Its voice echoed in my head and I could not resist but walk towards it. Red is the rose-uh. It begged me to keep going. Drown in a river. Only then would I be able to see it in its flesh before me. A river of Gose. The shadow in the background turned into a shape, a figure of some sort. Its voice was soft but the beer turned more and more sour. It pulled me down on my knees, but I kept crawling towards the shape to be closer to that voice, that false Saison scent, that citrus taste.

I thought I could reach it. I thought I could, but the sour claws tore at my limbs. The voice stopped singing and I was dragged into the abyss.


There I am now, trapped in the dark. Floating, blind and mute, in a river of my own tears. I can only hope that someday another beer enthusiast comes along, cracks open the ceiling of my eternal grave and pours me back to life.


Rating: One bottle of sour tears out of ten




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