7.5% ABV, 500 ml
Meet The Wild; so named for its wild-fermented, unusual character. A Spanish-style cider called sidra natural, The Wild is produced using wild yeast and bacteria and hands-off techniques that result in a dry, tart flavor profile that fans of sour beer and kombucha, in particular, will appreciate. After it ages 10 months in neutral oak barrels, it is bottled without filtration or pasteurization. A light body and slight effervescence make The Wild a perfect pairing for spicy or smoked foods, vegetarian dishes, and seafood. If listening to Spanish guitar on a plaza in Oviedo were a drink, this would be it.
The Wild is similar to the sidra natural style that is produced in the Asturias region on Spain’s northern coast. Sidra natural has a millennia old tradition in Spain, particularly in Asturias where references to cider and pear wine go back as far as the first century BCE, and production techniques have changed little over time. Customarily, Asturian bartenders pour sidra with the bottle raised overhead and the glass held at hip level to promote aeration. (Watch a video of this incredible feat here.) We would say, “don’t try this at home,” but we know the urge is hard to resist. Full disclosure: We’ve tried … with poor results. For now, we’ll stick with pouring close to the glass and enjoying our sidra, rather than mopping it off the floor.
- Flavors of tart apple, lemon, and saddle leather with floral notes.
- Light body.
- Aged in neutral oak barrels for ten months.
- Made of 100% Gravenstein apples, which is a unique heirloom apple variety that originated in the 17th century.
- All source apples used in our products are grown, picked, crushed, and pressed by us.
- Wild fermentation and no intervention results in some funky and unusual flavors that fans of sour beers will love.
- Completely dry flavor with zero residual sugar.
- Unfiltered, unpasteurized, produced and bottled with no intervention.
- Mostly still with slight effervescence
- Pairs well with spicy and smoked dishes, seafood, and pork.
The Wild Lore
Stories surround us. Read on for a short fiction piece inspired by The Wild.
The humid air thick with breath and evaporated sweat should have felt oppressive, but instead it was exhilarating. Dancers twirled, sprang apart then hurtled together, their hair, clothing, hands and feet blurring together in a swirl of color like an expressionist painting. Sweat trickled down their temples, dripped off the tips of their noses. Once perfectly-coiffed hairdos had gone feral with a zealous, eager fervor.
A young man observed from the periphery, his mind buzzing with the percussive, yet melodic staccato of dueling acoustic guitars; the fevered, yet clammy skin of the other onlookers pressed against him; the surreal light from lanterns turned low that illuminated the smoke in the air, the steam rising from the dancers’ bodies. He felt intoxicated, not by the tart sidra washing over his tongue, but by this moment that enveloped him, consuming him completely and engaging every one of his senses.
It was not long before, inevitably, the pent up sensation demanded expression. It welled up like a tempest inside him, a thrilling torrent accumulating in his breast. As if magnetized, his gaze was drawn across the room and beyond the teeming mass of dancers where it fell on a woman standing opposite him at the edge of the circle of observers. Their eyes locked and she smiled. They came together on the dance floor and without speaking, took on another into each other's arms.
Time passed — either an eternity or just a half hour, who’s to say? — and they came to know one another through music and movement. The delicate triangle of hair pointing down the nape of her neck. The smooth cup at the base of his throat. The way her hips seemed to move independently of the rest of her body. The tautness of his upper body as he held her even in the most tender, relaxed moments of the dance. Holding one of her hands, he spun her close into his body and then out again. He gently pulled her back toward him, but she was already pulling him in the opposite direction. He surrendered. She looked back and smiled.
Sparks of laughter, a sea of radiant smiles and shirts soaked through with sweat — he was moving through the crowd, gently guided by the woman and spurred on by her occasional backwards glances and smiles. Before he realized what was happening, they had passed through the exit and out into a glowing courtyard. She dropped his hand and turned, walking backward, an invitation and a challenge writ across her face. She turned and jogged ahead, kicking off her shoes and he followed with a surge of euphoria, a laugh of total abandon ringing out into the night.
Red, flowing dress swirling, she spun into the darkness on dancing, tripping, skipping feet. Just as she passed beyond the reach of the lanterns’ glow, a clatter of antlers struck like lightening and she froze, the hem of her dress settling like dust around her ankles. Stopped short, they shared a glance laced with a hint of uncertainty. Her face resolved into its former impish look and she put a finger to her lips. He took her hand and slowly, silently, they advanced. They climbed a short rise and peered over. There, on a landing below, were two stags, their antlers locked in combat. Steam rose from flared nostrils and the primal stench of rut filled the air.
Holding one another close, the couple observed the conflict until the larger animal shoved the smaller back into the trees where it subsequently turned and ran. The air was cold, but neither the man nor the woman seemed to feel it. They scrambled down the rise and ran halfway back to the glowing courtyard when she pulled him up. Throwing her head back, she howled toward the full moon overhead. Puzzled, but amused, he laughed and followed her lead. Moments later, a nearby pack of coyotes joined in.