Well what we have here has all the makings of a good old fashioned brewery shitstorm on the boards:
1) 300 bottle release
2) 1 per person
3) World class brewery
4) High ass ratings
5) Likely one off
The smattering of beer boners could be heard ticking against the Anchor Blue jeans around the nation once this beer was dropped. This shit hits harder than a Tiesto drop and gets up in your spine like a fat sack of MDMA. It is like BA stout concentrate taken to Kuhnhenn levels, but managed with a Vermont throttle control. This is easily the biggest/most over the top beer that Shaun and the boys have put together and, lezbiahonest, this shit is some Kefka level boss mode shit with 3 stages.
THIS ISN’T EVEN ITS FINAL FORM.
I guess the irrelevant text is kinda relevant, moderate structuralism link
Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States
American Double / Imperial Stout | ABV 15%+
From a single bourbon barrel having held a unique blend of 6 different threads for more than 16 months.
A: This is deeper than Damon, drops more viscous sheets than the Wonka Factory, puts up clear coats harder than Heisenberg and leaves a deep khaki foam like that Suicide Girl/Barista you clear your internet history on the reg. This is bold and the spotty lacing tries its damndest like Persephone to claw up out of the blackness.
S: This reminds me of a Hill Farmstead spin on the BCBS model, putting 7’8th time math rock breaks pushing beyond the simple bourbon to chocolatey sticky caramello goodness. If you have ever had a Whatchamacallit, then take that and dip it in George T. Stagg and cut it with some Nestle Quikk. It is mindblowing and seriously, dont even fuck with this beer below 60 degrees, you are selling your weak acorn penis short. There is a certain aspect of BCBS that seems to lack balance and this beer provides a certain roasty rub and tug that is a full release in the stout world. Ropes of chocolate all over the bourbon hotel walls.
T: The initial foot rubbing up your calf is this sticky sweet Hershey bar, the alcohol is present but adds more of a complexity to the roast than sticking out like something found in Pugachev’s Cobra, etc. The baby palates would still have a hard time knocking this one because the finish is this mallow/Zero Bar/xmas neighbor fudge that just lingers like that asian chick from Match.com you accidentally met. There’s a prominent vanilla aspect that lies underneath the surface of this sticky Vermont bayou but it isnt like the Coldstone Creamery Bukaki fest that is BCBS Vanilla, it has more respect for your mouth hole.
M: If it isn’t already evident, this is a sticky residual sugar banger that would be akin to BA Huna in finish if the drying roast wasn’t there to act as hall monitor. I don’t want to convey this beer as some beetus bomb, but it isn’t as roasty as the Kuhnhenn BA Black Hole rimmers, it is somewhere in between and just flexes those malt lats getting all the babies attenuation.
D: At colder temps, I was kinda shoulder shruggy as to how much of this beast I could wrangle, but once it warmed up the complexity of the flavor is gentler and wraps that bourbon profile around you like a blanket fresh from the dryer. It is a shame that most of the sand dollar nippled traders will have all of 2 ounce of this in some bullshit line of a humid backyard, because it is really an experience to open you up like a gifted urologist. A decadent cocoa smelling doctor with a certain southern vanilla panache and a mahogany scarf.
Narrative: In the occult brewing schools of the 1950’s there was a wild malt-based rebellion against the established post-pilsner culture of the Greatest Generation. The paradigm shift was a result of restructuring opinions about the nature of barrel aging versus the hegemony of cask influence. Ultimately a few schools elected to meet in secret to lay the foundations of stout meaning, in two terms: analytic stout creation and synthetic stout creation. To truly address the myopic problems with the pilsner paradigm a fuller understanding of the nature of stout reactionism (namely bottom fermentation subsistence in a culture of Hellenistic top fermenting dominance) was required. Ultimately the science of stouts progressed. These secret stout creation groups became empirical in nature and their feeble reliance upon pseudo-historical analysis was deconstructed from the roots. In one such meeting, Master Brewer Breucault touched the tits of analytic brewer, Wale Durant’s wife, Ariale. Since this epoch most breweries have progressed to a dialectical tradition of adding shitty adjuncts to everything in a bacchanalian overthrow of the oppressive yoke of good brewing” and “anti-Dogfishism.”