What manner of cetacean sorcery do we have on our hands here, folks? This is that barrel aged coffee THOT you usually only see .5oz pours of that is usually with some attendant braggadocio shit on Untappd. Well I figured since there was a shit storm of controversy surrounding this coveted gem, might as well pop mine and get them authentic counterfeit feels.
Lamentably, mine was an actual bottle. I didn’t get the privilege of receiving one of the ultra rare refill solara blended second use vessels from EdwardFortyHands, but I am sure those .rar Iowa Uli blends command a much higher premium than this boring old 400 bottle release. Say what you want about them Iowa hucksters, those bootleg waxing jobs were MWAH, tre magnifique!
Enough about neckbeard politics, let’s hit the AOL chat rooms and start cybering with Kibbibbis hard before my parents walk in.
Imperial Stout, Decorah Iowa, 13% abv
300 bottles first release, 400 bottles second release. Who gives a shit.
A: Well tap my swamplands and call me David Lynch, this is dark as fuqqqq. It has an impressive viscosity to the look and slurps out like that shit from the Pirates of Dark Water. The carb is spot on, not excessive, leaving sheeting and clear legs but also lacing behind in fanciful archipelagos of spotty mocha, islands each a John Donne paradise of coffee merriment and pitch black seclusion.
Dont try to tell me that you don’t remember these assholes.
S: Usually I would tighten up my butthole and issue some blanket complaints about the roast, single origin coffee, eastern shade grown soil contents, v60 vs Chemex applications, and Williamsburg mustache implications: BUT I SIMPLY CANNOT. The nose is roasty with a warm Peet’s meets 49th Parallel for you west coast bean flickers. I continue to flick this bean savagely and without respite. This gives way to molten chocolate fondue, christmas fudge, Ihop cunnilingus, maple syrup, Baskin Robbins make out sessions, and closes with a fantastic almond rocha aspect. It’s like how Boyz II Men has 4 layers of depth and that one dude who just talks during the bridge to unify things. Outrageously good on both accounts within the parallel.
T: This parlays the prior nose hole gangbang into real decadent facetouch bliss. You know how when China was divided up into spheres of influence shit just WORKED SO WELL? It’s like Toppling Goliath divided up the palate wheel into gerrymandered sections of discrete pleasure and doled out a district for brownie batter and vanilla to reside, supported by a proletariat class of bourbon/toffee underlings, all managed by a plutocratic coffee roast that employed maple scab workers to fill in the gaps in employment. The entire operation is overseen by a partiarchal figurehead that is King Pancakington IV, a stern but fair ruler imparting sweetness and stickiness upon the masses; yet stern in a wafty alcoholism to which he is disposed to imbibe. It just works harder than a Korean grocer and puts numbers on the board in ever singly category. It is lamentably tasty, jaw grindingly well done and WHERE IS THE LOLZ IN THAT HUH? Pass me some Half Acre, then we can make some yukyuks.
M: This is syrupy and expands with a touch of fusel waft that is ratcheted back by a lingering sweetness along the gumline and a magnificent low body carb that sizzles like chocolate pop rocks. I need to move on, can’t keep doling out praise, next section, maybe I can rip on this beer there-
D: Drinkability? ah god damnit. I mean, sure your 12 ounce, impossible to find, $300 on secondary markets coffee stout is drinkable in the manner that Charlize Theron is entirely wifeable. Who would dispute this? The real discussion, as usual, comes down to diminishing returns. This beer, while a paradigm of stout greatness does not extend an accessibility beyond existing as the figurehead of a toppling revolution. The goliath being toppled is the exchange market itself as an implosion of rapacious highway bandits seeking these items out. This is amazing, but for a fraction of the entry fee you could trade for BA Speedway, or better yet, BA Vietnamese speedway and be marginally less well off. I am talking like “oh it didn’t have the Lambourghini logo embroidered on the seats” level of distress. This beer exists more as a benchmark for people who need these types of highs. It is the $4,000 call girl of the stout world, fun for a simple romp but you inevitably are left worse off. Sure, someone fucked you while wearing a Bart Simpson mask while you had Thundercats on, YOU PAID $4000, but that just makes every other stout at the bar seem somehow less impressive by contrast and there is a steep delcine in pleasure to worth it units at this level.
Narrative: Pierre Goliat moved gracefully amongst the attendees at the debutante ball, supple mahogany calfskin shoes gliding across the italian marble floor of the foyer. “WHY AS I LIVE AND BREATHE IF THAT IS NOT MR. GOLIAT!” Madame Cremetu exclaimed jubilantly. Pierre nodded knowingly and dipped a marshmallow into the gawdy chocolate fountain large enough to succor a village of Dickensian youth. He surveyed the crowd of elite magnates, administrative officials, and heiresses free from burden or duty. With a calm sip of single barrel aged 17 year cask strength bourbon he thought upon the precarious nature of his position. A meteoric rise to aristocracy as a result of a new coffee roasting procedure had placed him in ranks with these vile examples of emotionally bankrupt phillistines. The logical conclusion for any system is the crema to sit in wispy dots among the downtrodden supporting darkness below. Pierre returned a wave of a fan from a countess across the room and shook his head balefully. The smell of his own coffee filled the ballroom with a knowing stench of absurd profiteering, upon the backs of the humble are the mightiest trades built. A goliath he must now embrace, for the chocolate fountain remains ever-flowing.