Fate Brewing/Ground Control Candy Bar Stout,them sticky Arizona gems


SO there’s this bar in Litchfield Arizona called GROUND CONTROL, (not to be confused with the Portland barcade of the same name) and from what I gather, those assholes do everything: food, coffee roasting, gelato, brewing, video games, fundrasisers, wine tastings. They basically go apeshit.

One such beer they serve is Candy Bar stout made by Fate in Scottsdale.  This is essentially all the beetus delights and sticky sweet fun of massive sugar bombs, but in a ratched back “fun size.” This 5.8% milk stout is brewed with cocoa nibs, vanilla bean, sea salt and honey roasted peanuts. At the outset it sounds like if Great Lakes and Shorts teamed up to make a clean, albeit insane concoction.  For that consumer who wants Snickers up in his nonic, just not the king size.  WE HAVE ALL BEEN THERE.

The look is like a robust porter, slick, limited sheeting, silky carb, no sheeting to speak of, and legs thinner than Taylor Swift. In honesty, for all of those additives, that’s pretty remarkable. The nose puts forth nougat bombs with vanilla being the star here, kit kats and dark chocolate.  I mean, they accomplished what they set out to do, it smells like you took an Edmund Fitzgerald and randalled it through your kid’s plastic trick or treating pumpkin: Mission accomplished?


The taste is rail thin like those back desert Arizona tweakers, except this beer wont steal the battery out of your car. The peanut contributes a touch of oiliness to the mouthfeel but the water profile seems harder than force awakens boners when Daisy Ridley hits the screen.  It is crushable with a little confectionary sidecar tacked on.  Imagine if you took Black Butte porter and had braces and smoked a bunch of milk duds first.  You just had the FATE experience.

It wasn’t bad, but Fate didn’t change my life either.  I haven’t even been to Arizona, but that’s because I don’t own any firearms that need protecting and I realize that Mad Max is just a film and not a reality worth seeking out.

I haven’t had any Arizona Wilderness beers in so long, inner thighs are throbbing, dying to eat Gilbert’s grape.


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