Let’s just get this out of the way at the outset, Fremont Brew 2000 is a complete masterpiece and exists as evidence of the pinnacle of what the Barleyrealm is capable of. If you give this to a friend and they still dont like it, their palate is broken. Sell them for scrap. Their tastebuds will not pass smog and their subjective impressions are a total loss. This is damn near ale perfection rely upon no CGI, just all practical barrel effects. It is straight up Maris Otter and Carafa at their finest, cream of wheat with a dollop of brown sugar in the center. Gristy shattered creme brulee shell, a flawlessly nimble body that imparts waves of layered flavor you can examine like a caramel geode. As it warms that muddy haze subsides and reveals prune and fig reduction. The barrel is this overseeing parole officer making sure the oaky notes hold the sweetness in line, piss tests and firearm searches adminstered liberally. Finally the swallow is this long, drawn out affair with Almond Roca dipped into Michter’s bourbon. You can easily take this bomber down and then think longingly to that one sweet tryst, like the kid who allegedly got his dick sucked, always seemingly at some unconfirmable location like summer camp or on a cruise. Those kinda memories.
Take that glorious majesty, and then completely fucking ruin it, and you have the Peated version. PB2K makes zero sense. it is an exercise in self-harm and in light of the pure magnificence of the regular version, it feels like the beer version of a book burning. It is disturbing on many levels, It has this gagging Speyside aspect dominating the malts, this chalky “bubble tape after the flavor is gone” that dehydrates and leaves a lingering balloon flavor. Overworked clowns have not tasted this much latex and char. It is a resounding disappointment and feels like in movies when oh no way the government makes a super soldier and oh no shit it turns on them. Terroir science has gone way too far. This isn’t just bad by contrast, this falls in a dazzling Icarian way to earth, without redemption. The waxiest of wings turn to tire aisle and dentist’s glove.
Drank some skid row haze to cleanse the palate on Collab day during that 6 hour boil.