The Sweetest of Malty Nectar
Friends, I am here to tell you a thing!
If angels had teets, I have tasted what would come out of them. This sweet, celestial ambrosia, this liquid manna, the transcendant beverage? Sam Adams Utopias!
It is a beer, but that is like saying FILTHY LIES TO CHILDREN. It is so, so much more. It’s beyond a barley wine, more like a malty liqueur (and do not confuse this with “malt liquor” or I will give you a disease), one of the finest things that has been brewed on this planet. You pay out the nose for a 12 oz bottle, with current year’s batch going for around $200 per last I checked. A friend bought it a couple years back for a party, and served distinguished guests a shot in a demitasse.
You do not slam this, not unless you wish to be goatfucked by a legion of Satans. It is sipped and cherished, like you would cherish the moment you first lay eyes on your first born or when you finally get a royalty check from your publisher.
The first time I sipped this, I lost the capacity for language.
The only way I can describe the taste and the feel in my mouth is if a bottle of fine brandy and a rich German chocolate cake went into a cheap motel room and nine months later had a beer-baby on your tongue. The slide down was heavy, the way you feel when a good liqueur flows down, with those chocolate cake notes hitting the roof of your mouth. The sweetness wasn’t overpowering; you could still tell it was a barley brew of a sort.
It is the finest thing I’ve ever had in my mouth that was not a woman. And, frankly, it beats out most of those women. If you can track down the bottle and have the scratch for it, then I say to things:
Buy it. Drink it. Love it.
And fucking beware. This will become a dragon you’ll want to chase again. DRAGON.
Dear sweet merciful Odin do I want more of it.
Oh, I guess I’ll keep blogging about this shit on occasion. I like booze and tobacco and fucking and all that good stuff, so, hey, READ WORDS I WRITE BECAUSE BOURBON TELLS ME TO SAY HI TO YOU.
- Night
