Codpiece back up in this motherfucker! I know you all missed me. It’s pretty messed up, actually, how you guys are so emotionally invested in me that when I’m away for long periods you start collecting cats, and animal themed slippers, and empty condiment bottles. I mean, that’s fucking strange. Why do you do that? I called up your phone and went to leave a voice mail, but the message was just one long, wailing, sob that trailed off into what I think was a sewing machine falling down a set of stairs. Freaked me out, so I didn’t leave a message. I still love you though, baby. Trust.
So, bought a house, and got married. Been kind of a busy year so far. Hopefully it will slow down and I’ll be able to spend more time with you wonderful folks, before you show at my house, holding a pitchfork that has a doll head tied to it, wearing nothing but a tattered prom dress. (I’m not going to say any names, Melvin.)
It was my birthday last weekend! Yay me! I’m not going to tell you how old I am now, just rest assured that this here is a meat that you let age, you know what I’m saying? This kind of sexy doesn’t come with a shelf life.
The good thing about birthdays when you’re a beer-o-phile, you will almost certainly receive bottled barley goodness. This year was no exception. I got at least nine new, weird, beers to go through, and I’m going to try no to do it too fast, so I’ll actually have some hope of actually remembering the experience the next day.
Off to the races.
Now, you know I had to get this dark, foamy, tramp. Shit has my surname right there on the bottle. I’m willing to bet it’s actually someone else, but hell, who knows, right? Could have been I reserved this shit and then straight forgot about it until I came stumbling upon it later. Wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened.
Although the label on the bottle implies an old English heritage, Firestone Brewing Co. has only been around since 1996. Located outside of Santa Barbara, CA, They are a four-time World Beer Cup Champion. Pretty decent for a sixteen year old. When I was sixteen the only thing I was a champion at was smoking bad weed and clumsy sex with girls with really bad judgment.
“Yeah, I know what you mean! Clothes are like…so restrictive, you know? It would be better if…Hey! You haven’t seen my lighter, have you? Naw, naw, naw, not that one. It’s the Nine Inch Nails one. No? Shit. What was I talking about? Tits? No! Shit! Clothes!”
So, the black goddess threatens to be good, at least by reputation. So I poured it in my Sam Adams glass. (Yes, I know, fuck you. Beer tastes different out of that glass. It’s one of the few things Sam Adams has done right.)
Black. This shit is completely black. Like The Nothing from The NeverEnding Story black. Shawty got a head on her, too. Thick and shot through with caramel threads. Whoo-whee, it looks good.
Looks aren’t the only thing this beer has going for it. My namesake is tasty, just like me. Although while Walker’s Reserve Porter is smooth and surprisingly light, with chocolate and roasted caramel overtones and a slight bitter back bite, Walker Classic mostly tastes like salty bacon sweat and disappointment.
Walker’s Reserve would go fantastically with some really pungent cheese, or some prime rib. Although, I think pretty much anything is good with a prime rib.
Taste: Heavenly. This is a very classy porter.
Drinkability: Surprisingly light. Not nearly as thick as I would have expected.
Cost: %6 for 1 pint, 9 oz.
Hangover Rating: I only had one, but I can’t imagine this being too bad.