Arcadia Barrel-Aged Shipwreck Porter

This is delicious fresh but I immediately regret not aging it for 5 years. Slightly bitter—hoppy even. Bourbon and candy on the nose and up-front, with vanilla running throughout. This (especially wax-dipped as it is), is going to age beautifully. Even a little oxidation wouldn't hurt this. It's of a similar caliber to Founders. Maybe not quite as good as a KBS, but still good. For the price though, KBS is cheaper if less plentiful.

Maracaibo Especial

Friends, if your greatest desire is to work really hard, then go home and drink beer and watch teevee, your dreams, too can come true.

I paid way too much for this, but I felt like opening my Maricaibo Especial. A bit foamy, with an off-white head and lacing, and a deep amber body. Pretty tangy and dry, but I don't really get any cacao. A little orange maybe and maybe coriander. It feels kinda thin and overcarbonated, but it's balanced and has a nutty dry finish. Of course, it is a sour as all Jolly Pumpkins are, with a bright brettanomyces funk.

It's probably worth almost what it normally cost, but not the sum I paid. Ah well, such is the way with things not available locally.

Beer and Loathing in Pittsburgh, PA

The drive up is, as usual, filled with psychopaths and miscreants: degenerates and testaments against the American driving education system. And I have to drive myself this time, to boot. I detour by way of House of 1000 Beers for obvious reasons, as it becomes apparent that my phone has not only autonomously drained its battery while charging, but overheated itself in doing so. Fascinating.

I pick up a bottle of Angel's Share, Fegley's Bourbon Barrel Insidious (which I drink later—it is indeed insidious but also pretty good; with a trace of bitter oak finish, plenty of bourbon and chocolate, and a solid stouty backbone), as well as a Jolly Pumpkin Maricaibo Especial and three small bottles of Evil Twin's The Cowboy, which until recently came in either big bottles, or not at all (more commonly the latter). Cowboy is expensive, but great smoke flavor while maintaining a sessionable ABV.

I wander around Shadyside, Pittsburgh, attempting to follow some of the most ambiguous instructions I've ever received to "Walnut Street." I do not find Walnut Street. I do find a place with four restaurant/bars in close proximity. A pizza and beer dive that looks exceptionally normal, a trendy artisanal breakfast/sandwich joint that looks exceptionally closed, a bar/restaurant/lounge that looks exceptionally packed, and a 'bartini' (I wouldn't make this up) that looks exceptionally, exceptionally sleazy. I choose the packed one. Every local in the neighborhood can't be wrong.

Inside, the bartender is friendly, and as it turns out they are out of both pulled pork and pirogi (not 'brought to you by the letter P', evidently), my Founders Smoked Porter is free. It is also pretty good, kind of on par with Alaskan, but not quite at the level of Weyerbacher Fifteen in its prime. I tip egregiously for the complimentary beer and also the advice to dip the spicy chicken sandwich in the macaroni and cheese. The two foods, both great initially, combine to form something amazing. In my completely-out-of-place electric blue polo shirt, the word 'synergy' comes to mind, and I want to go play golf.

Shaking that urge from my head, I wander back to the hotel, past a store that has some interesting beers available, including a vintage Unibroue and what I believe to be a vintage He'Brew Jewbelation. I make a mental note to return. And a further note to find some pirogi. I have driven over 300 miles, after all.

Beer and Loathing in Washington, DC

It was a melancholy I hung in my heart—a winter coat I'd just as soon take off for warmer days. I've just seen a silent version of Hamlet (without all the "words, words, words", it was a magnificent spectacle of "inexplicable dumbshow and noise"), and it is time for beer.

Our efforts to visit Bluejacket have been hampered earlier by a mob scene, one of whom accosted my partner in crime, then made tracks before I could extract from him a cost of a knuckle sandwich. ("Is that the meaning of 'accost'?") Anyway, I thirst for beer, and Churchkey, equally packed though it is, remains my destination. The suggestion of pies is put forth, but Titus Andronicus is in my thoughts (which were bloody, or nothing worth), and I pass. No traffic can conspire to separate me from my quarry, not even a psychopathic motorist whom we avoid by mere inches. My caravan leaves me there alone, lacking the patience for crowded beer-times. Flights of angels sing them to their much-needed rest.

People who take tequila shots in one of the foremost beer bars on the east coast are beyond my comprehension, but there they are. Pricey as it is, I'd go elsewhere were it not for beer. I angle in and break the fast with a Fastenbier, it being the season, and then realize that they are out of Hemel & Arde and also Vandals & Goths and basically anything separated by an ampersand. The bartender, spotting me for the rare-beer-dork that I am, recommends a Mikkeller George. It's spot-on, with that character that you know, if aged for a few years, will become delicious shoe-leather. I move on to try a "Spaghetti Western" which tastes of mostly coffee and barely any spaghetti (it contains both). Then, a Querkus (on cask) which has that distinct flattish cask character—it's decent and mild, but hard to stand up to everything else. A sessionable breather—wedged as I am between bar stools, it's the only breathing I can do.

I finish with a Cuveé Delphine. Surprisingly light, with blueberry and slightly tangy nose. Some red currant and bitter root. Not very bourbon-y but still nice. At this point, I realize my menu has left me. Stolen evidently, by some people who are also taking bar stools which I don't recall having been free, and for which I doubt they were waiting longer than I. I don't mean to impose. I've sampled my personal gamut, and I elect to leave. It was that or another Fastenbier.

I stumble back to the house, thoroughly lost in Tenleytown, no one at all about, recording some of this entry in a drunk-Orson Welles impersonation (If you need to ask whether I am drunk, or whether I am impersonating a drunken Orson Welles, or both, you clearly haven't been reading very well.) en route. I make awkward small-chat with people I don't know terribly well. "Would you like a cup to brush your teeth with? // No thanks; I usually use a brush for that." I am the epitome of wit.