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March 12, 2003

Anchors Aweigh Beer of the

Anchors Aweigh

Beer of the Night - Original Flag Porter, brewed with yeast from 1825, salvaged from a sunken vessel in the English Channel. I tell you, if that doesn't make your tongue tingle.....then you must find the idea of beer brewed with salty, ancient and waterlogged yeast unappetizing.

I, on the other hand, find that immensely appealing, so I guess I'm the target market, though I fail to understand how a beer brewed for Horatio Hornblower and Jack Aubrey fans is going to make any profit whatsoever. Certainly we'll buy whatever trinkets and crap are thrown our way, but there's just not that many of us. Very few posses the requisite appetite needed to consume 30 odd books set in the early 19th century British Navy. Very few will....well, read this first, from Master and Commander

The weather had freshened almost to coldness, for the wind was coming more easterly, from the chilly currents between Tristan and the Cape; the sloth was amazed by the change; it shunned the deck and spent its time below. Jack was in his cabin, pricking the chart with less satisfaction than he could have wished: progress, slow, serious trouble with the mainmast-- unaccountable headwinds by night-- and sipping a glass of grog; Stephen was in the mizentop, teaching Bonden to write and scanning the sea for his first albatross. The sloth sneezed, and looking up, Jack caught its gaze fixed upon him; its inverted face had an expression of anxiety and concern. 'Try a piece of this, old cock,' he said, dipping his cake in the grog and proffering the sop. 'It might put a little heart into you.' The sloth sighed, closed its eyes, but gently absorbed the piece, and sighed again.

Some minutes later he felt a touch upon his knee: the sloth had silently climbed down and it was standing there, its beady eyes looking up into his face, bright with expectation. More cake, more grog: growing confidence and esteem. After this, as soon as the drum had beat the retreat, the sloth would meet him, hurrying toward the door on its uneven legs: it was given its own bowl, and it would grip it with its claws, lowering its round face into it and pursing its lips to drink (its tongue was too short to lap). Sometimes it went to sleep in this position, bowed over the emptiness.

'In this bucket,' said Stephen, walking into the cabin, 'in this small half-bucket, now, I have the population of Dublin, London, and Paris combined: these animalculae-- what is the matter with the sloth?' It was curled on Jack's knee, breathing heavily: its bowl and Jack's glass stood empty on the table. Stephen picked it up, peered into its affable bleary face, shook it, and hung it upon its rope. It seized hold with one fore and one hind foot, letting the others dangle limp, and went to sleep.

Stephen looked sharply round, saw the decanter, smelt to the sloth, and cried, 'Jack, you have debauched my sloth.'

Very few will laugh out loud at that, I was going to say, but I could be wrong. For one, I'd be arguing with Russell Crowe and Peter Weir, who obviously think people will like it just fine.

This started out about beer, didn't it? That's the problem with blogging under the influence. All sorts of extraneous themes creep in. Why, in a moment, I'll start blathering on about the Ibook I bought today, and my transformation in a pale, tiny and bitter shadow of Lileks will be complete.

Except that I didn't buy it because I'm a mac freak. I bought it to further my quest to own or work on every OS,and it was either that or XP. Since XP boxes have been regularly crashing the UNC campus wide network since the beginning of the fall semester, I figured I'd go with the Mac.

And it shor is purty.

Beer. Must. wrench. helm. back. to. original. theme.

I've always thought of porter as one of the more complex beer types. I could be completely wrong; it's based on a gut feeling rather than actual knowledge. My rule of thumb is that the harder it is to see through a beer, the more you can bullshit about it to your friends.

Wait, that's not right.

Ahem. The harder it is to see through a beer, the more complexity it offers, and porters are surpassed only by stouts in that category. The Flag Porter does contain a variety of flavors, ranging from an initial bitter coffee bite to smooth black currant finish. I can't tell you much of about the bouquet, I've been moving books into the attic all night, and dust has clogged my olfactory receptors.*

That's my review. Here's a real one. In case you're wondering, I don't read them before I write mine. That would be cheating, and I'm all about rules all of a sudden.

*Thanks to an intensive and imaginative reorganization of the attic, I have managed to save most of my collection, including the ones I thought were gone for sure.

Posted by Bigwig at March 12, 2003 12:09 AM | TrackBack
Postscript:
First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself.
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