Part III of V in the series: [An Avenue]'s Stout Week. Part I. Part II.
Its been a week of total mayhem thanks to the rigors of Imperial Stouts in sub-80s drippy weather. This was totally unexpected, like when you search eBay for a summer book and you get distracted by old Kinks albums. This was mother nature getting off-track, and rewarding me with something I can fucking get down to.
On this particular day, I had gone to the market to find myself the biennial Imperial Russian Stout -- or IRS -- offering from Stone Brewing (Stone does a variant-style IRS on odd-numbered years, and their classic IRS on even years.) and was able to find one with minimal skimming. This was a direct "I'm Feelin Lucky" search hit, which I'm very keen on at the booze store, because it prevents me from eye-boning the other interesting bottles on the shelves and keeps my inventory at an economical level.
Also, lately, Melissa has been on a strange wine streak, which meant that -- as much as I love sharing with her -- I could chew this one down by myself without the worry of shorting my buzz. This really would be all I needed to accidentally swallow the corn holders at dinnertime.
Let me tell you what is emphatically awesome about this beer straight away: It pours like 24 ounces of furnace oil into my crankshaft. This is some high-octane salve that would be pleased to unfuck anyone's day -- and though I wasn't in my gruff-place at all -- I could tell that this is what Homer refers to as the cause of- and solution to- all of life's problems.
Wow, this was a remarkable example of how a single fuck will not be given by Stone Brewing.
Take the ideas of Pintrest and Girl Scout Cookie Shots that you would undoubtedly see when your minding your own fucking business at a bar, and then a bachelorette party shows up; marry those two together, and you have the exact opposite of what Stone IRS represents. Good thing Melissa was drinking Pinot, or she might have grown a penis.
Stone IRS tastes like all of the burnt coffee goodness you would get from the airport outlet of Peet's, where the company is less likely to send their barista artists of Vine Street, and more so their former bathroom attendants looking to move up the ladder. Combine the spicy muddle of anise and chocolate, with an enormous FUPA-punch of alcohol, and you're somewhere in the neighborhood of IRS. Also, just imagine that fragrance: coffee, chocolate, hidden hops, and roasted barley. Its an olfactory Feng Shui.
Yep. This is a fantastically mucky fucker, and you will have done yourself a solid to have tried it. I will be seeking out the remnants of these when I am able to scrounge together a surplus of beer change and have a day to set aside for suggestive banter with Melissa. Bet she can't wait.