Port Townsend RyPa Any gift is freighted with extra significance when hauled across great distances. When the present is comprised of fermented barley, well, you know you’re in for a real treat. You’re already giddy with anticipation, like a pathetic child on Christmas morning. And when the thing is a growler full of the stuff, you’re probably doing a hell of a lot more than just kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe. You’ve discovered his other big red cherry, and you’re just a little bit too proud of it. You’re a real sick bastard, but that’s neither here nor there. We have more important items to discuss. This beer has traveled many miles, traversed a body of water, evaded the authorities, all just to arrive to your mouth. You ponder this fact before the first sip, but only briefly. You need this. The nostril-fill is sweet and enveloping. This is nice, you say. The tiny hairs in your nasal passage quiver in excitement as the scent wafts up into your skull. You drink. The flavor glides right over your tongue, skipping it entirely, leaving those taste buds wondering what the hell just happened to them.  The flavorful thrust of this beer heads barreling straight toward the back of your throat, smashing into it with an explosion of biting hops. Then, as time itself seems to retard, the liquid very slowly glides down your gullet, as the top of your mouth still tingles. It’s receiving special treatment here, and it’s smug, as it should be. As the liquid hangs — lost somewhere between your mouth and your stomach — you get a little worried, and you ask yourself whether Nicolas Cage will track down this treasure for you. You then realize what a goddamn stupid question that was. Fortunately, before you have time to self-flagellate in atonement, you feel a satisfying splash in your gut. This beer is now in the very capable hands of the dehydrogenase. Rest easy. Less tart than cough syrup, more salubrious than motor oil, this beer is for those who dislike speedy ingestion. All good beers come to those who wait. —Yrethra Franklin

Port Townsend RyPa

Any gift is freighted with extra significance when hauled across great distances. When the present is comprised of fermented barley, well, you know you’re in for a real treat. You’re already giddy with anticipation, like a pathetic child on Christmas morning. And when the thing is a growler full of the stuff, you’re probably doing a hell of a lot more than just kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe. You’ve discovered his other big red cherry, and you’re just a little bit too proud of it. You’re a real sick bastard, but that’s neither here nor there. We have more important items to discuss.


This beer has traveled many miles, traversed a body of water, evaded the authorities, all just to arrive to your mouth. You ponder this fact before the first sip, but only briefly. You need this.


The nostril-fill is sweet and enveloping. This is nice, you say. The tiny hairs in your nasal passage quiver in excitement as the scent wafts up into your skull. You drink. The flavor glides right over your tongue, skipping it entirely, leaving those taste buds wondering what the hell just happened to them.  The flavorful thrust of this beer heads barreling straight toward the back of your throat, smashing into it with an explosion of biting hops. Then, as time itself seems to retard, the liquid very slowly glides down your gullet, as the top of your mouth still tingles. It’s receiving special treatment here, and it’s smug, as it should be.


As the liquid hangs — lost somewhere between your mouth and your stomach — you get a little worried, and you ask yourself whether Nicolas Cage will track down this treasure for you. You then realize what a goddamn stupid question that was. Fortunately, before you have time to self-flagellate in atonement, you feel a satisfying splash in your gut. This beer is now in the very capable hands of the dehydrogenase. Rest easy.


Less tart than cough syrup, more salubrious than motor oil, this beer is for those who dislike speedy ingestion. All good beers come to those who wait.


—Yrethra Franklin