A narrow pinprick of light unfolds and spreads into the cold and dark at alarming speed. The scene of the universal origins? Hardly. A spotlight of ecstatic enlightenment upon yer gaze.
Beaming happy, shiny photons in yer general directions is a calm, hazy glass of Dogfish barleywine. Sam C and his beer nerd cadre can do no wrong in some circles. It’s exceedingly difficult to disagree here.
A part of yer non-existent soul yearns for the liquid parchment known as barleywine. Sips of this are in ancient Sanskrit, excavated from the furthest depths of yer taste organ. Quarrying the mind for appropriate phrasing becomes taxing. Yer numbing up in the biting, winter wetness.
Oh, and with that 15% too. Could be a factor.
Assuage yer trepidation, for surely yer brethren are with ye. Share this precious liquid and bask communally in the warm glow of Dogfishy reverence.
-Pedro Wooley
- 2 years ago
Where were you in the year that brought us a lunar eclipse, the Irish rejection of the Lisbon Treaty (oh you know, abortion and what not), and earthquakes in Kyrgyzstan. Nothing Irish, Lunar or Kyrgyz lingers inside the vintage encapsulation of this barleywine because those are all stupid things that no one should remember anyway.
One more serene than a Chinese violin and the other more excited than a hyper-active sports analyst…this beer and you sit lovingly across from each other—stealing glances across an flame-licked backdrop. Yer lopsided embrace surrounds the liquid companion and floods you with memories of steamy August nights—the bedsheets plastered, muscles throbbing, sauces dribbling. It’s nocturnal grilled cheese: human+beer, all buttery and crisp and shit. Mmmmmmm.
There’s something very real and demanding about this barleywine. It requires yer attention but manages to drain yer expectations completely with a mellow,
“Hello.”
Victory’s creation reduces yer tastesbuds to ragged, pulverized stubs in a willful, encouraging way, shepherding yer nostalgic ass back to the bar for another encounter.
- 3 years ago
Apparently, the recipe for a decent night’s sleep and a healthy start to your day follows this equation: 1 baguette + 1 bottle of Olde Gnarlywine. Recipes aside, welcome in the new year properly with a shiny new bottle of this sinewy, syrupy liquidity.
Nothing’s sweeter than winning a soccer match by the slimmest of margins. Especially when the strikers’ self-congratulatory groans and grunts echo into the night and against your seething eardrums. Well, I suppose you could equate this drink to the gut-wrenching happiness of that victory over those selfish bastards.
Be sure to chomp on a wholesome, seeded baguette while you imbibe. Because that blurry, warm sensation in yer tum tum is an alcohol induced rumble worthy of going magma-2-magma with the 1700 Cascadia Earthquake. Don’t try digging in to yer spleen, liver and other internal organs—yer going to feel like a lighthouse in a fog bank for a couple hours.
Settle down for a minute and contemplate what wonderful things you’ve done to yer body with this magnificent ale. You’ll be prouder than a Father on Father’s Day in the Fatherland.
-Pedro Wooly
- 3 years ago
- 1
Can the hairy fuzz-spin of a bright yellow tennis ball barely graze the baseline and be counted as “good”? If it can, we should all drink this barleywine in celebration because things just got a little bit easier in all of our lives.
Glowing like the carmel skin of Maria Sharapova, Hwy-2-Ale goes down sweetly and lacks none of the sweetness of that fair-haired Russian. Growing up near Chernobyl (ahem, Чорнобиль—in Ukraine by the way), Sharapova is bound to display some sort of mutant powers that will inevitably blow men’s minds. It’s not without reason to assume that drinking this 10.5% ale might produce mutative qualities as well. And considering how teeter-totter balanced this drink tastes, it just might make you hallucinate a love-connection stare across the playground with that sultry, Red mistress.
Hwy-2 Ale also brings about visions of Highway 2 in Northern MN: a hopelessly boring and loathsome toil of a drive that encourages anyone on it to pull off and down several juicy pints. So save yerself from that hell. Close the windows. Damn yer soul in a comfy corner. Create a little “beer valley” in yer mouth and unleash a landslide of flavour and welcome some invasive alcohol in yer taste-bud ridden ecosystem. Repeat.
- 3 years ago
- 1
It’s an odd sensation in your nostrils during the cold winter months: rotten apricots. But the most delicious rotten fruit could hope for.
2005 was a fruity year for Barleywines and Dicks Brewing made sure to capture the essence of sweaty pears, moist apples and rotten mandarine oranges. 4 years ago I was enduring the blight of cold and snow of Northern MN at this time, desperately unlucky to be unaware of barleywines. NO LONGER! All things dreary and bleak melt away from you like an ice auger buzzing through frozen Lake Bemidji…or yer tum tum. Naturally, battle for that HUGE northern pike will tire you out and you’ll need some liquid confidence to see it through to the bitter, curse-filled, finger-slicing end.
So while yer nose turns bright red because you think Seattle is “cold” in the winter—consider absorbing some Vodka through your feet and some ‘05 via yer mouf.
- 3 years ago
