Royal Standard (Clown Shoes Brewery)

Style: Scotch Ale/Wee Heavy brewed with Heather Tips

10.0% ABV

From: Ipswich, MA

Brewery’s Note: “Descendant from a notorious clan of Scottish lore, head brewer Dan Lipke channeled the tartan tapestry encoded in his DNA to create a formidable Wee heavy. Brewed with Scotisch Golden Promise barley malt, Royal Standard’s deep, malty fullness leads to a hint of floral heather tips. Ask yourself, “Who needs a reason to ride the lion.””

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With our yearly chance at the impending doom of humanity bearing down upon us, and a storm full of hamburger phones, track shorts, and pregnant bellies, I felt the need to unfurl my Royal Standard and warm up by the fire.

The Standard unfurls like regal cloth, hazy and dark, like rubbied amber. She froths up a nice, dirty white head that fizzles to a scrimish ring. When she roars up against the walls of her prison (that’s the glass, please keep up) her liquid fingers leave slimy trails of tiny, bubbly detritus that slowly drool back to her body. Through her hand’s detritus, the prison walls shimmer with an alcoholic legged mirage. She is nearly opaque to me, but not quite. She is a mire I cannot see through, though some light passes. She is cloudy. When I bring my nostrils close to her (now it’s getting weird…) she smells of sweet candied toffee, and caramel – treats she must be fond of. Bread grains, and a tart tingle of cider wet her prisons walls, and speak of her life since imprisonment. As I draw a deeper breathe, I catch faint floral hints, a dying ghost of a perfume she wore before – heather tips. When I kiss her (…) she tastes of the lingering touch of booze. She is drunk I fear. Sweet breads and toffee are certainly her favorite treats, and her tongue is ripe with them as it moves over my own. There is something bitter there too, though. It leaves as she does, but hints at wild fields, and grass. She is sweet, but with bitter herbal undertones that nearly balance her. Perhaps she also indulges in nuts, though I doubt her prison guards bring her any. Against my mouth, her kiss is full, and slightly rough. Her spittle is carbonated, and nips at my tongue with the soft booze of her breathe, and when she leaves, my mouth is left dry, perhaps sticky, yet astringent with the lack of her. She is mild, yet full. Gently flavored, and a touch too sweet, yet she warms my stomach and sits well on a night of building junoic storms. She is a royal standard.

[Thank you for suffering through that. Stay safe in the junoic snowpocalypse everyone, and please, drink a beer.]

 

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