Much time (two weeks) has passed since the season's first taste of Pumpkinhead crossed my palette. That lifeless liquid anticlimax, for some reason my favorite fall beer of all time. But such contempt? It didn't make sense, and I searched for the reason.
Weeks of experimentation with Wolaver's and a renewal of interest in Autumn Brew ensued. I savored both, appreciating their distinctive, spicy slaps to the mouth. I enjoyed them, devil may care, as my compatriot from Portland sat idly by, wondering when I would return. When would I? I couldn't say.
Then a chance encounter at Firefly saw my old friend paired with Stoli Vanil. A time honored combination. To me it represents what Pumpkinhead could be, if it only tried. Of course, this is the tale of the tape for Shipyard's Smashed Pumpkin, which I believe is only a fairytale beverage. But staying on point - without Russia's finest, what is Pumpkinhead anyway. You can't put Brian Daubach on steroids and call him a great hitter.
More days of Wolaver's, and a return to form with Halloween Ale. But a collective buildup of flavor that was reaching a pinnacle now. Little did I know.
An icy cold Pumpkinhead draft last night at the Backroom spoke to me. Suddenly, after weeks of flavor anhilliation, the senses were liberated. For the first time, the subtlety of Pumpkinhead shined through like a vehicle mounted spotlight pierces the translucent curtains in a random woman's bedroom window on a cold November night. The stunning simplicity struck me in way it never has. Or maybe it was the effect imparted by pounding two in a row. Nonetheless, in that moment, we reunited. And it felt so good.
No comments:
Post a Comment