At work, no less. Let's just say the Chronicle is a bit lax on such matters. The worst part of my day is over.
Oh yeah, the beer: St. Peter's Cream Stout. When I get to the pearly gates, I certainly hope he has one of these waiting for me. Then I'll know I'm in heaven.
I'm a sucker for an interesting bottle or label. (It's usually whiskey or tequila that gets me with this trick.) St. Peter's has put out at least three beers in a flask-shaped bottle that quickly caught my eye among the zillion beers they have at Central Market. The label says it's "a faithful copy of one made c.1770 for Thomas Gerrard of Gibbstown, just across the Delaware River from Philadelphia." I tried the porter this past weekend, and went for Cream Stout today. Really smooth; like the porter, no head to speak of, but I've always thought head was overrated. (Wait – did I really just say that?) Which is not to say it tastes flat. A slight briney taste to it, a classic English stout. Good god this is making me wish I were in a London pub.
A pricey beer; not something I'll be buying by the case – $3.50 a pint. (Which, Karla, probably means it would run you $20 up there at the North Pole.) But well worth the money if you're looking to indulge.
Okay, there you have it – my first attempt at beer criticism. How'd I do? Let's just hope it gets better from here. But hopefully I just turned you on to a good beer.
Breckenridge Christmas Ale
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