In The Cave today, a sad loss. A shuffling of product popped the top off one, this Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout. It is a terrible thing, whenever anyone loses a dear friend. Stout is to a troglodyte is what kryptonite is to Superman, what a heel is to Achilles, what anger is to the Hulk, what wire hangers are to Joan Crawford, what French is to Morticia. Dans mon cœur verse stout.
But not at work, and certainly not at 2:45 in the afternoon...
...most days.
I bow my head for the gentleman's loss. He said if this had aged for ten years it would have tasted like pure chocolate. Today the chocolate was actually well at bay, behind a pleasant, pronounced stout.
Farewell, dear friend; you taste marvelous.