Should I have been forewarned? Even ignoring the name, there’s other things…

For one, I found it extremely difficult to get a picture of the bottle without the label fading into the brown of the glass. Another, I realized that it’s 10.5% alcohol. On top of all this, it’s from Canada.

Exactly what am I getting myself into?

I pop the cork and take a sniff. Not much of a scent. Very low, deep malt. Smells sweet.

Tip it back, take my first swig.

It’s…

It’s … terrible! Yuck!

No, it can’t be. I don’t believe it. I take another sip. Hmm.

Not so terrible. Take another…

It’s light on the tongue … much lighter than I’d expected. Highly carbonated. A subdued flavor that needs time to blossom. A slow upwelling of dark malt, then a wave of green-tasting hops. Then another wave of the malt swells up under the hops. Twenty seconds later, my tongue is tingling.

It’s not so terrible at all. It’s intriguing. I continue to sip. I have two stories I need to read for a writer’s meeting tomorrow, yet here I am drinking this stuff, writing about an ale instead of critiquing.

Jeeze, I wonder what my critiques are going to be like? Are they going to be coherent at all?

I’ll take a break here and go do them. Be back in a while…

Okay, I’m 2/3 the way through the bottle, and had to take a break from critiquing. This ale has become wonderful. I’m loving it. Of course, I can’t feel my face, and my teeth seem soft and wiggly … but my palate is most definitely enjoying this so-called “terrible” ale.

Is this the alcohol speaking? Maybe so. But really, does it matter?

Terrible is anything but. By the time I reach the end of the bottle, it’s like the sweet nectar of life. It’s made the contender list, tipping in at about 6.7 on the Holy Grail scale.

Why do they call it Terrible, anyway? And…

Where are my clothes?

 

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