Ahhh, one moment, jeune fille avec les cheveux rouges, while I get us coffee. Now we must pass through the Pub to my office so be very quiet as we don’t want to wake all the sleeping musicians, elves of various sorts, and even an occasional staff member who very much look like very happy felines. They have been like that since late last night. Why so you ask? See that stack of now absolutely empty casks over by the end of the bar? That is the culprit.
But first, a rather long aside is in order before I answer that question . . .
Look, I could go on for hours over many, many pints of either the Avalon Applejack that Bjorn, our esteemed Brewmaster, just tapped, or more of the Bleak Midwinter Stout we just finished, describing the discussion that resulted in all these sleeping beings but let’s describe the drink that Bjorn did which is responsible for what you see on this fine summer morning.
Black Death is its name — a name chosen by Reynard, our Pan manager, after noting it was so dark that no light what-so-ever penetrated a pint of it as it sat on the bar. He said wryly that it is an ale in the style of a Russian Imperial Stout but those usually only have an alcohol by volume of nine or ten. Not this one — it came in at a staggering twenty three point seven after the icing process was done. One sip was absolutely amazing — really smooth and intensely smoky with strong bitter dark chocolate yaste to it.
At first they danced and played quite well, but a few pints was more enough to put every soul here who tried it save Reynard into a sound sleep and we’re not sure how he avoided their well deserved fate. Gods Ball, only the fiddlers in the Neverending Session who are single malt only drinkers stayed awake and they decamped long ago to play to a more lively audiance. (I stuck with metheglin instead.) It’ll be hours before even the Fey among them recover enough to want breakfast and a fresh drink, so let’s look over that draft of the interesting story you’re working on as it’ll be quite quiet here…