By I like my beer and coffee black.
Iron Fist’s Velvet Glove raises standards for what I expect from a stout.
Even though it’s overplayed at this point, Iron Fist brewing company is located in my hometown of Vista. I swear to God I’ll choose a beer from anywhere else next week.
I couldn’t avoid writing about this one since I lost a whole damn afternoon and a fair number of brain cells to a 22 oz bottle of this Imperial Stout last weekend.
To provide a point of reference, imagine this beer is Guinness but on a Barry Bonds level of steroids. It holds an extra heaping of that dirty bark dark stout taste, mixed with stale coffee grounds and a hearty thickness that beautifully hides its fading to a boozy-blackout strength.
As the Stout’s name suggests, it goes down smooth like velvet but the nine percent volume alcohol content punches with an Iron Fist. Pouring it into a glass is like looking into a starless galaxy; an infinite abyss with nothing staring back at you other than your own reflection.
Like a Siren in Homer’s Odyssey, the stout pulled me into a seductive symphony of robust flavor only to leaving me wrecked by my backyard pool.
That wreckage was partly due to the Gloves’ heftiness. I was both wasted and bloated after polishing off the whole tall bottle. It was like there was a coal black loaf of bread sinking in my stomach pinning me to the floor.
It’s typical for stouts to be that filling and I find that to be a bit of a turn off, but the Velvet Glove touched me in ways not many other beers can. It’s both boozey and immensely flavorful.
It warms my heart like a raging bonfire on a dark night.
