"The Freetail Old Bat Rastard Blues"

Whilst I was slaving away in Satan's kitchen on Super Bowl weekend, I had Satan Pushed™ my nephew into standing in line at Freetail Brewing Company for the first bottle release of 2011.  They were doing three releases at once, and by the time the nephew had arrived, one of them was sold out.  I wound up with two bottles of Barrel Aged Old Bat Rastard and one bottle of Fortuna Roja.  When I finally got possession of the bottles, I put them in the fridge, drooling at the impending delight.

A few hours later, I opened a 22 ounce Old Bat Rastard and poured it into a pint glass. It poured up a gorgeous dark brown with a thin tan head that fell quickly to a wisp of bubbles across the top.  Beautiful.  I lifted the glass to my nose and inhaled.

I got butterscotch. That's right, butterscotch.  A lot of freakin' butterscotch.  I hate butterscotch.  I hate butterscotch as much as Indiana Jones hates snakes.  I hate butterscotch as much as Hawkeye hates Frank Burns.  I hate butterscotch as much as an Aggie hates the Longhorns, and as much as the rest of the NFL hates the Cowboys.

Gambling that the offending aroma was a fluke, I took a sip. It was sickeningly sweet, and finished with butterscotch notes that coated my tongue and the back of my throat.  This beer is way too sweet, and tastes like it should be poured over ice cream.  Where were the tannic oak flavors?  Where was the teasing vanilla notes?  Where was the whiskey flavor?

Sadly, I could only drink half of the pint, and poured out the rest.  I gave the remaining ounces a similar burial at sea.   I am perfectly willing to accept that I got a bad bottle.  As I wiped the tears from my eyes, and wiped the butterscotch flavor off my tongue with a curling iron, I put the remaining bottle of Old Bat Rastard in a cool place to let it age.  Maybe, just maybe, the yeast still in the bottle can clean some things up.  I will check it again in June and let you know.