'99 Shilling Scotch Ale
Angelic Brewing Company

On-tap at the Angelic Brewing Company here in Madison.

Pours a rusty amber with a wispy coating of a head. Smell is spicey and floral with a caramel/chocolate malt finish. Taste is about what I've come to expect from a scotch ale, caramel/chocolate, alcohol, woody tones. Overall pretty nice. Mouthfeel is crisp with a medium body. Not quite up there with Lake Louie's, but a fine effort from Angelic.

A dull reddish-brown hue invites an exploration from the other senses. Carbonation is light, but respectable and unfading.

Aroma has a dose of alchohol with mild malt aroma and no hops.

Flavor seems to have a mild amount of smoked malt. Overall this is well balanced with the malt flavor. This beer has few negative flavor characteristics aside from a mild hit of alcohol on the finish.

Mouthfeel is a little thin for a scotch ale, but still solid. Coats the palate without cloying.

Very drinkable and certainly one of the best brews offered by Angelic, especially on a cool Fall evening.

Served a dark brown in color with dull ruby highlights. Nose of malt and alcohol are detected through a nice looking light brown head. Slightly thinner mouthfeel than I expected, but still maintains a medium-bodied weight. '99 Shilling Scotch Ale has a rich malty body. A sort of light fruitiness arrives midway through to compliment the malt flavor. The underlying alcohol is most noticable in the finish. A respectable scotch ale. Seemed appropriate on a damp and rainy day.

Turbid scarlet below a beige crown with near-hallucinatory pink highlights.

Strange.

It's twilight at the carnival. Wafts of candied apples draped in caramel, and cotton candy. A pleasant fair indeed, but not Scottish in theme.
Entering the funhouse, the warped mirrors contort the malt sweetness into juicy grape shapes, toffee formations, and jutting mango appendages. Now into a maze of yeasty corridors, obscured in part by a haze of peach marmalade, I chase the shadow of tangy peat. Never quite sure if it is real of merely a figment of my preconceptions.
Returning outside, a bizarre jammy, plum-laden clown grins and offers nitrous balloons loaded with belgian candi-sugar. A grubby barker shouts exclamations of volumous citric hops.
I step aboard the twinkling, alcoholic ferris wheel. The ride ascends and offers a vista down upon the wonderous, and uniquely disturbed landscape.
It's a large and hefty operation, and like any typical festival, there is a damp and blanketing stickiness that coats everything.

Where do expectations go to die?
Mine were long dead.

I know full well that things are out of place here, but it manages intrigue in its eccentricities.

Just leave the kilt at home.