There are entire subcultures within the craft beer world—let’s call them buzz-denialists—who will swear on a stack of coasters that their deep love of beer has absolutely nothing to do with achieving even the slightest tingle of intoxicated joy. To them, beer is all about flavor, nuance, artistry, mouthfeel, malt character, and something they call “crushability,” which is apparently a compliment. But not drunkenness, heavens no. That would be gauche.
These people can be found on both far ends of the ABV spectrum. On one end: the session-beer evangelists, who worship at the altar of sub-5% brews as if they were fizzy herbal tonics blessed by a hungover monk. “You can drink them all day!” they chirp. Yes. Yes, you can. But should you?
Then there are the real-deal booze paladins, the high-ABV truthers, the folks who scoff at pilsners and low-cal hazies like they’re carbonated tap water for toddlers. These are the ones who seek out brews with the word Imperial in the name and danger in the aftertaste—because after a long day toiling for The Man, you want something that tells your bloodstream, we ride at dawn.
Last night at The Copper Door in Tacoma’s Stadium District, I raised my glass firmly in solidarity with Team Buzz. The occasion? A Deschutes Brewing Big Beer Night—a celebration of bold, boozy, barrel-aged beauties designed to bring even the most stoic sipper to their knees. Norm Cartwright, Deschutes’ legendary beer whisperer and regional rep-slash-swag-dealer, was in the house doling out tall tales, rare pours, Corn Nuts, and wisdom of the fermented kind.
“This whole thing was a beautiful little collaboration between me and Craig,” Cartwright grinned, nodding toward Copper Door proprietor Craig Moore, whose patience, apparently, had reached saint-like levels. “He sat on some absolute monsters: The Abyss, Not The Stoic, Black Butte XXVI. When he called, I said, ‘Let’s blow it out.’” And so they did.
By “monsters,” he meant beers that could double as meals, meditations, or minor deities.
Take the Black Butte XXVI, a reverent, barrel-aged remix of Deschutes’ beloved porter that’s spent a whole year developing layers of bourbon, oak, and baker’s chocolate complexity. “It’s been aging since July,” Cartwright noted, as we nodded solemnly, like students in a holy stout seminary.
Or the Jubelale 2015, which comes with its own back-alley noir origin story: a robbery, a snowdrift, a forgotten keg frozen in time behind the brewery, only to thaw into something so concentrated and glorious that it inspired a superbrew. “That keg was destiny,” Cartwright insisted. And we believed him.
Then came Not the Stoic, Deschutes’ spicy middle finger to beer bloggers who dragged its predecessor, The Stoic, for being “not quad enough.” So the brewers doubled down: candy sugar, date and beet syrups, pomegranate molasses, and 11 months in Pinot Noir and rye whiskey barrels. The result is smooth, massive, mystifying. “A philosophical beer,” Cartwright said. “Bold, misunderstood, slightly Belgian. Like Sartre on a bender.”
We sipped Mirror Mirror, a barleywine so rich it might require its own tax bracket. “It’s double Mirror Pond, aged to hell and back. It’s chewy. It’s dangerous. It’s gorgeous,” said Cartwright.
And of course, The Abyss. What can be said about The Abyss that hasn’t already been written in gold medals and whispered in reverent tones from dark corners of beer festivals across America? It is black-hole dense. It is mythologically strong. It is 11% ABV and pitch-black glory. Since its 2006 debut, it has remained one of the Northwest’s most hallowed seasonal rites, like rain and existential dread.
Throughout the night, Cartwright floated between tables like a benevolent hop shaman, guiding palates, offering pours, and reminding us that beer—real beer—is never just about beer. It’s memory. It’s mythology. It’s stories passed between sips. And sometimes, it’s a quiet little rebellion against session-beer blandness.
Sure, spring usually calls for crispness, lightness, something with citrus and sunbeams. But to drink big in May? That’s a statement. A mood. A moment of high-proof clarity in a low-ABV world.
Thank you, Deschutes. Thank you, Copper Door. And thank you, Norm—may your swag bag never empty, and your beer always require a chair.
THE COPPER DOOR, 12 N. Tacoma Ave., Tacoma, 253.212.3708
