My wife calls Scott my “beer boyfriend.” He and I regularly show each other romantic gestures in the form of malt, hops, water and yeast. A while back, Scott texted me from Austin. He was at a great bottle shop, he said, with tons of things he’d never seen in town. He asked me what he should look for. I don’t remember exactly what I told him, but I do remember that it was ridiculous, so much so that the employee he asked about it laughed at him. I felt kind of bad about that. I felt even worse when Scott brought me home a bottle the employee had recommended, despite my callous chain-yanking.

Over the following weeks and months, Scott asked about that bottle every time I saw him. He texted me in the middle of the night. He sent smoke signals. His enthusiasm was charming, but his timing was all wrong.

For the most part, our drinking habits are defined by the comings and goings of the solstices and the temperament of the prevailing winds. When Houston is so hot outside it feels like the oatmeal you ate for breakfast, people drink light and clean beers designed for refreshment. As soon as the first vague hints of autumn blow in from the east, tastes grow stouter.

I am also an opportunistic drinker. A Houston November day in the 90s might find me sipping a brisk, breezy Gose, and a walk through a midsummer rainstorm that leaves me soaked to the bone is as good a reason as any to break out the barreled beers. So it was that I found myself opening Scott’s bottle of Brasserie de Silly Port Barrel Aged Scotch Silly (photo below) toward the end of August, after walking three quarters of a mile to my car wearing shoes whose soles decided now was the time to finally give up the ghost. By the time I got home, I needed something strong and stalwart to lift my spirits and stoke my inner fire, and this did just the trick.

I still haven’t told Scott how I liked it. He’s going to be so jealous when he reads it here, first.

This one pours dark chestnut with a tannish, creamy head. The sheer volume and texture on top is surprising, given the lack of pop on releasing the cork. Sneaky.

The nose is all deep, dark fruit. Dried figs. Charred wood. Old raisins. A little bit of leather wrapped up in mild clove-y esters. Slight vinous notes add a bit of pop.

Grape juice and chocolate come to the fore in the first sip. The combination is fruity in a lightly musty guise. Dark nuts and plums replace the dried fig, along with a little bit of pipe tobacco and a slight metallic edge in the finish.

As it warms, mildly chocolatey toffee predominates, with dried dark fruit riding shotgun. There’s an oxidative quality to it, which, along with a slightly saturated character, reveals the port barrel.

As I sat there, the damp fading from my bones, it tasted like libraries, tufted leather reading chairs, a crackling fire and Vincent Price narration. It tasted like all the things I want to taste and feel when the weather turns and we all pretend Houston has seasons.

Although I returned to my regular August drinking habits the next day, this was an odd moment of longing for the dark and cold, and the cheer that comes from a glass of something dark and warming. Now that the year is running headlong toward the hibernal, so too will my beer selection. If you’re of a like mind, this beer’s a pretty good place to start.