The fridge looms before you, a monolith of liquid treasure. You open the door, the contents clinking, beckoning, luring. Your hands reach past a sea of cans and target a dusty bottle near the back. In a practiced motion you pop the top, retrieve a glass, and tilt them towards each other. You pause, letting anticipation mount. Then you begin to pour the black elixir. Your nose livens – espresso, dark chocolate, plum. It’s time for a Russian Imperial Stout.