Why your best work is judged after you stop touching itThe one-star review arrives at 11pm. It says the beer tastes like a skunk that lost a fight with a wet cardboard box. The brewer reads it twice. He knows this beer. He knows its gravity, its pH, its dissolved oxygen at packaging, the exact hour the hops went in. That beer left his building in a state approaching grace. What he does not know, because nobody tells him, is that the pallet spent nine days on an unshaded dock in Phoenix in August, then three weeks in a fridge...