You knew it was coming. Don’t act surprised when one of these HF bruisers ended up on IPA week, it was just a question of WHICH ONE. Abner? A solid choice. Harlan? Maybe next time. Double Citra? We shall see. I figure with all of the consternations and bemoaning surrounding the Ephraim news (DONG only, joining the ranks of Pliny the Younger and Exponential Hoppiness) it should be underscored how amazing EVERY OTHER Hill Farmstead beer is. Today’s review is on plenty of top 100 lists and we might as well address this amazing hoppy citrus warhead in today’s review since these Vermont bombs seem primed to blow.
Galaxy Single Hop IPA
Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States
American Double / Imperial IPA | 8.00% ABV
A: Just look at that beer, it looks like the golden reactor inside of a platinum unicorn melted into a radiant mess of radioactive hoppy lupus materials. The golden radiance pulls light in and magnifies it tenfold. I enjoy the turbid cloudy look to this beer, it flexes a haziness to it in a way that would make most saisons blush. That’s just how Galaxy aka the “G DIPPA” rolls in the trap.
S: If you have ever smelled galaxy hops, take that platonic idea and magnify it 350 times with some Humean/Lockean/empiricist sense impressions. This may be one of the best smelling beer that I have ever smelled in my life, it reeks of citrus, pineapple, tangelo, grapefruit rind, and a very faint hint of conifer on the backend. It is like a jambajuice gangbang that a park ranger stood idly by to watch, and I love it.
T: This carries on the citrus tradition in a manner that is almost just straight up juice in execution. The fruits drive hard to the hole and impart the aforementioned fruits and start flirting with those listed usually on tropical starburst. You get orange and clementine, mandarin, and the elusive naartjie pokes its head in there for a moment. I can’t underscore this enough, this is citrus with hop oils instead of that annoying Vitamin C all up in the mix.
M: This is incredibly light on the palate with the grave exception of the huge hop AR-15 oil rifle that it fires wildly. It is like the little guy who is a demolitions expert in movies, you know shit is gonna get wrecked real quick. There’s a light creaminess that balances out the intense fruit flavor, but it doesn’t toss an albatross around the neck of this raging hopbull.
D: This growler disappeared instantly. I don’t know how else to qualify that statement but, it’s like when you do rails of bath salts and all you want is the loving caress of your Pier 1 Imports dealer. You pour yourself a glass and it is instantly gone. The ABV slides in like so many Greek phalanx into Troy. This is the beer that launched a thousand ships, and then smashed them all. It reminds me of this kid I knew 10 years ago when the WRX first came out and he upped the boost to something like 22 psi on the stock block BOOM hop destruction, but entirely bad ass in the interim.
Narrative: “Hank, he bought more equipment, will you say something to Taylor? This is really getting out of hand.” Mr. Davidoff walked into the garage and saw a mash cooling unit and what was clearly a lauter tun. “Hey, Taylor, sorry didn’t mean to startle you there-” he walked forward and kicked a bag of grapefruits. “HEY! Uh, just science in here, science fair project, that orange battery that I was uh-” Taylor mumbled as he kicked a book titled “Sparging for Dummies” underneath an indoor hydroponics hop growing system. “Listen son, it’s pretty clear you are trying to make beer in here, but son, you are 14. There are far easier ways to land booze than this, and I don’t know if I approve of you drinking.” Taylor’s hands began to sweat “wha? BEER? I don’t even know how, do they even sell strains of cultured yeasts for wild saisons? No, didn’t think so, just science fair and testing that hypothesis that I was er telling you about.” A bolivian man arrived with a wheel barrel full of malted barley sacks and sleepily began unloading them on the Davidoff’s lawn. “You know what, if you want to try and make high-end saisons instead of scoring 4Loko down by the train station…I guess I am ok with that.” Mr. Davidoff threw an arm around his son and spied a freshly emptied 15 gal rum barrel. “THAT’S MY BOY!” high fives were dispersed pell mell.