Let’s be honest here, tired hands has hoppy offerings that suffer and benefit from the same all fiction and benediction that Sante Adairius enjoys, the hoppy offerings are either “pretty alright” or “holy fuck, I will cup the balls for more of this.” The bell curve is sharp and unforgiving.
This is unquestionably the best hoppy offering that those Ardmore boys have ever produced. Let’s open up the penumbra to a wider scope and say it is unlike any IPA I have ever tasted. First and foremost, the melon on the nose isn’t like oily hop melon, it’s like post coitus brunch cup melon. You get pineapple bright honey and that crisp honeydew like a Honduran fruit vendor is sleeping in your garage. The taste even maintains that cantaloupe character with a tangelo and grassy bitter finish to it that is dry like that Sarah Silverman delivery that you want to hate but stick around for.
The whole endeavor would never work in bottles, and the production costs on this must be sky fucking high. It is not what you expect and if a “wild IPA” existed, it would fall perhaps close to this mark. The melon is just amazing and, for such an unworkable fruit of insoluble fiber, holy fuck they captured the spirit like materia in rubicite.
Emma Watson is a trailblazing feminist. This melon transcends hackneyed timeworn gender neutral arguments.