Brewers get all salty when you call out their slurry as “yeasty” and instead prefer the innocuous “matter in suspension” cognomen. It has a creamy mouthfeel to the point that you wonder if this ipa has spelt or flaked oats in it. The taste is a splash of tangerine and arugula, shallot and chard. That milky coating washes clean and you can drill these with careless abandon, and they sure as fuck better be good if Brooklyn hipsters tossed on their rag and bone shirts, waxed their post-ironic moustachioes and stood in line for hours for a canned ipa.
Nyc has all the makings of a beer shitstorm locus if this persists: huge population density, trust funders; gourmands, expendable income, functionally unemployed “artists” and a lack of any noteworthy Manhattan whale factories.