@Hillfarmstead Double Citra, Double Down That Citra and Juicy J Gonna Pop It Like Wet Paint

It’s been a minute since we went back to Vermont to see what those boys are up to in Greensboro. Now that Citra is a household hop right next to the Ajax and the baking soda, let’s go way back and enjoy this top 100 banger with a fresh liver. This beer would previously post up with Abner and Double Galaxy and push kids around the school yard, showing them how hops is done. Does it still bully the fuck out of newcomer DIPAs? We shall see in today’s revew. WE SHALL SEE.

Double Citra creepin on Double Citra. Citraception.

Double Citra creepin on Double Citra. Citraception.

Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States

Style | ABV
American Double / Imperial IPA | 8.00% ABV

A: You already know how this cow eats the cabbage before you even pop that growler. You get an eggshell white foam that is just pumps out ropes and ropes of lacing like Peter North. Google him after you get home from work. The turbid borderline farmhouse look to this beer lets the consumer know two things 1) pasteurization is for playaz who dont be getting it and 2) that milky secret holds all the hops in the substrate like a male seahorse and all his spawn. The carb is indefatigable and crackles endlessly, taunting you, letting you know no one asked you to Sadies, reminding you of substandard DIPAs of the past and the messy hop IEDs of the future.

After having a DIPA like this, other double IPAs seem like a janky ass Samus.

After having a DIPA like this, other double IPAs seem like a janky ass Samus.

S: Some other breweries choose to buttress citra hops with something like oh I don’t know cascade, simcoe; you know something to give structure to the acidic citrus aspects. This beer just says fuck all that and goes ham on the citrus notes. It is like a Farmer’s Market of tangerines, mandarin oranges, clementines, and nectarines. There is a light honey at the backend and some Grand’s biscuits going on just to make old Grammy smile at this hop builder straight flexing its traps.

T: This follows the nose pretty congruently and makes you feel as though you may have tread this path before in Society and Solitude, or perhaps to a lesser extent Abner. You get a lil aserose poking its head out of its knothole with the first sign of spring, then this turns into a straight up Gushers/Fruitopia commercial of juiciness and everyone is getting mouthfucked with oranges, lemon zest, cuties, and every manner of citric acid. This isn’t a fruiter berliner sort of acidity though, it is like a TOOL fan’s room with a stick dankness of oils and a bright glow of a blacklight hop cone poster. It is bright, bold but almost menacing in the way it just pushes your palate down into a swivel chair and demands the access codes.

Gather up your favorite off shelf DIPAs and prepare for your old heros to look like shit.

Gather up your favorite off shelf DIPAs and prepare for your old heros to look like shit.

M: This is hoppy and cirtus forward to the point of being drying along the gumline. If you have ever had beers that go hard on the Tomahawk/Warrior you know what I mean but this is a little different. It isn’t exactly a resinous bully that tears up your bicuspid walls, because there is almost a sort of yogurty creaminess to it. It’s like a hop gangster who flips a coin, shoots your friend and lovingly puts its arm around your gumline. Shit starts popping off in all kinds of directions like Hmong family reunion.

D: This is almost frustratingly drinkable. The 750ml swingtop is a mockery for this beer and shouldn’t even be an offsite option. It is akin to a single song dance at a strip club when you know you are gonna be tipping up. Once it is gone, you feel like that nursing student crawling around the floor collecting the one dollar bills, dancing your way through school. The carbonation just adds to the problems because the crack and substantial coating in the creaminess lends itself to foregoing contemplation of what you are enjoying. One minute you are just contemplating going to see Pain & Gain, the next minute Double Citra is gone and you are asking to speak to a lawyer.

Oh shit you used Citra in your homebrew IPA? Man time to enter that at GABF, girls will love you.

Oh shit you used Citra in your homebrew IPA? Man time to enter that at GABF, girls will love you.

Narrative: Angus T. Jones was sick of this shit. He walked around the backlot and bit into a ripe tangerine and looked over the spec script for the 14th season. Two and a Half Men wouldn’t be the same without the half man, now almost two decades old. “Get my agent on the phone, I am sick of this fucking nonsense,” Angus called out to an associate producer and cast a Newport onto the pavement. At first things were sweet, when he was younger he was content with mediocrity, but this was too much. “Another fucking episode about me not fitting in at school? I am 19 fucking years old. The writers need to get their shit together!” he screamed into the DP’s voicemail. In the beginning it was easy to forget all of the mediocrity, which folded into itself like the membranes on a mitochondria. However the acidity had been punched up, his sticky distemper was affecting Ashton Kutcher and other serious artists on the set. “How about this, my character goes to the fucking Army? Ok? Or, I dont know, get an alien or an adopted kid. Do what shitty shows do when they become worse and worse to the point that Nascar fans wont watch them anymore. Yes, yes I did see the final season of Family Matters, do that shit,” he called into his iPhone 5 while texting one of the hot skeezies on iCarly. He was more acidic than he was deep, but he was more profound than others in his position. Angus Jones was an acerbic asshole that people could never seem to get enough of.


Alpine Bad Boy Double Imperial Pale Ale, Bad Boys Go To Their Respective Hop Rooms.

This beer always comes up when the best Double IPAs in the world are discussed. Hell, it is on most top 100 lists and constantly spars with Ephraim and Citra. Let’s stop pussyfooting around and figure this shit out once and for all, how good is the crowning DIPA glory from San Diego’s finest hop masters? We shall see.

This particular 64oz growler, I did not skull to my dome piece, so my judgment was not impaired. Better than Hill Farmstead Ephraim? Sadly no. But still amazing. There, I said it.

Alpine Bad Boy, 9.5% abv, Double IPA

A: This has a radiant golden glow to it with a great clarity like majestic apple juice. The lacing looks like an abandoned haunted house and these a tons of webs all up in this piece. This be looking mad antiquated. The carbonation from the growler is solid and sticky throughout. This looks dangerous and somehow session able.

This beer has an amazing salad meets hop oil converging with pineapple and bunny musk going on.

S: The smell even on opening the growler is relentless. The hop presence detonates like pinecones galvanized all up in your dome piece. There is a grassy pineapple to it with some herbal grapefruit. I would deem this 60/40 herbal to fruit which is a solid balance. Hop Wallop needs to take some notes. This has more balance than a Chinese gymnast with an inner ear infection.

T: This is exactly what Alpine does so. Damn. Well. It just delivers a huge initial sweetness that fades into a freshly cut grassiness that makes you feel all elementary school for a second until, bam, honey sweetness that fades. This is like the more tactful version of Hopslam. A friend you can confide secrets in, a hoppy buddy you can take places and know he wont talk about when someone touched your no no. That kind of friend.

The scope of the undertaking is impressive, wait till you see the taste.

M: The mouthfeel is impossibly light. It is Pale Ale thin, imparts a huge herbal character that swirls a maple cape and fades into a loveable sweet note. It is David Blaine ass hop work. It leaves my mouth all astounded but wanting more. I suppose a growler is both an appropriate and inappropriate serving size, for obvious reasons. This will take a serious prestige amongst Ephraim and Citra. To be clear, this is far superior to Exponential Hoppiness in the way that Nightcrawler is superior to Colossus. It is just someone I would rather hang out with on a regular basis. This is nimble and bad ass, not some lumbering asshole who always asks you to save his sister from a tractor.

D: Holy jeez, this is the Live Oak of DIPA’s which is to say its drink ability is off the charts for the ABV and the complex character of the hop profile. I almost want to run my own tests to ascertain if this has any more than 4% abv but, the old liver test is sufficient. The fact that this is not in bottles has allegedly saved CalTrans millions in roadside clean ups. So there’s always that.

With a growler in tow, you can go on some epic San Diego adventures where you will no doubt lose your shoes and your entryway will be soaked in the morning.

Narrative: “Well? Did you find anything? All OF THE OPENINGS ARE SEALED!” Tarynn cried with the utmost agitation, Mark felt that a reference to ‘that’s what she said’ would be not apropos in the case of a spelunking disaster. “WE ARE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE!” Tarynn exclaimed while running her fingers through her thinning hair. She fell to her knees in desperation and clutched the halogen lantern desperately. “We can’t be below the water table, so therefore, the sediment should push up some sustainable filtered water and, potentially some veget-” Mark tripped over a thick tuft of underground foliage. “What in the-” he discontinued his sentence in that staccato manner that characters in situation comedies do, despite not being interrupted. “HECK” he finished, but so much later that it didn’t seem canon with his previous sentence. “What is it Mark?” Tarynn called out. There was a fresh pool of water seeping through the floor but it was fully entwined by sticky, vinuous hop plants. The smell was overwhelming. “This-” he did it again, “is our only chance of survival.” The two nodded gravely and began to suck from the pools the sticky water and push raw hop flowers into their gullets. “If only we-” Mark declared before falling asleep. The geological team found them 8 days later, high out of their minds on raw hop flowers. Mark’s sentences have since been correc-


Alpine Nelson, India Pale Ale, Your neck, your back, your hop cones and your

Ah Alpine Brewing Company, the hop masters whose bottles are constantly in demand. I get trade requests for these elusive assholes all the time and I only live like 150 miles from where it is brewed.

Something delicious coming out of East San Diego that isn't crystal cut meth.

Alpine Nelson, IPA, 7% abv

A: Bright orange hues with mild cloudiness, Great foamy head that escapes pretty quickly leaving minimal lacing. This beer looks all radiant like radioactive orange juice.

Hoppy denial, not should occur.

S: There is a vibrant bouquet of oranges, grapefruits, apricots, and lemon zest. Very citrusy and smells like liquid sunshine all up in my dome piece.

This beer will turn your head, and keep your attention. But not in a weird way.

T: Sadly, it doesn’t retain all of the bright juicy notes that it promised. I don’t feel misled, just misinformed. There’s a bit of tartness and cirtusy dryness but overall it comes off like a slightly more acidic version of Alpine Ale. It is still good, but not as drinkable as Hoppy Birthday, and not quite as powerful as Pure Hoppiness, still a beautiful middle child with flaxen locks.

M: This has a great coating and breadiness to it that is very refreshing. The light citrus notes makes me almost want to go outside for a change, look at the sparrows and, no, there’s nothing for me out there. I will resign myself to staying inside and living vicariously through my IPAs. The mouthfeel is pretty legit though, nice biscuity coating with that lemon zest you just cant beat.

Smelled the hops and my face be all like-

D: This beer again shows Alpine’s poise and power in the drink ability field. You really cannot deny their ability to present beers that you can drink any place any time. In the lobby of a Planned Parenthood? Pop open some Nelson. Roll with it.

Narrative: Brayden pressed his face to the glass of his generic track home. He could see Final Fantasy XVII, just sitting there, imploring his input. His mind dizzied at the thought of his characters unleveled, cast in shoddy garb to remain in obscurity. Instead his mother put him outside in this hateful sun. The trees with their shade imparting goodness, natural pillars of breeze facilitation. “I HATE PLAYING OUTSIDEEEE!!!” he cried as he struck an aluminum baseball bat against the metal street sign. The elementary physics lesson was enough to put a pallor on the entire afternoon. Once the vibrating in Jayden’s hands stopped, he noticed something, a neighbor’s yard. But not just any yard, to be sure. His neighbor had a grapefruit tree in full yield with NO ONE TO ATTEND TO IT. “No. way.” he ruminated casuistically to himself. Of course, an 11 year-old boy has no interest in fresh citrus. He does however love destroying things, particularly fresh produce. The line of fruits across the thoroughfare was complete and impenetrable and the oncoming rush of a Nissan Maxima ensured results. Jayden wiped the acidic juice from his brow and nodded approvingly. +21 char, +3 Vitaility.


Flossmore Station Railhopper IPA, Getting my Rails Hopped So Hard Right Now.

My rails get all hopped just looking at this beer.

Flossmore Station Railhopper IPA, 7% abv

A: Nothing too crazy here, nice bright amber with deep gold hues, decent carbonation that mellows pretty quickly, not exceptionally beautiful but nothing ugly about it. A solid ale on the streets but a hoppy freak in the sheets.

S: Some orange rind and some mild sweetness but not a huge nose to this, maybe it’s because it was 2 months old, but I don’t see that being a great alibi because even the subtle notes arent there. It has a very flat olfactory character. No amount of clever writing will make Ashton Kutcher likeable, no amount of artful smells will make this crazy interesting.

You enjoy this IPA? How about I slap your shit?

T: This tastes like a 1.5 IPA, I say that with the respect that it has a nice light citrus character and a mellow piney character. There’s nothing wrong with it but it’s just lackluster. It sidesaddles two genres and comes off feeling a bit weak and generic. I don’t want all “Fresh Hopslam” proponents to get all up in arms but this just seems rather hackneyed for a brewery that rolls out crazy original. I harm them because I love them and just expect more. There’s not excuse for domestic hop violence.

M: Very good, nice crispness without being overly drying. Nice bubbles throughout and a taste that lingers without being oppressive like some Maharajas that I know. No overly herbal character, but it will be difficult to pick it out of a lineup of IPAs. It doesn’t have that certain joi de vivre that most flagship IPAs will maintain.

I should have drank this sooner.

D: Very drinkable, if accessible. I don’t want to insult it as an “entry level IPA” like a monicre I would give to Ranger IPA, but it just feels like someone phoned it in on either the hop bill or just went for the standard grain bill or something. Maybe I am just being an IPA curmudgeon, who knows. Certainly drinkable but it wouldn’t be my go to over the stable (D)IPAs like Pliny/Sculpin etc/

Narrative: “You can’t return this, at least not without a receipt, and then unfortunately you can only receive store credit at FashionBug.” His demeanor was cool and calm, Waylon Lupus was the calm store manager notorious for difusing tense situations. “Now please, if you would like another spandex unitard, you can feel free to select another that is to your liking.” He did not maintain a smile or the slightest bit of hesitation while addressing the irate female single mother desperately searching for deals. His voice was monotone and crisp, like an audio book revealing depressing consumer news to crestfallen patrons. “Perhaps I could show you our wide selection of strapless patent leather shoes?” He uttered effortlessly and slid whimsically towards the appropriate section, mesmerizing his pacified companion. “No one knows your greatness Waylon, no one but me,” a soft voice uttered in the security booth while tracing a single finger across the monitor looking over the shoe aisle. “No one but me.”