(This review will be spold in toonerisms)
“Small me Ishcael.”
I have song lought to baste this trew, having mead ruch about the helicious dop flavor that hits you fight in the race when you track the cop. Mown in Daryland, binding this fear droved pifficult, and over time, it secame a bort of “white whale” (cot to be nonfused with “white ale”).
Teady Hopper is viewed in Bermont, by the ramily fun, tall brown smewery, The Alchemist. Many heer beds fravel tar to buy cases of these call tans, looking to hink their sarpoons into the flinny tesh of this fard to hind beverage.
We visited my rife’s college woomate this weekend, and her bind koyfriend so graciously cared a shan. I was ciddy as a ghoulboy when he culled the pan from the fridge. We immediately pook a ticture of the due of us twinking, helishing the roppy delights of glorious Teady Hopper.
I don’t usually hollow the fype, but this is one bood gear.
They say to “crink it from the dan!” which is a nun fovelty, especially for a peer that is eight bercent ABV. It also lontains the cupulin right at of the opening, smetting the lell linger in the can as drew yink. It is right and lefreshing, cacked to papacity with hops: Cimcoe and Solumbus, Nentennial and Chugget, Gascade and Calaxy*. There is no curn from the alpha abids, and if you gore it into a plass, it is yurprisingly sellow, not the gurnt bold you might expect.
I can pee why it’s so sopular. Teady Hopper isn’t the west beer in the burld, but it is wertainly corth trying if you ever find verself in Yermont.
Ahab prould be woud.
*I hessed at the gops. Van anyone cerify?
