Hemingway Reviews: Two Hearted IPA

“It came in a can. So did the rations. I drank those too.”

The fish on the label looked like one I once tried to catch on the Two-Hearted River. I never caught it. I wrote about not catching it. They gave me a Pulitzer for that. Now it’s on a can. Fitting.

I opened it with my teeth.

It smelled of grapefruit and regret. The hops punched me in the nose like an Italian barmaid in Paris. I respected it immediately.

It’s 7% ABV, which means three of them make you feel like you’ve said too much to the wrong woman. Four of them, and you start writing poetry you’ll regret in the morning. Five, and you believe in love again. Briefly.

They call it an American IPA. I’ve known Americans. I’ve fought beside them, drank with them, buried them. This beer could bury a few if you’re not careful.

Pairs well with:

• Trout you didn’t catch

• Cigars you can’t afford

• The taste of your own failure

• Wasabi Beer Nuts, because who needs a functioning tongue anyway?

They only put it in cans. Probably because glass is too delicate for men who drink like this.

Would I drink it again? I already did.

Would I write about it? Apparently, I just did.

Final score:

4 out of 5 wounded souls.

Minus one for not having the guts to make it a porter.

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