Every other Friday, my wife and I grab dinner and beer at Pasqually’s Pizza in West Philadelphia. The no-frills eatery has, in my opinion, the best selection of craft beer in the city, which enhances its perfectly serviceable Italian American fare. So, we dish about our workweeks over stromboli and a can or two. As is tradition, I pull open the stuffed coolers and reach for a high-ABV double IPA, usually from Grimm or The Alchemist. As is also tradition, my wife comments on how gross IPAs are before picking out a syrupy sour or Mexican lager instead.

I’ve heard similar comments hundreds of times from dozens of folks: IPAs taste like battery acid! They’re disgusting! And so pretentious! Despite the style’s overwhelming domination of the American craft beer scene—I dare you to find a loca

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