Hill Farmstead has always had an amazing staff. Even when the small crew had to negotiate a retail shop the size of a college dorm room, each person went out of their way to make you feel welcome.
Today, Kevin is filling my growlers. We make small talk as the beer flows out of the taps. How long he’s worked at the brewery (two and a half years), the size of the crowd today (surprisingly thin), his recommendation for which of the onsite offerings I should try (Civil Disobedience Pear). Eventually we get around to where I live—Boston.
Turns out, Kevin and I both used to live in Waltham, a suburb 20 minutes outside of Beantown. We throw out the familiar names of streets previously lived on, talk about the brewpub that went out of business on Moody Street, go back and forth about our favorite bottle shops and restaurants in the area. Oh, and we reminisce over the Gaff, Waltham’s local craft beer bar where I spent many nights hanging out with friends sipping beers, and where Kevin met his wife.
“What brought you up to Vermont, then?” I ask.
Kevin looks up from the growler, grins, and replies, “Working here.”
