In places like London, where craft beer seems well-positioned and widely available, it's healthy to remember that this whole portion of the industry is still built off hand-to-hand connections.
Chatting up the manager of Kill the Cat, a little shop on Brick Lane (the famous Indian food neighborhood) where they sell one bottle or can at a time (no sixers) sitting mostly warm on the shelf, I'm reminded of how much happenstance most of the growth in craft still banks on.
"This looks cool, can I try this?" asks a man who wandered in off the street touring around with his friends.
The barkeep swaps out the warm can of a Cloudwater IPA for one in the fridge like an employee at Foot Locker putting the floor model back on display, and cracks open a freshie.
"Look at that!" the man says, a bit flush in the cheeks from his last pour already.
The hazy IPA blubs out of the can and into a new drinker's heart, full of surprise and delight. His friends stand around, reveling in their good fortune. The barkeep moves on to the next patron. There's constant work to be done.
