Your sandals pound the pavement, the sun warms your neck. A bead of sweat poises, but you've got a plan. The taproom threshold is an auditory wall of music and voice. Your mouth waters, a Pavlovian response. The brain is no fool – it knows what's coming. You rest your elbows on the bar and gaze at the taplist, eyes darting for three letters. Those delicious letters, the prime acronym, the proto-ale, the IPA.