Moosehead Lager

There are thousands of beers available to American consumers.  Most of these beers, however, are currently produced by only a small handful of worldwide brewing corporations.  For example, familiar brands like Stella Artois, Rolling Rock, Bass, Natural Light, Lowenbrau, Labatt, and Budweiser are subsidiaries of the same company: Anheuser-Busch InBev.  This company, which was formed in 2008 by the merger of Anheuser-Busch and the Belgian brewing giant InBev, commands a 25% share of the global beer market and clears about $4 billion in profits each year.  The world's second-largest brewing company, SABMiller, produces a vast portfolio of brews including Pilsner Urquell (Czech Republic), Cristal (Peru), Peroni (Italy), Zambezi (Zimbabwe), Grolsch (Netherlands) and Leinenkugel (USA), as well as the familiar range of Miller brands (Miller Lite, Icehouse, Mickey's Fine Malt Liquor, and many more).

In the midst of all this consolidation, we've also seen an explosion of microbrews and brewpubs - local operations that can be as small as couple guys working out of a garage.  But for this post I'm interested in breweries that don't belong in either category, breweries that started small, built a following based on quality, gained a wide distribution, and became very successful financially, all while managing to remain independent.  There are a few American breweries that fit this description, of which Sam Adams and Sierra Nevada are probably the best examples.  Look a little further north and you'll find another example of a beer that has grown from a small family business into an international classic without being absorbed by the mega-breweries.

The Moosehead Brewery is Canada's oldest independent brewery and also its largest, since the only three Canadian breweries larger than Moosehead - Labatt, Molson, and Sleeman - are all foreign-owned.  Moosehead was founded in Halifax, Novia Scotia, in 1867 by a British immigrant named Susannah Oland.  She crafted her brews according to the old family ale recipes she had brought with her from her native land.  The Oland family called their new business the Army and Navy Brewery, in honor of their most loyal customers - the British servicemen were stationed in and around Halifax, home to one of the largest naval installations in the North Atlantic.  Oland died in 1886, leaving her brewery in the care of her two sons Conrad and George.  By 1900 the brewery had changed its name to the Maritime Brewing & Malting Company.  The small business founded by Susannah Oland had grown quickly over the last few decades of the 19th century, which is all the more remarkable considering that the brewery was destroyed twice by fire in the 1870s.  And that's not even close to being the worst thing to happen to the Olands' brewery.

During World War I Halifax became one of the largest and busiest port cities in the world.  Massive cargo ships left Halifax for Europe laden with Canadian and American troops and supplies, to return with wounded soldiers and refugees.  In 1917 a French cargo ship carrying explosives bound for the front collided with a Norwegian vessel in the harbor.  The collision triggered a fiery explosion that leveled all buildings along the nearby shoreline over a 2 km area.  Over 2000 people were killed by fire, collapsed buildings, and flying debris.  The Halifax Explosion remains the deadliest accidental explosion in history, and the Olands' brewery did not escape the carnage.  The brewing facility was completely destroyed.  Conrad Oland - co-owner, brewmaster, and son of Susannah Oland - was killed in the blast.

The Oland family didn't give up.  Susannah's surviving son, George Oland, bought a new brewery in the town of St. John's, New Brunswick, and was back in the beer game by 1918.  In 1931, George Oland introduced a new beer to his lineup, a light-yet-flavorful ale called Moosehead Pale Ale.  The beer was so popular that in 1947 the business changed its name to the Moosehead Brewery in honor of its flagship ale.  To compete with the dominant American lagers of the 1960s and 1970s, Moosehead began producing Moosehead Lager, which quickly became their best-selling brew.

Under Canadian liquor laws, Moosehead was restricted from selling their beers outside of the Maritime provinces (New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Prince Edward Island).  They were, however, permitted to export it internationally.  Moosehead Lager was introduced to the United States in 1978.  It was immediately one of the most popular and widely-distributed imported beers in America.  By the late 1980s, however, the increased availability of European lagers (particularly from Germany and the Netherlands) in the US of A drastically cut into Moosehead's market share.  Still, Moosehead Lager continues to have a following throughout the United States and is even exported to Asia and Europe.  Amazingly, the Oland family - now in their sixth generation of brewmasters - still independently owns and operates the brewery.

Moosehead Lager is a high-quality brew that, at least in my opinion, is head-and-shoulders above the Canadian lagers offered by Labatt and Molson (not to pick on those two...but they're the only mass-produced Canadian beers I've tried).  Moosehead is ultra-clear, straw-colored, and highly carbonated.  It has a full, malty flavor that is more reminiscent of European pilsners than American mass-produced lagers.  There's also a sharper bite from hops than you might expect of a light North American beer.

The thing I like the most about the Moosehead story is that despite fire, death, devastation, competition, restrictive laws, and many other obstacles, Moosehead has managed to stay independent and true to its heritage.  On the one hand, you don't see any smarmy TV commercials for Moosehead like you do for European imports like Heineken and Amstel; no one in the States (well, at least here on the East Coast) could accuse Moosehead of being over-exposed.  On the other hand, Moosehead most certainly does NOT have the hip, underground beer snob vibe that many North American microbrews affect.  It's a solid, timeless brew that anyone who likes beer should be able to enjoy.

Caledonian 80/-

Scotland has as rich a brewing tradition as any nation of northern Europe.  From the early Middle Ages onward, there are records of Scottish Highlanders brewing ales with heather, the purple flower whose low shrubs carpet the rocky slopes of the Highlands.  The secrets of brewing heather ale were supposedly passed down from the Picts, who occupied the Highlands in Roman times.  There is even some archaeological evidence that Neolithic peoples living on the Scottish Isle of Rum were consuming a heather-based fermented beverage as early as 2000 B.C.  Heather not only provided flavor to beer but also served as a preservative - much as hops do in modern-day beers.

During the Industrial Age, however, the Scottish beer market was invaded by imported English pale ales, which were flavored with hops rather than herbs.  The ancient art of heather ale was still practiced on a small scale, kept alive on isolated farmsteads and in remote Highland villages.  Meanwhile, large breweries sprang up in the cities of Scotland to take on their English counterparts at their own game.  They began making pale ales using local-grown barley and hops imported from southern England.

Among these was the Caledonian Brewery, which was founded in Edinburgh in 1869. The name of the brewery is derived from Caledonia, the ancient Roman name for the uncivilized lands to the north of Hadrian's Wall (which included pretty much all of present-day Scotland). At the time of its founding, Caledonian was one of over 40 breweries that were thriving in 19th-century Edinburgh by making their own versions of English-style pale ales and bitters.  However, Caledonian is the only Edinburgh-based brewery of that era to survive to the present day.  Currently, their most popular offering is called Caledonian 80 /-.

The weird "/-" device is the symbol for the shilling, a monetary unit that was used in the United Kingdom until 1971 ( NOTE: before researching this blog post, I had no idea what a shilling was worth.  According to Wikipedia, there were 20 shillings per one pound sterling, and 12 pence per shilling.  That sounds unnecessarily confusing).  The reason this particular beer is called "80 shilling" actually has to do with is alcohol content.  Back in the 1800s, the British government levied taxes on Scottish ale.  The specific rate of taxation depended on the alcoholic strength of the beer.  Beers under about 3% ABV were deemed "light" and taxed at a rate of 60/- per hogshead barrel (one hogshead = 54 imperial gallons...and yes, I had to look that one up too).  Beers between 3 and 4% ABV were "heavy," meriting a tax rate of 70/-.  So-called "export" beers, which exceeded 4% ABV, were charged a tax rate of 80/- per hogshead.

I know I've covered this ground in the blog already, but before innovations pasteurization and airtight steel kegs, it was difficult to transport beer over long distances while keeping it fresh and unspoiled.  For exporting purposes, many European brewers would produce an especially heavy version of their beer that had more alcohol than the standard one.  The increased alcohol content would help to keep the beer from going bad during the voyage.  Extra hops, which serve as a natural preservative, were often added to the "export" version in order to achieve the same goal.  The technology behind this convention may be obsolete, but some European brewers still refer to their strongest beers as "Export" or "Foreign" to this day: Carlsburg Export is stronger than regular Carlsburg, Guinness Foreign Extra Stout is stronger than Guinness Draught, and so on and so forth.

Like many Scottish breweries, Caledonian still brands their pale ales according to the 60/70/80 shilling nomenclature.  As far as I know, however, their 60/- Light and 70/- Heavy brews are only served in casks and only available in the UK.  The sole version we can get on this side of the pond is their strongest, the 80/- Export.  Not that their 80/- is particularly potent by our American standards.  Historically, even the strongest British beers were generally lower in alcohol than strong beers from, say, Belgium or Germany.  Caley 80/- comes in at only 4.1% ABV - a little less than Miller Lite, and far less than many micro-brewed American pale ales.

Caledonian 80/- is a reddish brown color with an off-white head.  The character of 80/- is somewhat similar to comparable English pale ales like Bass or Boddingtons, only more robust and assertive.  It's also creamier and more full-bodied than your average English pale ale.  You'll get a strong malty taste without much hop flavor - unlike American pale ales, which tend to be far hoppier than their Old World forefathers.  There's also a hint of berry-like fruitiness that comes from the unique strains of British ale yeast and high-temperature fermentation employed in creating this brew.  The Caledonian Brewery is also known for their Deuchars IPA, an award-winning cask-conditioned India Pale Ale.

I have a strong personal attachment to Caledonian 80/-.  When I lived in England, there was a Scottish pub not far from my house that served Caley's brews.  I hung out there a few times with my Scottish friend Doug, putting away pints of 80/- and trying to decipher the crazy Scottish accents of my fellow patrons (strangely, this got easier as the night wore on).  But there are several other excellent Scottish beers available here in the U.S.  In particular, Belhaven Scottish Ale is another fine 80/- brew that's fairly easy to find at a specialty beer store.

And if you really want a taste of old Scotland, several modern microbreweries in Scotland as well as the United States are experimenting with beers flavored with heather.  In particular, the Williams Brothers Brewery of Scotland has made it their mission to revitalize ancient Scottish brews.  They offer a heather ale called Fraoch.  For a closer example, the Highland Brewery here in North Carolina has a seasonal beer called Highland Heather Ale that's supposed to be pretty good.  I haven't yet had the chance to try a heather ale, but it's high on my list.

Coors Banquet

The goal of this blog is to highlight the world's classic beers by examining their history as well as the modern beer styles they have spawned.  I'll totally understand if you don't think Coors Banquet meets the standard of "world classic beer."  After all, it is a fairly generic mass-produced American lager.  But I'm writing about Coors this week for personal reasons: a couple weeks ago, I took a tour of the Coors Brewery in Golden, Colorado and I wanted to pass along the story of this iconic brewery.

Coors was founded in 1873 by a German immigrant named Adolph Kuhrs.  Kuhrs emigrated to New York in 1867 at the age of 20.  Upon arriving in our country he Anglicized the spelling of his name to "Coors."  He made his way to Chicago and found work in a brewery (he had previously been a brewer's apprentice while a teenage orphan in Germany).  Within a couple years Coors had worked his way up to the post of brewery foreman.  In 1872 he left his job and headed west to Denver, Colorado.  He wanted to make his fortune by bringing German-style pilsner beer (which was already very popular on the East Coast at the time) to the Wild West.  He picked a good spot for his business: the population of Colorado had spiked during the gold rush of 1859-1861, and pilsner-loving immigrants from central Europe comprised a large percentage of the new arrivals.  According to the good people on the Coors tour,  Adolph Coors spend his weeks working at a variety of jobs around Denver and his weekends scouring the surrounding countryside for the best site for his brewery.

Specifically, he was looking for a spot near a high-quality water source.  The Coors tour repeatedly highlighted Adolph Coors' supposed catchphrase: "the water makes the beer."  Well that's true, of course - beer is mostly water.  If you recall my Pilsner Urquell post, the unique water quality of Pilsen was a key component of the fine pilsner beers brewed in Bohemia from the 1800s up till this very day.  Same goes for the great breweries of Munich, which also draw on a remarkably soft water that allows for the creation of extremely refined and high-quality lagers.  So by prioritizing his water supply, Coors was sensibly drawing on the wisdom of master brewers in his native land.  Coors ultimately found his water source in the prosperous mining town of Golden (about 15 miles west of Denver, as the silver bullet flies).  In 1873 the Schueler and Coors Brewery opened its doors in Golden.  Coors and his business partner Jacob Schueler (also a German immigrant) set to work brewing a fine golden lager in the pilsner tradition.  In 1880 Coors bought out Schueler's share of the company and continued to build his company.

Coors Brewery, Golden, Colorado

Adolph Coors led his company through the lean years of prohibition by making malted milk and non-alcoholic beer, as well as manufacturing ceramic products from the local clay mines.  During the second World War Coors secured a contract to distribute beer on American military bases.  Its popularity among servicemen led to an increased demand for Coors nationwide.  Following the war, the company expanded its distribution to most of the western states.  Elsewhere in the country, the novelty (and relatively high alcohol content) of the brew led to a so-called "Coors mystique" - immortalized in film by Burt Reynolds leading a truckload of contraband Coors across the South in Smokey and the Bandit.  By the 1980s Coors was legally available all across this great land of ours.

Along the way, Coors has been responsible for many innovations in brewing science and technology.  It was the first brewery to distribute its beer in modern two-piece aluminum cans.  It was also the first to exert major political influence in the form of hefty donations to conservative causes.  The conservative values espoused by Adolph Coors have continued to guide the company long after his death, including a controversial anti-union stance that led to a number of strikes and boycotts throughout the 1970s and 1980s.  In spite of his enormous professional success, Adolph Coors must have been battling his own demons: in 1929, at the age of 82, he jumped to his death from the window of a hotel room in Virginia Beach, Virginia.  There has never been any real consensus on his motivations for suicide.

The brewery remained in the Coors family until the past decade.  In 2005 Coors merged with Molson to become the Molson Coors Brewing Company.  In 2008, brewing giant Miller bought a 58% stake in Molson Coors and thus created a joint venture called MillerCoors.  The old Coors plant in Golden is currently the largest single-site brewery in the world, producing Coors beers as well as several familiar brands such as Blue Moon and Killian's Irish Red.  Despite the massive growth of the company over the past 130-odd years, the Coors brewery still churns out a version of the full flavored German-style pilsner that Adolph Coors brought to the Rockies - known today as Coors Banquet.

Coors' brewery floor

I'm not sure when they started branding this beer as "Coors Banquet."  I always used to call it "Coors Original"  (my brother is spearheading a movement to call it "Coors Heavy," which sounds cool even though people have no idea what you're talking about).  Although I do remember those commercials with the Sam Elliot voice-over from a few years back: "using only the the freshest high country barley...Coors. The banquet beer."  Anyway, the name supposedly comes from the late 1800s, when miners in Golden would throw wild parties called "banquets."  Adolph Coors' fine golden pilsner was the drink of choice at these soirees, and was therefore popularly referred to around town as "the banquet beer."

I became aware of Coors Banquet about 7 or 8 years ago.  Until then, Coors Light was the only Coors product I knew of.  Coors Light used to be one of my least favorite beers, along with Keystone Light (which, incidentally, is brewed at the Golden plant along with Coors Light).  I found it watery and weak, and, in my beer snob way, judged harshly anyone who happened to be drinking it within my line of sight.  My freshman-year roommate LOVED Coors Light....and, if you ever met my freshman-year roommate, that should tell you everything you need to know.  But I've come around on this viewpoint to some extent.  Coors Light can be really refreshing and, at the very least, it's way better than Keystone.

Whatever your feelings on Coors Light, Coors Banquet is a much different brew.  It's a typical "assembly line" lager: very clean and crystal clear with a balanced malty flavor.  But it is far deeper and more full-flavored than its silver-canned stepbrother  It may not be as smooth as continental pilsners like Stella Artois or Pilsner Urquell, but it is very drinkable nonetheless.  Look, if you're only about microbrews and imports, then you probably won't be too impressed with the Banquet beer.  But I think it compares favorably to similar offerings from Budweiser, Miller, Pabst, and other American giants.  If you factor in the price (about $10-12 for a 12-pack, about the same price as Miller Lite), I'd say Coors Banquet is one of the best beer deals on the market.

Enjoying a cold one on the house
at the Coors Brewery

The tour of the Coors brewery ends with a stop at a bar where you can try a wide array of Coors products free of charge.  Thanks to their generosity, my companions and I were able to sample a couple brews that aren't readily available in our neck of the woods.  One of these was Colorado Native, an amber lager made exclusively with Colorado-sourced ingredients and available only in Colorado.  It's a really solid brew with a rich, earthy flavor (a good taste comparison would be Anchor Steam).  And I especially like that Colorado Native can only be found in its home state - a throwback to Coors' heyday in the 1960s and 1970s, when their brew was available only in a handful of western states.  I also tried Batch 19, a lager brewed according to a recipe from the early 1900s.  Apparently, people in pre-Prohibition times liked their beers pale, hoppy, and thin-bodied.  It was very good though - pretty similar to what you would get from a standard micro-brewed light lager.

If you're ever around the greater Denver area, I would strongly recommend a stop at the Coors brewery for a taste of these brews as well as the remarkable story of how a poor immigrant became the proprietor of world's largest brewery.  It's particularly inspirational for those of us how have ever tried our hand at beer-making.  Just like every garage band dreams of landing a contract and cutting a studio album, every homebrewer dreams of opening his own brewery.  The story of Coors Banquet is the story of how one guy made that happen on the largest scale possible.

Negra Modelo

The 1800s were a sort of golden age for the city of Vienna, Austria, during which it was one of the major political and cultural centers of the world.  In 1804 Vienna was named capital of the newly-minted Austrian Empire.  The Congress of Vienna, which was called in order to settle the turmoil caused by the French Revolution, Napoleonic Wars, and dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire, was held in the city in 1814.  The Congress established many European political boundaries that still exist today and served as the model for the League of Nations and ultimately the United Nations.  In 1867 an agreement between the Empire of Austria and the Kingdom of Hungary formed the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  Vienna then became the capital of one of the largest and most powerful states of Europe.  During the 19th century Vienna was also considered the center of the musical world.  It was home to many of the greatest composers of the day including Mahler, Brahms, and Strauss.  The classic Viennese dance known as the waltz became extremely fashionable in Britain, France, and North America.

You might say that a great beer tradition was also brewing in Vienna during this time (sorry...that was horrible).  In 1841 a Viennese brewer named Anton Dreher began experimenting with lagers that had become very popular in central Europe.  He began by borrowing elements of the dark German lager called marzen, the standard drink of the German Oktoberfest.  Instead of using the dark-roasted barley that creates the signature taste of marzen, he roasted his grains at a lower temperature to create a beer that was smooth and toasty rather than dark and bold.  (This type of malted barley would eventually become known as "Vienna malt").   He then added German noble hops at the beginning of the brew to contribute a noticeable hop bitterness without leaving much hop flavor or aroma.  Finally, he fermented his product using lager yeast (which had only recently been isolated and incorporated into beer brewing) at cold temperatures, in the style of Pilsner lagers from the Austro-Hungarian province of Bohemia.  The result was an amber-colored brew that combined the toasty flavor of a dark lager with the crisp smoothness of a light one.  Much like the waltz, Dreher's brew became a symbol the refinement and splendor of 19th-century Vienna.

Anyone who is still reading at this point is probably wondering what this has to do with Negra Modelo, an excellent beer brewed in Mexico.  We're almost there.  During the 1860s the democratic President of Mexico, Benito Juarez, suspended interest payments to Mexico's European creditors - including France.  In 1862 the French army of Emperor Napoleon III invaded Mexico and, after years of war and many bloody setbacks, occupied Mexico City.  Two years later, with the support of conservative Mexican monarchists and the Roman Catholic clergy, Napoleon III offered the crown of the so-called Empire of Mexico to a member of the Austrian royal family named Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian Josef Habsburg.  Maximilian I (as he became known) was considered an ideal candidate for the Mexican throne: he had previously served as Commander-in-Chief of the Austrian Navy and as Viceroy of Lombardy-Venetia, and had recently completed a lengthy botanical expedition to Brazil.  The French royal house was closely connected to the Habsburg family through several marriages; there was even a popular rumor in Vienna that Maximilian was the illegitimate brother of Napoleon III.  However, Emperor Maximilian's reign in Mexico proved short and turbulent.  The country continued to be wracked by civil war.  Many of the world's powers refused to recognize Maximilian's legitimacy (including the U.S., who opposed any European intervention in North America in accordance with the Monroe Doctrine).  By 1866, even the French had withdrawn their military support.  In May, 1867 Maximilian I was captured and executed by forces loyal to Juarez.  Austrian dominion over Mexico died with him.

During the brief reign of Maximilian I, however, many Austrians had emigrated to Mexico City.  Among these were Viennese brewers, who are thought to have brought over beer recipes in the style of Anton Dreher's popular elixir - which by then had become known as "Vienna lager."  Mexican brewers continued the Austrian beer tradition even after Maximilian's execution.  The most renowned of these was an Austro-Mexican citizen named Santiago Graf.  Not much is known about Graf, other than that he was a skilled brewer who popularized the Vienna lager style in Mexico in the years following the collapse of the Empire.  He imported both hops and grain from Europe and began making true Vienna lagers in Mexico City.  By 1890, Graf's beer was the most popular brew in Mexico and the subject of many imitations.

The mighty Austro-Hungarian Empire was left in splinters at the end of World War I.  By that time, the dark toasty brew championed by Dreher in the 1840s had fallen out of favor in Vienna and may have even become totally extinct.  However, the Vienna lager tradition was just picking up steam in the New World.  In 1925 a new brewery called Cerveceria Modelo opened in Mexico City.  They began producing their own version of Graf's popular Vienna lager, which they called Negra Modelo.  In 1930 Modelo began exporting both Negra Modelo and its light lager, Corona, to the United States.

Negra Modelo is a dark amber color (like a tall glass of Coke after the ice has melted).  It has a pleasant malty taste, and you'll probably pick up on the toasty and nutty flavors that are the calling card of Vienna lager.  It is only lightly hopped, leaving a sweet smoothness that some choose to accentuate with a slice of lime.  Negra Modelo is instantly recognizable by its squat, short-necked bottles capped with gold foil.  And it's even better on draft.

A beer purist would argue that Negra Modelo is no longer a true Vienna lager: instead of 100% Vienna malt, Modelo now uses a certain percentage of adjuncts such as corn and rice (much like standard American lagers do).  They also use American hops instead of the noble German variety.  But beer purists are obnoxious.  All beer styles evolve and adopt certain characteristics depending on where and when they are brewed; that's why we have so many unique and amazing beers in the world.

In addition to Negra Modelo, there are several dark Mexican lagers that still carry the torch for the old Vienna style.  The most popular of these in the United States is probably Dos Equis Amber (although Negra Modelo remains the top-selling dark beer in Mexico itself).  The Cuauhtemoc Moctezuma Brewery in Monterrey produces a dark lager called Bohemia Obscura, which is supposed to be a fairly authentic re-creation of the 19th-century Viennese brew, but I haven't yet had the pleasure of trying it.  Meanwhile, the Vienna lager style has enjoyed a renaissance among America's microbreweries and brewpubs.  You see Vienna lagers popping up more and more on beer menus and in stores these days.  The best one of these that I've tried is Trader Joe's Vienna Style Lager (no joke - it really is awesome.  Another reason to love Trader Joe's).

Reissdorf Kolsch

Around this time of year a lot of microbreweries are promoting their summer seasonal beers.  You'll notice that lately many of these summer offerings are described as "Kolsch."  I do not like this trend, for reasons that have nothing to do with the beer itself.  In fact, many of these American kolsches are excellent brews; I would particularly recommend New Holland's Full Circle Kolsch (straight outta Holland, Michigan - ancestral home of the Goodwin family).  I also recently tried Sam Adam's East-West Kolsch, which was a solid light ale with an interesting addition of jasmine.  My problem with these brews has nothing to do with taste - it's more about geography.

Kolsch is the adjectival form of Koln, a city in western Germany that we know by the French spelling of Cologne.  In addition to being the namesake of men's fragrances, Cologne is also renowned for a unique type of beer that its brewers have been crafting for generations.  The word kolsch refers specifically to this beer, which was (until recently) only brewed in Cologne.  I know this makes me sound like Rob Lowe's character from Wayne's World, but the seasonal summer ales offered by American microbreweries don't really count as kolsch in the same way that most sparkling wines don't count as champagne.  ("Ah yes, it's a lot like 'Star Trek: The Next Generation'.  In many ways it's superior, but will never be as recognized as the original.")

German kolsch beers are golden or straw-colored and light in body.  In appearance (and, to some extent, in taste) they resemble classic continental pilsners.  Beyond this general outline, however, the kolsch product varies widely from brewery to brewery according their individual traditions and preferences.  Some kolsches are brilliantly clear, while others are cloudy due to the addition of a small amount of wheat.  Similarly, some have a strong all-malt flavor (similar to pilsners) while others are sweeter and closer in taste to wheat beers.  They employ varying amounts of noble German hops, which can impart different degrees of earthy hop flavor (though they are not particularly bitter as a general rule).  The most distinctive characteristics of kolsch, however, are derived from the yeast strains used to ferment them.

There are two main families of yeast used by brewers: ale yeast and lager yeast.  One of the most important technical distinctions between these two families has to do with temperature.  Generally, ale yeast is fermented around room temperature (70 to 80 degrees) while lager yeast is fermented at cool temperatures (around 50 to 55 degrees).  Kolsch is considered a "hybrid" beer, meaning it is a cross between an ale and a lager.  Kolsch brewers use unique strains of ale yeast that have been passed down through generations of brewers in Cologne.  Unlike standard ale yeasts, kolsch yeasts thrive at cooler temperatures and kolsch beers are usually fermented anywhere from 60-70 degrees.  Many kolsch brewers also age their beer in cold storage for extended periods of time (a process that is usually reserved for making lagers).  The kolsch yeast produces strong and interesting flavors (like many ale yeasts do) while the cooler fermentation temperature makes for a smooth, lager-like finish.  Taken as a whole, the character imparted is usually described as refreshing and sweet with a subtle fruity flavor.

Taverns in Cologne have probably been brewing a "kolsch-like" product for centuries.  It wasn't until 1905, however, that the style was formalized and began being officially referred to as kolsch.  Over 40 small breweries were producing kolsch for the local market in the 1920s and 1930s, though the style never garnered much attention outside of its hometown.  Cologne was heavily bombed by Allied forces during World War II and only two kolsch breweries were left in business by the end of the war.  But the style made a roaring comeback on the German beer market during the latter half of the 20th century, peaking in the early 1980s.  During this time an assortment of breweries in Germany and abroad were producing light ales and branding them as "kolsch" to capitalize on the popularity of kolsch name.  In 1986 an association of brewers in Cologne established the Kolsch Konvention, a set of guidelines to restrict the number of breweries who could brew kolsch and protect the integrity of the style.  Currently, there are only about 20 breweries in Cologne that are authorized to produce a true, official kolsch.

The bad news is that if you want to sample an authentic kolsch served in the traditional way, you'll probably have to go to Cologne and pay one of those breweries a visit.  It will be served to you in a tall, narrow glass called a stange.  The shape of the stange is designed to create a thick head and retain carbonation (sort of like a champagne flute).  The good news is that over the past decade a few authorized kolsch breweries have begun bottling their product and exporting it to the United States.

One of the pioneers of this movement is the Reissdorf Brewery.  Heinrich Reissdorf, a Cologne-based entrepreneur, founded his brewery in 1894 and was one of the first brewers to market the kolsch style on a grand scale in the early 1900s.  The brewery is still a family-owned concern and is now in the fourth generation of Reissdorf brewers.  This heritage does not come without sacrifice: Heinrich Reissdorf's eldest son and heir apparent was killed in a brewery accident in 1936.  Before World War II the brewery produced a full range of ales and lagers, but they now focus on just making an awesome kolsch (plus a non-alcoholic version of the same).

In the interest of full disclosure, I have never been to Cologne and Reissdorf is the only true German kolsch I've ever tried.  So while I couldn't say how it stacks up against other kolsches, I can attest that it is a delicious brew.  Reissdorf is light and well-balanced with a crisp, dry finish.  The unique character of the kolsch yeast is present in the form of a slightly fruity tang.  Look for the bottles with a red-and-white checkered emblem blazoned with the "HR" logo, an homage to both the city flag of Cologne and the monogram of the brewery's founder.  Be warned that Reissdorf Kolsch isn't cheap - at my local store six-packs go for about $15.  But if you like the American kolsch-style beers that are popping up all over the place these days, I would definitely recommend sampling a bottle of Reissdorf and experiencing a 100% certified authentic kolsch.

QUICK EDITORIAL NOTE, IN CASE ANYONE IS INTERESTED:  I know that a lot of the German words I've used in this blog, such as Koln and Kolsch, are supposed to have a trema (i.e. those two little dots) over their vowels to mark the German "umlaut".  I honestly haven't been able to figure out how to add those little suckers in this blog format, but once I do I promise to make the necessary corrections.

Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout

Today we think of beer as being comprised of four main ingredients: barley, hops, water, and yeast.  This is partly because, dating back to the 1500s, brewers in Bavaria and Bohemia were prevented by law from making beer with anything else.  It was precisely these Bavarian and Bohemian beers that exploded in the 19th and 20th centuries and now dominate the world beer market (I also touched on this subject in the Pilsner Urquell post below).  So our perception of what makes "beer" is colored to some extent by the dominant beer style of our lifetime.  But the concept of a four-ingredient beer is actually a relatively recent trend.  For most of its history, in most parts of the world, beer was brewed by soaking a mixture of barley plus whatever grain you had available in water, tossing in some fruit, vegetables, or spices for flavor, and then letting bacteria infect the mixture and eventually ferment it into alcohol.  I'll admit that sounds pretty gross, but we do have relics of this practice today in the form of certain wheat beers, rye beers, fruit beers, and many others.

Oats, for example, were commonly used to make beer from the Middle Ages onward, particularly in England, Scotland, and Scandinavia.  A derivative of this tradition has survived to modern times in the form of oatmeal stout.

Oatmeal stout is exactly what it sounds like: a stout beer brewed with oats.  You're no doubt familiar with the dark, heavy, and heavenly brew known as stout.  The world's most famous stout, Guinness, is of course from Ireland, but the stout style was actually born in London during the 1700s as a stronger version of a dark beer called porter.  In the parlance of the times, this was called "stout porter" and eventually just "stout."  Dark beers like stout and porter were all the rage in England during the late 1700s, and before long English brewers were adding oats to the mix to create a beer they called "oatmeal stout."

The popularity of oatmeal stout waned over the next century, however, as dark, heavy beers fell out of favor in Europe during the 1800s.  But the 1890s saw a renewed interest in oat-based beers.  Oatmeal stout, which was considered a healthy and restorative beverage by the medical experts of the day, was especially recommended for nursing mothers.  Of course, this was during an era in which cocaine was prescribed to children as a toothache remedy...so I'd take that advice with a grain of salt.  The oatmeal stout fad was short-lived, and by the start of World War I in 1914 the style was practically extinct.

Oatmeal stout nearly faded into Bolivian, as Mike Tyson would say.  But in the late 1970s and early 1980s beer enthusiasts in Britain, fed up with mass-produced continental and American lagers, spearheaded a revival of traditional English ale styles.  Oatmeal stout became one of the beneficiaries of this trend.  One of the first breweries to jump on the oatmeal stout bandwagon was a historic family-owned brewery in Yorkshire named for its founder: Samuel Smith.

Established in the village of Tadcaster in 1758, Samuel Smith is oldest brewery in Yorkshire and currently one of the most popular breweries of northern England.  The brewery produces their oatmeal stout using the Yorkshire Square method, a rare brewing technique that dates to the 1700s .  A Yorkshire Square is a shallow stone chamber, approximately 6 x 6 ft. in size, used for fermenting beer.  A wooden deck is positioned above the chamber and used as a sort of filter.  As fermentation progresses, a thick layer of yeast builds up on the surface of the beer.  The yeasty sediment then attaches to the wooden deck rather than settling back into the beer.  The finished brew is full-flavored and fully fermented without having harsh yeast bite.

Like most beers of its type, Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout is opaque and black with a thick creamy head.  The dark roasted malt contributes a rich coffee-like flavor which is complemented rather than overpowered by the taste of oatmeal.  As is traditional for Old World ales, there is almost no hop flavor and very low hop bitterness.  The texture is somewhat smoother than you might expect and, as far as heavy beers go, it is surprisingly very drinkable.  It is not particularly alcoholic, containing 5% ABV (about the same as a Budweiser).  The end result is a creamy, milk-chocolatey brew that is comparable to other great stouts while retaining its own unique character.

The presentation of Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout matches the traditional flavor of the brew.  It comes in an old-school bottle adorned with a white rose - a badge of allegiance to the House of York.  Indeed, both the beer and the packaging recall the days of the Wars of the Roses, when beers were variable products that reflected the unique characteristics of their hometowns.  But it also has a satisfying, drinkable character that meshes well into the modern fascination with refined craft brews.  As a bridge between these disparate eras, and a fine brew in its own right, Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout deserves a spot in the pantheon of British classic beers.

Tsingtao Beer

In high school we had to read a short story by Jorge Luis Borges called "The Garden of Forking Paths."  It's about a Chinese scholar living in England during World War I and working as a spy for the German Army.  It's a fantastic short story, and if you're interested in reading it the full text can be found here.  The story has absolutely nothing to do with beer, except that at the beginning the narrator implies that he became involved with German intelligence while teaching English at a German school in Tsingtao, China.  I mention this only because it illustrates the link between the city of Tsingtao and the brewing tradition of Germany.  It was from this marriage that one of the best-selling beers in the world was born.

The city of Tsingtao, which is now properly spelled Qingdao, lies on the Yellow Sea in China.  In 1898 German sailors seized the small fishing village as part of an effort to prevent Chinese military build-up around Jiaozhou Bay.  After a period of negotiation, the German Empire obtained a 99-year lease on Jiaozhou Bay from China (much like the British did for Hong Kong around the same time).  Qingdao then became the German administrative capital of the concession.  Its primary importance to the Germans was as a military base: the German Navy's Far East Squadron and a battalion of marines were headquartered at the Qingdao port.  To provide an infrastructure for the new settlers, the Germans "westernized" the village by building roads, sewers, schools...and breweries.

Among these was the Germania Brewery, which opened its doors in 1903.  It was founded to produce German pilsner beers for the colonists who wanted a taste of their homeland on the other side of the world.  After little more than a decade, however, the Germania Brewery would find itself at the epicenter of massive political and social instability.

Because of its naval significance to Germany, Qingdao was targeted by the British at the outset of World War I.  In November 1914 the city fell after an 8-day siege by combined British and Japanese forces (Japan was a British ally at the time).  The Japanese Army would continue to occupy Qingdao from its capture until 1922.  Meanwhile, in 1916 the Germania Brewery was sold to the Dai-Nippon Brewing Company, the common ancestor of many Japanese breweries including Sapporo and Asahi.  It was during this period that the brewery re-branded itself as Tsingtao.  In 1938 the city of Qingdao was re-occupied by Japan during its invasion of the Chinese coast.

Throughout this turmoil, the Tsingtao Brewery remained under Japanese ownership from its purchase in 1916 until Japanese troops were finally expelled from China at the close of World War II in 1945.  Shortly thereafter, the brewing game in China was once again turned on its head by the communist revolution of 1949.   The company was then a state-owned corporation of the People's Republic of China from 1949 until privatization in the 1990s.  Anheuser-Busch owned a large stake in the company throughout most of the 1990s and 2000s, but sold their shares in 2009 after their merger with global beverage giant InBev.  Tsingtao is currently owned by the Japanese brewery Asahi as well as private Chinese interests.

Unlike some of the other beers featured in this blog, Tsingtao is NOT popular among the beer snob community.  I think part of this distaste can be attributed to the old adage that familiarity breeds contempt.  The Tsingtao Brewery accounts for about 80% of all beer exported from China, and Tsingtao has been exporting its beer to the United States since 1972 (the same year that Nixon visited China).  It's the best known Asian beer in our country by a wide margin and is served at pretty much any Chinese restaurant with a liquor license.

I guess some people also see Tsingtao as interchangeable with other light Asian lagers like Kirin, Asahi, Sapporo, and Singha.  But I would argue that Tsingtao stands alone as a unique, sophisticated brew in its own right.  It's one of those products whose whole is greater than the sum of its parts.  It has a distinctive hoppy flavor that recalls its heritage as a German pilsner.  It has a deep golden color and slightly grainy aftertaste.  It is brewed from a mixture of malted barley and rice, which gives it the signature dry finish of many Asian beers.  Put together, these components form an extremely drinkable lager that is a great complement for any meal...and I'm not just talking about Chinese food.  Crack open an ice-cold Tsingtao the next time you grill a steak or salmon and you'll see what I mean.

There's a lot to be said for a brewery  founded in China by German immigrants in the days before commercial air travel or even wireless radio, which has survived prolonged occupation by a foreign power, communist rule, and American ownership, and which has ultimately emerged as a unique brand with massive name recognition both domestically and internationally.  Taking a page from "The Garden of Forking Paths", out of all the futures that have been possible for the Tsingtao Brewery since 1903, this one is both extraordinary and well-deserved.

Salvator Doppelbock

The city of Munich, in Bavaria, Germany, is home to a great number of the world's classic beers.  I mentioned last week that it's difficult to find a good starting point when it comes to describing Belgian beers.  It's the same with beers from Munich, which is the cradle of so many of the brews that inspired this blog.  But I wanted to start off with one of Munich's finest and most original offerings: Salvator Doppelbock.  Salvator is a product of the Paulaner Brewery, which was established in 1634 by a cloister of Minim friars in Munich.  The brewery was named after St. Francis of Paola, the founder of the Order of Minims.  It is just one of many breweries in Munich that measure their age in centuries rather than years (and one of several that trace their origins to a religious order).

Many beer drinkers are familiar with bock, the strong, dark lager traditionally brewed in Germany to commemorate the beginning of spring.  There are hundreds of bocks currently produced throughout Germany and the world, of which Shiner Bock is probably the best known example here in these United States (we'll dive into the bock style in later posts - it's one of my personal favorite beers ).  The term Doppelbock, German for "double bock," was coined by the Paulaner Brewery in order to indicate Salvator's high alcohol content relative to regular bock.  But this doesn't mean that Salvator Doppelbock was created just as a stronger version of your average bock.  It has its own lineage that dates to a time when beer was more than just an awesome social beverage.

Munich is now primarily known for producing light, flavorful lagers like like Spaten and Lowenbrau.  But dark beers are at the heart of Munich's brewing tradition.  From the very founding of the Paulaner Brewery in the 17th century, the Minims brewed a strong and malty beer that was intended to provide sustenance to the monks during the Lenten fast.  Legend holds that this brew, which was considered an acceptable substitute for bread, was nicknamed salvator - Latin for "savior" - thanks to its life-sustaining qualities.

Of course, the monks weren't just sitting around chugging high-alcohol beer on an empty stomach.  The beer they brewed in those days was not fully fermented like the beers of today are, which means their brew was likely much sweeter and much less alcoholic than the current version.  Over the next couple of centuries the introduction of new types of yeast and improvement of lagering techniques (fermenting and storing beer at cold temperatures) refined Salvator into a beer that was not only rich and dark but also smooth and alcoholic.  By the 1890s the beer had become extremely popular as a springtime festival beer, and was served on the same occasions where bocks were traditionally enjoyed.  Salvator and its many imitators therefore called themselves doppel bock, both as a reference to their higher alcohol content and a boast of their superiority.

True to its heritage, Paulaner still releases its yearly batch of Salvator in the early spring - right around the beginning of Lent.  I couldn't in good conscience recommend an all-beer diet for 46 days, but this guy - who was inspired by the 17th-century monks of Paulaner - was recently able to pull it off.

Salvator is what you might call a beer drinker's beer. It has an assertive malty flavor that comes from a mixture of light and dark German malted barley.  This blend of malts render a brew that is coppery-brown with a slight ruby tinge and an off-white head.  Take a drink of it and you can see how it got its reputation as a "liquid bread": this rich and filling brew is a meal in and of itself.  The finished product clocks in at around 7.5% ABV, and the alcohol is certainly evident in the taste of the beer, underlying the richness of the malt.  But after the initial burst of malt and alcohol the aftertaste of this beer is extremely smooth; you get a satisfying finish with just a faint residue of floral German hops.  Overall, it is richer, more intense, and more complex than a standard bock.  But if you like one I'm pretty sure you'll like the other.

After the success of Salvator in the late 19th century, several breweries in Germany began producing their own versions of doppelbock.  Paulaner's Salvator was so synonymous with the style that other breweries gave their own doppelbocks names that end in "-ator" in order to identify them as disciples of the original.  I can highly recommend Ayinger Celebrator and Spaten Optimator, both of which are flavorful brews that also hail from Bavaria.  The doppelbock tradition is also alive and well in the world of American microbrews.  Bell's Consecrator is an American double bock that, in my opinion, rivals the alcoholic-yet-smooth flavor and malty richness of Salvator.  But if you're looking for an introduction to the doppelbock style you can't do better than the world's original, a shining example of the Munich brewing tradition.

Delirium Tremens

Belgium is considered by many to be the spiritual heart of the brewing world, and Belgian beers will certainly feature prominently in the future of this blog.  For a country the size of Maryland, Belgium has produced an inordinate number of the most unique and sublime beers on the planet.  You may know some of them: Trappist ale, oud bruin, lambic - to name a few.  These are timeless elixirs, crafted at the blurred intersection of faith, science, and history.  They have pedigrees that stretch to the Middle Ages and beyond.  They are the subject of books and the vice of kings.

We'll get to those beers in later posts, but first I wanted to write about a Belgian beer with its own peculiar heritage that doesn't fit the traditional image of monks, abbeys, and age-old recipes.  It has a distinctive style, one that seamlessly blends elements of medieval brewing into modern beer culture.  It also has - for my money - the coolest name of any beer out there: Delirium Tremens.

Delirium Tremens is an infant compared to other Belgian beers: as a brand, it has only been around since 1989.  But the history of this brew really dates to 1906 when a Belgian restaurateur named Leon Huyghe purchased the decrepit Appelhoek Brewery in Melle, East Flanders.  Huyghe owned a popular chain of street cafes and his goal was to establish an in-house brewery that would supply all of his restaurants with a proprietary brand of beer.  Huyghe was a beer fanatic and he indulged his passion on the grandest scale possible.  Rather than focus on brewing one or two signature beers, he wanted to create his own versions of all the Belgian classics he could find.  At one point, his brewery produced over 60 beers.  Like many craft brewers of today, he was interested in reviving forgotten styles and recreating specialty brews for the public at large.

His method of throwing everything against the wall and seeing what stuck worked out just fine: the brewery flourished and has remained in the Huyghe family since its opening.  By the 1940s the Huyghe Brewery had narrowed its focus to brewing fine pilsner-style lagers.  In 1985, however, the company decided to shift gears and rededicate their energy towards creating high-alcohol ales.  In 1989, the brewery released its most innovative brew yet: a strong pale ale brewed according to Belgian tradition and measuring 8.5% alcohol by volume...and so Delirium Tremens was born.

Delirium was marketed with an eye to distribution in the United States and Canada at a time when interest in European beers was booming in the New World.  However, the popular legend goes that Delirium was originally banned in North America due to its high alcohol content as well as its name, which is an explicit reference to alcoholism.  For the longest time I thought that "Delirium Tremens" was Dutch or something for "tremendously delirious."  But my fiancee has since informed me that delirium tremens, a Latin phrase meaning "trembling madness," is a medical term for acute seizures caused by alcohol withdrawal (you might know it as the "DTs" or "whiskey shakes").  The pink elephant logo on the bottle is a playful allusion to the hallucinations that sufferers of delirium tremens sometimes experience.

Delirium is pale and hazy with a thick white head.  It's hard to describe the unique flavor of Delirium Tremens, but overall I'd say it gives you the signature taste of the classic Belgian ale - strong, complex, and alcoholic - combined with the smoothness and drinkability of a light lager.  True to Belgian tradition, Delirium Tremens derives much of its character from a complex blend of yeast.  Three different kinds of yeast are added to the brew throughout the fermentation process, giving it a full texture, distinctive spicy flavor, and high alcohol content.  But it doesn't have the same overwhelming yeast character as other Belgian ales, which can often produce tangy and/or fruity flavors in the beer.  Instead, the rich yeast flavor is balanced by the smoothness of the pale malt, which makes for a light brew that is far more refreshing than it looks.  You'll get some good hop flavor but no aggressive bitterness.  It has a dry, champagne-like finish.  Bottles of Delirium Tremens are "bottle conditioned," meaning active yeast is left in the beer in order to provide carbonation after the bottle has been sealed.  Thanks to bottle conditioning, the flavor of the beer will change over time - much like a bottle of wine.

Delerium Tremens is also remarkable for the volume of critical acclaim it has earned in its young life, including winning the title of "World's Best Beer" at the 1998 World Beer Championship.  Beer expert Stuart Kallen ranked Delirium Tremens the world's number one overall brew in his 1999 book The 50 Greatest Beers in the World.  However, it bears mentioning that BeerAdvocate, which assigns scores based on user ratings, does not include Delirium Tremens among its top 100 overall beers.  It ranks only 20th in their "Belgian Strong Pale Ale" category.

As beer goes, Delirium isn't cheap.  You can get it in a 750 ml bottle for about $10-12, or a four-pack of 11 oz bottles for $15 or so.  You'll recognize it by its opaque painted bottle and distinctive label, which looks like something I would have made using ClipArt and Microsoft Paint circa 1993.  In addition to the aforementioned pink elephants there are Asian dragons and strutting crocodiles that appear to be wearing captains' hats.  The date "1654" also appears on the label; this is a reference to the founding of the old Appelhoek Brewery in that year.

Delirium is also available on draft at many bars, particularly those that specialize in Belgian beers.  If you order it at a bar it will probably be served to you in a small rounded snifter glass.  I know they have their reasons for serving it this way, but it always strikes me as a clever ploy to give you less beer for more money.  It's a beer, for crying out loud.  Just put it in a pint glass and sling it down the bar like an Old West saloon.  Keep 'em coming, barkeep!

Anchor Steam

The rise of the American microbrew over the last 20-odd years has successfully popularized beer styles that were previously unknown and/or unavailable in the U.S.  European classics like Marzen, Saison, and Kolsch are all making waves in the American beer market despite being relatively recent introductions.  Our microbreweries have also managed to revive many other European beer styles that were once on the verge of extinction in their home countries.  Beers in this category include Imperial Stout, Vienna Lager, and India Pale Ale, all of which have earned a second life here in the colonies.

Consider, for instance, the case of the India Pale Ale or IPA.  Most of you have probably heard the story already: in the early 1800s, British expatriates living in India wanted familiar British pale ales shipped to them from home.  At the time this involved a voyage of anywhere from six months to a year depending on the season and the weather.  To help preserve the beer for the trip English brewers would brew it to a higher alcoholic strength than normal and pack it full of extra hops.  The resulting brew was called India Pale Ale to distinguish it from standard domestic pale ales.  Improved transportation options, along with other innovations like pasteurization and airtight glass bottles, rendered this practice obsolete during the 20th century.  While many English breweries still label their product "IPA" (such as Greene King IPA from Suffolk), these are really ordinary bitters that don't have much in common with their strong, hoppy namesakes.  Today the extra-hoppy  IPA style (as we know it) is virtually non-existent in Britain.  However, it has become a staple of American microbreweries and a favorite of their patrons - who tend to appreciate aggressive hop flavor and high alcohol content.  Thanks to the efforts of craft brewers, there are currently hundreds of  IPAs available throughout the U.S. (none of which, to my knowledge, are earmarked for a year-long sea voyage to the subcontinent).

Whether by copying European brews or resuscitating forgotten styles, American microbreweries tend to identify themselves with one or more European brewing traditions - usually English, German, or Belgian.  Meanwhile, when people think of "American" beer, the examples that come to mind are your Miller Lites, Budweisers, High Lives, and what have you.  Now, I'm really not trying to hate on those brews - I personally love an ice-cold Miller Lite - but the situation does lead to an interesting question: other than those mass-produced lagers, is there a truly unique American beer style out there?  You can probably see where I'm going with this: the answer is yes.  In the old days it was known as "steam beer."  It lives on to this day in the form of a beer you may know as Anchor Steam.

When gold prospectors poured into California during the mid-1800s, entrepreneurs of all stripes were quick to follow.  Breweries, along with other businesses,  popped up rapidly in California in the 1850s and 1860s.  Like many American brewers of the day, the brewers who came to California to ply their trade were mostly German immigrants who wanted to open German-style lager breweries.  But they encountered a problem that was unknown in other brewing centers like Milwaukee, St. Louis, or Philadelphia: there was no ice available in California.  This meant that the newly-minted Californians were unable to cool their beer down to temperatures suitable for lager fermentation (i.e. around 50 degrees).  So the brewers just pitched their old-school lager yeast into warm beer and hoped for the best.  The beers created using lager yeast at warm temperature became generally known as "steam beer."   The exact origins of this name are uncertain, but it was probably related to unusually high levels of carbonation.  Fermentation tends to be far more vigorous at warm temperatures, creating high levels of carbon dioxide in the process.  When fermentation was complete and the brewers tapped their casks, the carbonation would then "steam" out of the vessel like freshly poured champagne

Of course, no idea is 100% original.  Breweries had certainly tried brewing lager beers at warm temperatures before.  At that time there was even a popular type of ale in Germany called dampfbier - literally, "steam beer" - and we can only assume that some of the German immigrants to California in those days were familiar with the style.  But the California steam breweries introduced techniques that really had no parallel in the Old Country.  For instance, steam breweries poured their fresh product into wide, shallow wooden vats that were open to the air.  This was opposed to the traditional method of using tall, sealed casks.  The vats were designed so that the cool night breezes from the Pacific would carry off as much heat as possible from the surface of the liquid.  The open fermenting vats would have also allowed all kinds of bacteria and wild yeast to infest the beer while it fermented, thereby making the taste and quality of steam beer extremely variable.  At the turn of the century, steam beer was considered a working-class beverage that was cheap to produce and probably fairly low in alcohol.   Perhaps as a result of these factors, there was never much of a market for steam beer outside the West Coast.  Most of the steam beer breweries shut their doors during Prohibition in the early 20th century, never to open again.

Which brings us to the Anchor.  Anchor Steam certainly wasn't the first steam beer ever created, but it owns the distinction of being the only authentic example of the style to survive into modern times.  The Anchor Brewery opened in San Francisco in 1896 and has produced steam beer ever since.  It has survived Prohibition, earthquakes, two brewery fires, and was almost shut down for good in the 1950s due to poor sales.  Anchor Steam is certainly a one-of-a-kind beer that would never be mistaken for a European lager or ale.  It's a golden-amber color with a strong head and sharply bitter aftertaste.  It has a complex flavor that blends toasty malt with aggressive, earthy hops and the fruity notes produced by warm fermentation.  Perhaps the thing I love most about Anchor Steam is that it really is a tangible, drinkable artifact of pre-Prohibition beer culture.  We may not know much about the myriad other steam beers which have long since gone extinct, but we can always drink an Anchor Steam and remember a unique time and place in our country's history.

Anchor Steam is proud of its heritage and has even taken the liberty of trademarking the name "steam beer."  To avoid litigation, the brewing community now recognizes other beers of the same style as "California common beer."  While the style is not as common as its name may suggest, there are a few breweries besides Anchor that produce a steam-style beer; a couple examples you might come across are Flying Dog Old Scratch and Old Dominion Victory Amber.  California common is also very popular among the homebrewing community since it allows one to brew a "lager-like" beer without going to the trouble of cold fermentation and actual lagering.

We'll never know whether Anchor Steam was truly typical of other steam beers of its day, but it is a great brew by any standard and a worthy testament to American ingenuity.

Pilsner Urquell

The brew that would eventually launch the most popular beer style on earth originated in 1842 in the Bohemian town of Plzen.  Now part of the modern-day Czech Republic, Bohemia at that time lay within the sprawling Austro-Hungarian Empire and Plzen was known by its German name of Pilsen.  A town brewer named Josef Groll created a light, clear beer using hops and barley grown in the surrounding countryside.  He combined these local products with a new strand of brewer's yeast imported from Germany.  This new type of yeast allowed beer to ferment at cool temperatures (50-60 degrees) producing clean, crisp, refreshing beers that stood in stark contrast to the dark, cloudy ales that were the standard brew of the day.  The yeast was known as lager yeast, after the practice of storing (or "lagering") the beers they produced for extended periods of time at cold temperatures.  Groll's new product, which was called Pilsner after its hometown, was a hit in the Bohemian capital of Prague and was soon exported to beer-crazy Germany.  German brewers, who had been busy developing their own unique lagers, were quick to imitate the bold, hoppy style of the Bohemian import.  Pilsner-style breweries soon started popping up throughout Germany.  However, the German brewers were conscientious in giving credit where credit was due.  Beer from Groll's brewery was known reverently as Pilsner urquell - "pilsner from the original source."

With the hundreds of imported lagers on the American market nowadays it's easy to overlook the original Pilsner.  But don't make the mistake of thinking that is Pilsner Urquell is just another expensive lager. Pilsner Urquell is, in fact, unique in just about ever way that a beer can be.  Let's take a look at its four main components: barley, hops, yeast, and water.

Alcohol is created when sugars are fermented by yeast.  The sugars in beer are derived from barley (sometimes with the help of "adjuncts" like corn sugar or rice).  To prepare it for brewing, the barley is soaked in water then rapidly dried - a process known as "malting."  The flavor, color, and texture of beer are largely dependent on the type of malted barley used to brew it.  Josef Groll's vision was to create a beer that was light, smooth, and exceedingly easy to drink.  To achieve this he dried the malt at the lowest temperature possible so that it wouldn't acquire a dark color or heavy, roasted flavor during the malting process.  Pilsner malt, as it is now known, is the lightest base malt commonly used by brewers and creates a beer that is light in color and body but retains a good, sweet malty flavor.  Even today, Pilsner Urquell still uses barley grown exclusively in either Bohemia (western Czech Republic) or Moravia (central Czech Republic).

Hops lend bitterness to beer in order to balance out the sweetness of the malt.  They can also impart unique flavors according to the specific type of hops that are used.  The strong hop character of Pilsner Urquell comes from a particular variety of Czech hops named Saaz.  Saaz is one of the so-called "noble" hops of Europe: the four varieties of hops which are considered acceptable for use in continental lagers and which are characterized by a soft, mellow bitterness and a delicious aroma.  Different hybrids of Saaz hops are now grown throughout the world, but Pilsner Urquell uses only native Czech-grown hops of the old noble variety.  Saaz gives the brew a distinctive flavor that is usually described as both floral and spicy.  This characteristic Saaz flavor and aroma is certainly evident in Pilsner Urquell from the first sip to the last swig.

Pilsner's consistently clean, dry finish is due to the particular lager yeast used to ferment it.  This type of yeast, known as the "Pilsner H" strain, is a direct descendant of the original yeast used to brew the first batch of Pilsner Urquell in 1842.  The brewery itself maintains that the strain was smuggled into Plzen by a runaway monk who had stolen it from his monastery.  That story obviously sounds made-up, but whatever its origins, Pilsner H is one of the world's foremost lager strains.  It's also widely available to homebrewers looking to create their own Bohemian-style pilsners.

Even the water used to brew Pilsner Urquell is unique.  The area around Plzen is renowned for its extremely soft water, meaning it has low concentrations of minerals such as calcium and magnesium.  Calcium occurs in the Plzen water source to the tune of about 7 parts per million (ppm).  Magnesium occurs in 2-8 ppm.  For the sake of comparison, the local water at the brewing mecca of Munich, in Germany, contains 70-80 ppm calcium and 18-19 ppm magnesium.  At Burton-on-Trent, the English city where Bass Ale is brewed, the water is especially hard: 260-350 ppm calcium,  24-60 ppm magnesium.  The exceptionally soft water used to brew Pilsner Urquell contributes to an ultra-smooth brew that is low in acidity.

The majority of beer brewed and consumed in the world is ultimately derived from the pilsner heritage.  Stella Artois (from Belgium), Kirin (Japan), Heineken (Netherlands), Pacifico Clara (Mexico), San Miguel (Philippines) and Miller Lite ("Great Pilsner Taste," as the label proclaims) are all examples of pilsner beers brewed worldwide.  As for the original, you certainly don't need my help to locate Pilsner Urquell.  The popularity of this brew has boomed over the last decade.  You can find bottles of it at pretty much any supermarket that sells beer; they even sell it at some gas stations here in North Carolina.  Kegs of Pilsner Urquell are also commonly available from beer distributors.  A few years ago I noticed that the original pilsner had been co-opted by the hipsters (along with its Belgian cousin Stella Artois), which probably contributed at least a little to its recent explosion in popularity. The hipster crowd seems to have since moved on to more ironic pastures (see: Pabst Blue Ribbon) but Pilsner Urquell is still one of the more popular premium imports in the country.

A purist would tell you that pilsner is just one specific type of lager within the greater lager family.  In everyday American usage, though, the term "pilsner" has become more or less synonymous with "lager."   Pilsners really are the most popular beers worldwide, and we have Pilsner Urquell, the one and only original source, to thank for that.

Fuller's ESB

In the 1700s, the term "bitter beer" was coined to describe ale with a noticeable hop flavor.  Bitter beers were especially popular in the taverns (or "ordinaries") of the English countryside.  The hopped brew served in the ordinaries became known as "ordinary bitter."  In response to popular demand, many breweries also began brewing stronger versions of their ordinary bitter, producing a more alcoholic drink known as "best bitter" or "special bitter."  Then things pretty much stayed the same for the next 200 years until Fuller's came along and cranked it up to 11 with their extra special bitter or ESB.

Fuller's Brewery was founded in 1845 by a consortium of three brewers who took over the historic Griffin Brewery in Chiswick, West London.  They are best known for their flagship bitter, London Pride, the most widely-distributed cask ale in Britain.  Fuller's first released their ESB in 1969 as a strong seasonal called "Winter Bitter."  Within two years the Winter Bitter had become so popular that the brewery decided to produce the beer year round under the name Extra Special Bitter.  Though many British breweries were quick to follow by brewing stronger, more flavorful versions of their own bitters, Fuller's was and is the standard against which similar beers are judged.  The folks at Fuller's aren't shy about touting their innovation: the label on the bottle proclaims their ESB a "World Original."

Nor has the beer gone unappreciated by the ale-drinking masses.  The Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA), which is sort of like the Pitchfork Media of the British cask ale scene, has recognized Fuller's no less than seven times as England's Best Strong Ale.  In the United States, the U.S. Beverage Tasting Institute awarded Fuller's back-to-back titles as World Champion Bitter in 1997 and 1998.

Fuller's ESB is a one-of-a-kind brew.  It's slightly darker than your average pale ale, with a unique toasty malt flavor.  It has a pleasant bitterness sometimes described as "coffee-like."  The beer is designed to be dangerously drinkable, with no aggressive hop flavor getting in the way of its malty smoothness.  It's fairly easy to find in bottle form here in the U.S., though maybe not as common as its older brother London Pride (which you should absolutely try if you haven't already).  I've seen the ESB on tap at a bar or two with a large imported draft selection but it doesn't seem as visible as other British imports like Newcastle or Bass.

Be advised that when you buy a six-pack of Fuller's ESB in our great land of America you are not truly capturing the ESB in its natural state.  In England, Fuller's ESB - like all true bitters - is primarily sold as a cask-conditioned ale, meaning the beer is served from the same barrel in which it was fermented and has been neither filtered nor pasteurized.  The version available in the United States, however, is filtered, pasteurized and served in bottles or pressurized kegs.  This translates to a product with better carbonation, a neutered flavor, and a much, much longer shelf life.  The export version is also somewhat more alcoholic, weighing in at 5.9% ABV compared to the 5.5% ABV of the cask version.  I've had both, and in my opinion the export bottles do retain the unique flavor of Fuller's ESB - although the bespectacled, fedora-wearing godfathers of CAMRA would surely shake their bearded heads in disapproval were they to read this.

As I was saying above, the "extra special" in ESB refers mainly to its high alcohol content relative to other bitters.  So bitters that fall into the same alcoholic range as Fuller's (anywhere from about 4.5-6.5% ABV) are technically considered ESBs.  Of course these guidelines don't really have any bearing on how beer is marketed or described in the real world.  In England the term "bitter" is used interchangeably with "pale ale" to describe most beers that are neither stout, nor porter, nor lager, while the phrase "ESB" is uniquely applied to the Fuller's brand.  Other British ales of equivalent strength to Fuller's ESB, such as the phenomenal Adnams Broadside, refer to themselves as "strong ales" or "strong bitters."

In the United States, meanwhile, the ESB style has been used to classify almost any ale that is dark, medium-bodied, and moderately hopped.  In general, American beers labeled as ESB have a more malty taste and rather less hop flavor than pale ale.  It's a catch-all category more than anything else, and American ESBs definitely aren't just imitating the Fuller's style.  Avery 14'er ESB out of Colorado is a great American brew, as are Lefthand Sawtooth ESB (also from Colorado) and Heavy Seas Winter Storm from the Clipper City Brewing Co. of Baltimore.

Kostritzer Schwarzbier

The Kostritzer Brewery was founded in 1543 as the house brewery of a popular inn in the town of Bad Kostritz in eastern Germany.  The brewery produced a unique "black beer" that quickly became popular in the surrounding province of Thuringia and was eventually exported in casks throughout the German states.  The beer they produced stood on the shoulders of a longer brewing tradition: town records indicate that the recipe and techniques for brewing schwarzbier existed for at least 50 years prior to the opening of the Kostritzer brewery.

As if a heritage that dates to before the voyages of Columbus weren't enough, Kostritzer has woven its way through modern German history.  As every article about the brewery will tell you, Kostritzer was the preferred drink of the writer and philosopher Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), who is said to have consumed it daily while thinking deep thoughts and composing such masterpieces as Faust and The Sorrows of Young Werther.  In 1806 the owners of the brewery, noblemen of the Reuss family, became connected with German royalty; Kostritzer was then known as the "Princely Brewery."  The Kostritzer brand is currently owned by the Bitburger Brewery Group, which produces several distinctive German classics including Bitburger Premium and Konig Pils.  Like most German beers, Kostritzer is still brewed according to the strictures of the Reinheitsgebot, the Bavarian purity law of 1516 which states, among other things, that beer may only contain three ingredients: water, hops, and barley (the law wasn't officially repealed until the 1980s).

I first tried Kostritzer at a German restaurant about five years ago and was instantly hooked.  I spent the next few months checking for it at every specialty beer store I knew of, but to no avail.  I was only able to find it at that one restaurant and one or two enlightened watering holes.  Over the past couple years, however, Kostritzer seems to have made some inroads in these United States (at least on the east coast).  I've seen it in several specialty stores (including Total Wine) and at least one supermarket.  It's still relatively hard to find, but hopefully you'll come across it if you spend enough time browsing your local beer supplier. 

I love how insanely well-balanced this brew is.  It's not as jet black as its name implies - more of a warm, coppery-black - and is brilliantly clear.  It's rich and malty without an overly sweet "caramel" flavor.  It gives you a tinge of bitterness while leaving almost no hop flavor.  It is a true lager with an ultra-clean, crisp finish, yet it's not as assertive or alcoholic as other traditional dark lagers like bock or Oktoberfest.  And it has absolutely nothing in common with your dark ales (stout, porter, brown ale, etc.) save its color.  It goes down as easy and refreshing as any light continental pilsner and you certainly won't get that "full" feeling that some complain about after drinking a Guinness or what have you.

Nowadays there are a few German breweries who produce a schwarzbier, though Kostritzer remains the archetype of the style in Europe and abroad.  In terms of American microbrews, there really aren't very many options available.   Shiner Bohemian Black Lager is a solid American approximation of the style from a brewery that has built its fortunes on producing dark, German-style lagers (think a smoother, less full-bodied version of Shiner Bock).  Sam Adams Black Lager is also pretty good.  However, neither of these can really be considered microbrews and I'm sure beer snobs would rather funnel a Natty Light than be caught drinking a Shiner or Sam Adams.  But the schwarzbier style hasn't really caught on with independent craft breweries.  I imagine this is due in large part to the relatively small percentage of microbreweries who attempt to brew lagers of any kind, much less a fairly obscure style as schwarzbier, focusing their attention instead on English-style ales.  (More - much more - on this subject to come in later posts.)   I've read good things about Sprecher Black Bavarian out of the Sprecher Brewing Co. in Wisconsin, but have never personally come across this brand.  There is also a Brazilian beer called Xingu that describes itself as a schwarzbier.  It's a good brew, but much maltier and sweeter than Kostritzer.

After 468 years of existence, Kostritzer remains a truly unique brew that is still somewhat under the radar in the U.S.  It really is very different than other dark beers you may be used to and is well worth a try.

Welcome to Hock N' Brew

About a year ago I was standing in the beer aisle at Harris Teeter picking out a six-pack for the night.  I noticed a new item, Peacemaker Pale Ale (from LoneRider Brewing Co. in Raleigh, NC), nestled amongst their generous selection of American craft brews.  I was in the mood to try something new, so I decided on the Peacemaker without giving it much thought.  As fate would have it, the LoneRider brews happened to be garrisoned near the center of the beer aisle right at the transition between the "Microbrew" section and the "Imported" section.  As I reached for my Peacemaker, I couldn't help but notice the beer stationed immediately to the right of it...Bass Ale.  I'd had Bass a million times; it's sold in pretty much every supermarket around me and is served (in bottles) at a good number of the bars and restaurants I frequent.  I regularly skim past its name on beer menus without a second thought.  Yet for some reason, in the brief moment it took me to pull the Peacemaker off the shelf, I got to thinking about Bass Ale and what it represented.  Bass Ale is the original pale ale.  It has been brewed according to essentially the same recipe since 1777.  It was one of the most popular beers of the early 20th century, appearing in paintings by Picasso and Manet and immortalized in literature by James Joyce.  I was in the presence of a masterpiece, a sacrifice to the spirits of fermentation that had been judged by centuries of beer-drinking men and deemed worthy.  I looked down at the six-pack of Peacemaker Pale Ale in my hand, taking in the cheap logo imprinted on its cardboard packaging, its generic dark brown long-neck bottles, and the nondescript hazy liquid sloshing back and forth as I brought the sixer to my eyes.  I looked back up at the Bass and gazed upon its iconic "red triangle" label that represented generations of skill, industry, and fine taste.  And then I turned around, walked up to the self-checkout register, and purchased the Peacemaker.

The beer was fine, but I couldn't help feeling that I had somehow cheated myself.  I love craft brews, and I'm always excited to try an offering from a new microbrewery or limited-release seasonal from an old favorite whenever I come across one.  But had I been too quick to dismiss their forebears in the "Imported" section?  How many times had I bypassed a Hacker-Pschorr Weisse to grab a Pyramid Hefeweizen?  How many Old Dominion Oak Barrel Stouts had I drunk at the expense of a Guinness?  This isn't to say that European beers are inherently superior to their American counterparts.  Just that I was placing a higher value on novelty than on quality and, in doing so, I was missing out on important segments of beer lore.

Remember those "Beers of the World"-type posters that every male college student had hanging in their dorm room (in between the cover art from "Dark Side of the Moon" and a black-and-white photo of the Rat Pack playing pool) ca. 2002?  Consider this blog a literary deconstruction of that poster.  I'll highlight a different classic beer in each post, take a look into the history and distinctive characteristics of that beer, and explore the off-shoots, imitators, and innovations spawned by that beer within the craft brew industry.  There won't be any reviews or rankings; I like almost every beer I've ever tried so let's just assume they all get 5 stars and go from there.  I'll also be throwing in my thoughts on divers beer-related topics such as lagers vs. ales, cask conditioning, and homebrewing.  You probably won't learn anything of consequence about formal beer styles or the technical aspects of brewing, but you might be inspired to sample some new beers and gain a new appreciation for some familiar brands.  Feel free to leave your opinions and beer recommendations in the comments.  Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy our journey.