Adnams Oyster

American microbreweries have been very diligent at unearthing the rarest, most esoteric beer styles of Europe and recreating them in the Untied States.  For example, Vienna lager is a popular choice for American craft brewers and homebrewers alike....even though the style has been extinct in Vienna for a century.  Until recently I could think of at least one European beer style that hadn't been widely imported to the U.S.: oyster stout.  I say "until recently" because in the past year or so, this rare yet treasured dark brew has become one of the latest fads in the craft brew world.    

Oyster stout was born in the British Isles in the 1700s.  The pairing of stout and oysters arose from a combination of luck, timing, and convenience.  Oysters were a staple food in the taverns of coastal England during the 18th century.  They were cheap, delicious, and (at the time) abundant.  Around the same time, brewers in London, Dublin, and other cities began marketing a new type of beer known as stout porter.  Tavern owners started brewing and serving their own versions of this popular style. Patrons soon discovered that the stout beer happened to go excellently with a meal of oysters.  "Oyster stout" thus became a generalized name for the rich, homebrewed stout that was commonly served along with oysters at roadside taverns.

By the late 1800s and early 1900s, however, the oyster beds of England were dying out.  Oysters were no longer a cheap, readily-available bar snack. (But don't feel too bad for the tavern-going public: "fish and chips" became widely popular and easily obtainable during the late 1800s.)  The popularity of stout beer also waned during this time.  However, the once-popular "oyster stout" style lived on in some of the taverns England and her colonies.  During the early 1920s, in a shining display of British gastronomy, a few breweries in both England and New Zealand decided to cut out the middle man by simply brewing oysters into the beer itself.   


For a long time, I labored under the delusion that Adnams Oyster was brewed with its namesake bivalve.  However, like many modern oyster stout brewers, Adnams does not actually put oysters in its beer.  Instead, the "Oyster" designation simply salutes the tavern stouts of 18th century England while also suggesting an ideal food pairing.  But this is not to say that all modern oyster stouts are oyster-less.  In fact, many of the recent American versions of this style employ the classic technique of adding oysters to the boil.  Flying Dog, out of Maryland, recently released its Pearl Necklace Oyster Stout, which is brewed with local Rappahannock River oysters.  Both Harpoon and Dogfish Head have also issued limited-release "true" oyster stouts in the past year or two.  However, the consensus seems to be that these brews don't actually taste like oysters:  the molluscs disintegrate in the boil and add protein, which contributes to body and mouthfeel but not flavor.

In addition to (sometimes) the addition of oysters, oyster stouts can be generally distinguished from other stout beers by a few key traits.  First, they are very thick and very heavy ("chewy," as my friend Grant would say).  They tend to have a distinctively nutty flavor and a dark, coarse head.  Authentic oyster stouts are cask ales, in the classic British ale tradition.  As such, they are often unfiltered, lightly carbonated, and served at relatively warm temperatures.  They are are in the low-to-middle range of alcohol content -- around the same as a "draught" stout (like regular Guinness), but less than an "extra" stout, and much less than an "Imperial" stout.  Many oyster stouts (including Adnams Oyster) are seasonal brews, casked and sold only during the winter and spring.

Adnams Oyster is by no means the only fine English oyster stout on the market.  I'm willing to bet that the American editions are good too.  However, if you can get your hands on it, I highly recommend trying Adnams Oyster.  As I have probably mentioned somewhere in this blog, Adnams is my favorite English brewery.  (This is probably because my all-time favorite pub in England, the Castle Inn on Castle Street, Cambridge, is an Adnams joint.)

The brewery is located in Southwold, Suffolk, on the coast of eastern England.  The brewery was officially founded in 1872, when brothers George and Ernest Adnams purchased a run-down operation called the Sole Bay Brewery.  According to the folks at Adnams, people have been brewing on the Sole Bay site since the 1300s.  Adnams is committed to honoring its local heritage: Oyster is made with local East Anglian barley and Goldings hops from southeastern England.  Until six years ago, the brewery still made its deliveries to pubs in Southwold via a horse-drawn cart. The brewery currently offer a wide range of classic English ale styles, including an awesome bitter called Adnams Broadside.

Kirin Ichiban

Some of the classic beers featured in this blog have been brewed according to the same recipes for centuries; they were born in Medieval monasteries and celebrated in the palaces of the Renaissance.  Others have been winning awards at beer competitions since the 1700s.  Many of them, such as Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout, are still brewed using centuries-old equipment and techniques.  I love the stories of these ancient beers, and  I love the dedication it takes to remain true to your heritage despite years of war, famine, and fires.  But there's always room for new techniques and new classic beers.  Kirin Ichiban is a shining example of this principle.

The Kirin Brewery is currently located in Tokyo, Japan.  Kirin prides itself on being one of the oldest commercial breweries in Japan: it was originally founded in Yokohama in 1869 as the "Spring Valley Brewery."  Their flagship brew - a Pilsner-style lager called simply Kirin Beer - has been the best-selling beer in Japan continuously since 1888.  In 1990, they took it up a notch with the release of a premium version of Kirin Beer: Kirin Ichiban.

"Kirin" refers to a mythical Chinese creature with the head of a dragon, the body of a tiger, the scales of a fish, and the hooves of a horse; a depiction of this beast can be found on the bottle. "Ichiban" means "first" or "best."  On its surface, Kirin Ichiban looks like your typical Asian Pilsner: it is clear, golden yellow in color, and weighs in at about 5.5% ABV.  However, two unique characteristics set Kirin Ichiban  apart from the other great beers of the world.

The first distinctive feature of Kirin Ichiban is that it is an all-malt brew.  This means that 100% of the fermentable sugars used to make the beer are derived from malted barley.  In contrast, most mass-produced American and Asian lagers contain sugars from adjuncts like corn, rice, or sorghum in addition to malted barely.  Adjuncts like these are cheaper to use than barley.  Not only that, but they can also increase alcohol content without having any effect on the body or color of the brew.  The down side, of course, is that adjuncts detract from the fine malty beer taste that we all appreciate.


Globally speaking, all-malt beers are by no means rare: most fine German and Bohemian lagers, traditional English ales, and American craft brews are all-malt.  But it is very unusual to find a mass-produced North American or Asian lager brewed without the help of any cereal grains as adjuncts.  For example, Sapporo - another major Japanese beer brand - is made with rice and cornstarch as well as barely.  Same goes for Coors and Budweiser, for that matter.

The second distinctive feature involves the way the beer is rendered from the malt.  Kirin Ichiban is brewed using a unique process called Ichiban Shibori, or "first press."  It's so unique, in fact, that Kirin bills itself as the only brewery in the world to use this strategy.  Basically, all beer brewing starts with a process called "mashing."  This involves soaking malted barley in water at temperatures varying from about 150 to 160 degrees.  During this period, natural enzymes convert the starch of the barley into fermentable sugar.  Once conversion is complete, the water is run off -- bringing the sugars with it, and leaving behind the bitter husks of the grain.  More hot water is then poured over the grain to extract every last drop of malty goodness -- a procedure known as "sparging."   All of this liquid, which is known as "wort," is then boiled along with hops.  After boiling, yeast is added and the sugars from the mash are thus fermented into alcohol.

"First press" means that all of the wort used to brew the beer comes from the initial run-off from the mash -- i.e. none of the subsequent "sparge" water goes into the beer.  The idea is to use only the purest extract from the barley: wort derived from the sparge contain less of the good sugars, and more bitter tannins from the husks of the grain.  In theory, the "first press" technique creates a brew with more alcohol, a milder flavor, and a fuller body.

The theory seems to work out pretty well.  Kirin Ichiban is refreshing and full flavored.  It is a deep golden color, much like the Pilsners of Germany and the Czech Republic.  The smooth, bright taste is also reminiscent central European lagers.  This isn't surprising, given the fact that Ichiban is brewed using the same noble European hop varieties that put Pilsners on the map in the mid-1800s.   However, the beer finishes a little sweeter, with a little less hop flavor, than its Continental cousins.

Most sources seem to cite Kirin Ichiban as the best premium Asian lager available in the United States.  Objectively, that assessment is hard to argue with (although my personal favorite Japanese beer is Asahi Super Dry...but that's a story for another post).  With its smooth taste, yet malty backbone, Kirin Ichiban is a great beer to go along with a summer BBQ.  As the label says, it's "brewed for good times"!

Fuller's London Porter

In my last post, I mentioned that "stout" is the modern derivative of "stout porter," which was the name given to a particularly strong version of a dark beer called porter.  This got me thinking about the history of the porter style in general.

We know that porter was first brewed and sold in London at some point in the early 1700s.  Beyond that, details get a little murky.  There are two popular origin myths about the dark, malty style of ale now known as "porter."  The first is that, back in the day, a respectable English publican would have three types of ale on tap: light, dark, and strong.  Laborers in London (who were then known as "porters") would come into the pub at the end of a long day and request a pint containing 1/3 of each kind of ale.  An enterprising brewer decided to capitalize on the popularity of this trend by brewing a beer that blended all three types into one finished package.  He named his new style "Porter" after its target audience.   This "three threads" theory was first advanced by an English writer in the early 1800s...and is almost certainly wrong.

Today,  most people who care about this stuff subscribe to the second theory of the origin of porter.  Before the 1700s, professional brewers would brew their ale, put it in a cask, and ship it off immediately to local pubs.  The publicans would then store this "young" ale in cellars until they judged it ready to be served.  By the 1720s, London brewers realized that they could get better results by letting their dark ale age at the brewery, then shipping it to pubs ready to drink.  This procedure guaranteed a higher level of quality and consistency, and allowed individual breweries to build their own followings.

The porter breweries of London were among the first brewing operations to enjoy great financial success.  At the time, traditional English brewers were skilled artisans who, if successful, could expect a comfortable life and local notoriety. Porter brewers, on the other hand, began building large international fortunes.  They were also the first to use modern equipment like thermometers and hydrometers while brewing beer.  By producing beer on a large scale, testing their products with scientific accuracy, and treating brewing as a lucrative commercial venture, the porter brewers of 18th-century London were the forerunners of modern breweries.

This golden age of porter lasted for about a century.  By the mid-19th century, tastes had shifted towards lighter ales and lagers.  While dark, heavy beers were certainly still around, they did not have the same commercial appeal that brought them fame and fortune in earlier times.  None of the truly authentic London porters of the 1700s and 1800s survived into the present age.  However, in the last couple decades of the 20th century English brewers began recreating some of the classic ales of olden days...including the once-famous London porter.  Which brings me to Fuller's London Porter.

One of the first posts on this blog featured another Fuller's brew called Fuller's ESB.  I normally don't like to double up on beers from the same brewery - I'd rather highlight a new brand.  However, for this post I wanted to pick a beer that (1) best exemplifies the classic London porter style, and (2) is readily available in the U.S.A.  Fuller's London Porter certainly fits both of these descriptions.

Fuller's Brewery is located on the site of the historic Griffin Brewery  in a suburb of west London called Chiswick.  Griffin was founded sometime in mid-to-late 1600s, and supposedly brewed an authentic London Porter during the late 1700s and early 1800s.  A consortium of brewers led by John Bird Fuller bought the old Griffin Brewery in 1845 and began making lighter cask ales (the descendant of these ales is now Fuller's flagship product - London Pride).  In the 1990s, as porter was making its way back onto the beer scene, Fuller's revived the porter style that put Griffin on the map so many years ago.

London Porter pretty much tastes like it looks.  It's rich and malty with a hint of toasty caramel flavor.  There is a certain amount of bitter earthiness from the English hops used to brew it, but overall there is much less hop flavor and bitterness in this old London-style porter than you'll find in the microbrewed American porters of today.  It is dark brown in color and very clear.  In theory, porter shouldn't need any extra additives to make it dark.  Instead, the dark color should come from dark type of malt called "black patent."  Black patent malt is kilned to the point of carbonization, giving it a nearly black color and a bitter, ashy flavor.  When used in relatively small quantities, black patent adds both color and character to porter.

There are certainly other English porters on the market that imitate the old London style of yesteryear.  Some specialty brews even use recipes from the 1800s.  There is also a whole range of dark old-world ales from eastern Europe called "Baltic porter," which is really a unique style in and of itself (and which I'll certainly cover in later posts).  If you want to take a trip through beer history, down the gas-lit streets of foggy London-town, you can't do better than Fuller's London Porter.

Lion Stout

My little brother is a fellow beer drinker and homebrewer.  Like myself, he has spent a lot of time (too much time, in my case) prowling the beer aisles of Total Wine and Safeway like the Uruk-hai stalking manflesh (note: obscure LotR reference).  So when he recommended Lion Stout, I had to look into it.  Up until that point, I had probably walked by Lion many, many times without giving it a try.  To be honest, I always thought it came from England...until my brother told me otherwise. 


I was way off.  Lion Stout is brewed half a world away, at the Ceylon Brewery in Sri Lanka.  The brewery was founded in 1881. It was originally located in a remote hillside town in central Sri Lanka, surrounded by sprawling British tea plantations.  Water to make the beer was supposedly drawn from a waterfall located near the brewery.  The brewery was only accessibly by steep, narrow roads, which naturally created several logistical challenges in bringing malt up the hill and finished beer back down.  Renowned beer scholar Michael Jackson (not the King of Pop) described a visit to the old Ceylon Brewery as his "most unusual beer hunting trip."  During the late 20th century, as rural Sri Lanka became enveloped in civil war and ethnic conflict, truck drivers supposedly made the perilous run to and from the brewery under cover of night, when the roads were thought to be safer.  In 1998, the company resolved these issues by opening a new modern brewery in the coastal capital of Colombo (not the 1970s detective).  Around that same time, the brewery (which is currently known as the Lion Brewery Ceylon Limited) was acquired by the Carlsberg Group -- an international brewing corporation that owns of beer brands throughout Europe and Asia (including, of course, the world-famous Carlsberg Lager of Denmark).


The Ceylon Brewery was founded to provide beer for the British expatriates who colonized the island of Sri Lanka (which was then known as Ceylon) in the 19th century.  So it makes perfect sense that the brewery built its reputation on brewing English-style ales.  For nearly a century, the Ceylon Brewery's main product was an authentic India Pale Ale, brewed to the taste of British tea planters.  By the 1960s the popularity of ales had waned, and the brewery converted to making a golden lager as its primary offering.  However, the colonial tradition of the Ceylon Brewery still lives on in Lion Stout.    

"Stout"  is the modern derivative of an 18th century beer style called "stout porter" -- basically, a strong, dark beer.  The stout style was born and perfected in the British Isles.  Today, the word is virtually synonymous with its most famous example: Guinness.  However, the stout style has also become a mainstay of American microbreweries as well as a favorite among beer enthusiasts throughout the globe.

Many American stouts are characterized by an overpowering roasted grainy flavor.  In contrast, Lion retains a much more complex profile, reminiscent of a classic English stout.  It is dry, peppery, and rich.  Beer reviewers often describe the flavor and aroma of Lion as fruity and prune-like...but I have to admit that I did not pick up on this when I sampled the brew (note: I know nothing about formal beer tasting so I'm probably wrong).  It finishes with a chocolate-like bitterness with hints of coffee.  The unique and intense flavor of Lion can be partly attributed to the fact that Lion Stout is still produced without any kind of filtration; the full measure of yeast, barley, and hops go straight from the fermentation vessel into your bottle.  Due to being unfiltered, the beer is dark and hazy with a deep tan head - rather than the bright, ruby-brown hue of a filtered stout


When I think of Asian beers, I tend to think of light, dry lagers -- Kingfisher or Taj Mahal from India; Tsingtao from China; Singha from Thailand; Sapporo, Asahi, or Kirin from Japan.  A rich, dark Asian stout like Lion was an awesome surprise.  If you've had your fill of Guinness, and you're looking for other world-class stouts bursting with character, look no further than Lion Stout. 

Old Speckled Hen

I've often had the experience of standing in the beer aisle of Total Wine, looking at all the options that are now miraculously available to the American beer consumer, and wasting countless minutes trying to make up my mind about what I should buy.  I'll admit that in a few instances I've given up and simply picked the one with the coolest and most unique name.  Because of this, I've always wondered about the impact that a memorable name can have on the popularity of the beer.  And as beer names go, it's hard to find a more curious one than Old Speckled Hen.

Old Speckled Hen was first brewed at the Morland Brewery in Abingdon, England.  The brewery itself was founded in 1711, but Old Speckled Hen is a relative infant: it was created only 33 years ago.  The story of the OSH brand is an odd tale that matches the unique and memorable taste of the brew.

In addition to being the home of the Morland Brewery, Abingdon was well-known as the hometown of the MG Car Company - a legendary British sports car manufacturer.  The MG factory workers used an old MG Featherweight Saloon as a runaround car, and it had become a common sight around the factory and in town.  Over the years, the car became covered in flecks of paint - giving rise to its nickname, "the old speckled hen."  In 1979, the MG folks asked Morland to brew a beer to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the MG factory's founding in Abingdon.  They wanted a traditional English ale to their uniquely English product.  One of the executives at MG recommended naming the beer after the ugly-but-beloved vehicle...and the brewery complied.

1960s MGB Roadster

Despite this auspicious origin, Old Speckled Hen did not skyrocket to instant fame.  At the time lager was by far the most popular beer style in England (and throughout Europe and North America, for that matter).  In such a climate, Morland had no interest in mass-producing and marketing an ale like Old Speckled Hen.  For many years, Morland only brewed a small amount of OSH, and this small amount was only distributed to pubs around Abingdon.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, however, traditional British ales once again became popular in England.  To compete in this growing market, Morland revived the Old Speckled Hen brand and began marketing it outside of its own proprietary pubs.

In 2000, Morland was bought out by a larger British brewery called Greene King.  Greene King closed the brewery in Abindgon shortly after the purchase...but fortunately this did not mean the end of the line for OSH.  Greene King now brews OSH (which is still sold under the Morland brand) at its own brewery in Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk.  It's worth noting that Greene King  is a historic operation in its own right, having been founded in Suffolk in 1799.

The original "Old Speckled Hen"

Over the last decade, Greene King has launched an ambitious marketing campaign to make OSH popular among young social drinkers both in the UK and abroad.  Over here in the colonies, OSH can be found both in bottles and on tap from kegs.  In England, OSH is also served on tap from a cask.  The key difference between kegged ale and cask ale is that cask ale is actually fermented in the same vessel from which it is served.  Cask ale is therefore unfiltered, unpasteurized, and unpressurized.  This means that the carbonation in cask ale is totally derived from by-products of fermentation.  The rich and authentic flavor of cask ale comes at the price of a much shorter shelf life than other forms of beer, making it hard to export.  In contrast, kegs contain beer that has already been fully fermented, (usually) filtered, and (usually) pasteurized.  Kegs are then artificially pressurized by carbon dioxide or nitrogen.  They can be shipped great distances and stored for long periods of time without any adverse affect on flavor.

OSH is a classic English ale, roughly along the same lines as beers like Bass or London Pride.  The great thing about English ales, though, is that no two are alike.  Indeed, the taste and feel of OSH are one-of-a-kind.  It has a toasty plum-like flavor that is much lighter and sweeter than you might expect based on its deep copper color.  It has a slightly bitter aftertaste, but no real hop flavor.

One of the best parts of living in or visiting the United Kingdom is the pub culture.  Most traditional pubs are associated with a single national or regional brewery.  Under this arrangement, the "proprietary" pub serves the full range of the brewery's products, plus one or two mass-produced offerings like Carling or Stella Artois.  I lived in Cambridge, where many of the popular pubs were proprietary Greene King pubs (including two of my favorites, the Eagle and the Anchor).  So suffice it to say that I know my way around a pint of OSH.  It's one of the most distinctive and memorable beers you can find, and I would definitely recommend giving it a test drive if you see it on tap at your local watering hole.

Weihenstephaner Original Lager

The goal of this blog is highlight the origins of the world's classic beer styles.  To that end, I've tried to cover some pretty old beers from places like Belgium, England, and the United States.  However, only one brewery can claim the title of "world's oldest": the Weihenstephan Brewery in the Freising District of Bavaria, Germany.

Like all good brewery stories, this one begins a long time ago at a church.  Around A.D. 720 St. Corbinian traveled to Freising, where he founded a Benedictine monastery dedicated to St. Stephen.  The monastery's tithing records from the year 768 include a reference to hops being grown near the monastery - an indication that the monks had already begun brewing at the site.

The next few centuries, however, were a time of turmoil.  The original monastic community founded by St. Corbinian was probably abandoned by the end of the 8th century.   At some point in the 9th century, the Bishop of Freising rededicated the site as a monastery.  Then things went pretty well until 955, when raiding Huns leveled the monastery. The Benedictines didn't give up, though.  Over the next few centuries they continued to rebuild and expand the settlement into what became known as Weihenstephan Abbey.

In 1040, Abbot Arnold of Weihenstephan obtained a license from the City of Freising to brew and sell beer.  According to most reliable sources, this officially makes Weihenstephan the oldest continually-operating commercial brewery in the world.  (It bears mentioning that the Weltenburg Abbey brewery, located at a different Benedictine monastery in Bavaria, also claims this title: they've been brewing since at least 1050).

The road to immortality was not smooth.  From 1085 to 1463, the abbey burned down three times and was depopulated by plagues, famines, and a massive earthquake.  In 1336, Holy Roman Emperor Louis IV (himself a Bavarian) attacked and burned the monastery as part of a bloody campaign against his cousin Frederick, a pretender to the throne of Germany.  Three centuries later, during the course of the Thirty Years War, a combined French and Swedish army plundered and razed the abbey.  The Austrians captured Freising during the War of Spanish Succession in the early 1700s and - you guessed it - burned the abbey down.

Throughout all of this turmoil, the Benedictines stubbornly rebuilt and rebuilt and continued to brew.  However, politics finally did the work that armies could not.  The abbey closed its doors in 1803, when Napoleon Bonaparte ordered the secularization of Bavaria.  The church's property was subsequently sold off.  However, the brewery continued to thrive under the direction of its new owner: the Free State of Bavaria.  The brewery is still owned by the state to this day, hence its official name - Bayerische Staatsbraueri Weihenstephan ("Bavarian State Brewery Weihenstephan").

Today, the world's oldest brewery is, paradoxically, also one of the world's most modern.  Since 1930, the Technical University of Munich has operated a world-famous brewing academy on the site.  This cutting-edge school is now a global leader in brewing technology.

Weihenstephaner is a light, flavorful Bavarian lager of the style known as Helles (I don't speak German, but I'm told this means "clear").  This style of beer is similar in appearance and heritage to its close cousin, the Pilsner.  However, Helles differs from Pilsner in a few key respects.  Pilsners tend to have a sharp, hoppy aftertaste, while Helles lagers are more malty-sweet with very little hop flavor or aroma.  Helles lagers tend to be slightly lower in alcohol (around 4%, as opposed to 5-6% for Pilsners).  Helles are typically also somewhat lighter in both color and body.  Weihenstephaner is a classic example of the Munich Helles style.  It is light in color and brilliantly clear.  It has a robust malty flavor that also manages to be refreshing. (It's like those Miller Lite ads from a few years ago..."tastes great, less filling".)  The aftertaste is crisp, smooth, and rich - the product of fermentation by a world-famous strain of lager yeast plus a long period of aging at cool temperatures.

From what I can tell, American beer drinkers tend to toss all Continental lagers into the same pile.  I completely agree that it can be hard to notice subtle differences among beers like Pilsner Urquell, Stella Artois, Warsteiner, or Heineken.  But each of these brews has its own distinct characteristics that deserve recognition, and none more so than classic Munich Helles lagers.  So rather than rushing out to buy a case of Weihenstephaner (which, by the way, runs on the pricey side - about $10 per sixer in my neck of the woods), I would recommend getting a mix-and-match six-pack of different classic brews from the Munich area: Paulaner, Spaten, Weihenstephaner, Hacker-Pschorr, Lowenbrau, and many other deserving entries that I've left out.  My personal favorite is Spaten...but they're all awesome.  Of course, I'm biased since German lagers really are, on average, my favorite beers in the world.

One final note: Weihenstephan is also well-known for their Hefe-Weissbier, a fantastic Old-World wheat beer.  I certainly recommend this brew as well - just don't expect the assertively sweet, aromatic character of your standard American wheat beers.  The Hefe-Weissebier is more bitter, tangy, and thinner-bodied, with a subtle fruity-spicy flavor that comes from the ancient strains of yeast used to ferment it.

Chimay Blanche

Since the Middle Ages, monks have been closely associated with the art of brewing.  It's hard to imagine today, but throughout most of history beer was considered a valuable source of nutrition; more of a food than a social beverage.  Drinking beer allowed monks to keep their strength up while fasting during Lent and other religious observances.  Beer also provided a cheap form of sustenance that could be offered to poor travelers seeking shelter and charity from the monastery.  Later on, monasteries began selling their beer in large quantities to provide financial support for their orders.  Monasteries possessed the skill, time, labor, and facilities necessary to produce consistent-tasting beer on a large scale - an uncommon ability in pre-industrial Europe.

The monastic brewing tradition is reflected in the names of many modern European breweries: Franziskaner (the German word for a Franciscan monk), Paulaner (named for St. Francis of Paola), and St. Pauli Girl (founded at St. Paul's Monastery in Bremen), to name a few.  While these beers may trace their lineage to medieval brewer-monks, today they are subsidiary brands of world-wide corporations, with no connection to monastic life.  However, there are still religious organizations that continue to support themselves and their charities by brewing and marketing beer - the famous Trappist breweries of Belgium.

Chimay is one of several breweries associated with the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, commonly known as "Trappists."  During the 18th and 19th centuries, like many other orders, Trappist monasteries in western Europe began brewing and selling beer to raise money for buildings, supplies, and charities.  Today, seven Trappist monasteries carry on this tradition: six in Belgium and one in the Netherlands.  Of all of these, Chimay is probably the most visible Trappist brand on the American beer market.  The brewery is located at the Abbaye de Notre Dame de Scourmont in the town of Chimay in southwest Belgium.  The abbey was founded in 1850 and has been brewing since 1862.  Like many of its Trappists cousins, Chimay remained largely a local product throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  After World War I, Chimay and other Trappist breweries began exploring the possibility of exporting their products throughout Europe and beyond.

Chimay Blanche (also known as Chimay White or Chimay Triple) is the newest of Chimay's brews, introduced in 1986.  It belongs to a Belgian beer style called tripel.  The term tripel is a relic of a Trappist beer naming convention that originated at the Westmalle Trappist brewery in the early 20th century.  This convention was based on alcoholic strength.  Westmalle's standard ale contained about 3% ABV, so their dubbel ("double") ale clocked in at around 6%, and their tripel ("triple") ale around 9% ABV.  Westmalle began focusing on tripel ales in the early 1930s.  The style was intended to compete with the pale lagers from Germany and Bohemia, which were light, complex, and highly alcoholic.  Other Trappist and secular breweries in Belgium were quick to follow their lead, each producing its own version of a tripel ale.  By the 1950s, "tripel" had become synonymous with a strong Belgian pale ale.  However, there is much room for variation, and no two tripels are exactly alike.

Chimay Blanche is a pale golden-orange color.  It has a sharper hop flavor than your average tripel.  It also has a crisp, dry finish, whereas other tripels may be more sweet or malty.  The dryness and bitterness of the hops is balanced by a complex fruity flavor that is often described as being similar to grapes, raisins, or apples.  These flavors are byproducts of fermentation resulting from a unique proprietary strain of yeast - there is no actual fruit flavor added.  In fact, the list of ingredients that make up this extremely complex brew is surprisingly short and traditional: malted barley, wheat starch, hops, yeast, and water drawn from a well within the monastery walls.

Amazingly, the Chimay Brewery is still 100% owned and operated by the Trappist monks of Scourmont. Despite what you might think, given their global distribution, Chimay has remained true to its heritage.  All proceeds go towards funding the operation of the monastery as well as its many charitable endeavors.  This represents quite a windfall for the unfortunate, since Chimay's annual sales figures are around $50 million.  I mention the charitable connection in part because it might help you talk yourself into splurging on this brew: like all premium Belgian beers, Chimay Blanche is pricey.  It can be found at mostly any specialty beer store and is available both in standard six-packs and 750-cl "champagne" style bottles (which are labeled as "Chimay Cinq Cents").

And if Chimay doesn't float your boat, there are tons of other tripels out there, including other Trappist offerings.  For example, Westmalle Tripel (the original tripel) is very good and can often be found in specialty stores.  My brother Evan recently turned me on to Tripel Karmeliet, which has shot to the top of my Belgian beer list.  While not Trappist, TK is an out-of-this-world tripel which is somewhat lighter, crisper, and more subtle than Chimay Blanche.

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.