Book Review: Beer School

Since it is summer, it is time to start posting some reviews of the books I’ve been reading. Reading is the easy part; finding time to transform my thoughts into something useful—summer or not—is an entirely different proposition. But I’ll try. First up is Beer School, the story of the founding of Brooklyn Brewery. It is a story told by Steve Hindy and Tom Potter, Brooklyn’s two founders, with each taking their turn in the individual chapters of the book. There is a clear difference between the two voices in regards to tone and direction, but they do end up playing off each other well. As Tom puts it, “an even surface tone beats enthusiasm every time” (57). While he is discussing the construction of a business plan here, in many ways this is an apt description of the two partners, with Tom the “even surface tone” and Steve the voice of enthusiasm. Steve’s previous career as a correspondent serves him in good stead when telling Brooklyn’s story, but at times the hyperbole is, well, a bit much: “If you are going to start a business, you must be prepared for lonely moments of entrepreneurial terror, for stress and anxiety. There is little consolation in those moments. I haven’t slept soundly since I became an entrepreneur. But Tom and I have shared some experiences that only an entrepreneur can appreciate, and I know we both treasure the experience” (278). Oh my. This also comes at the end of a chapter Tom spends debunking the mythic image of the entrepreneur in the public imagination; thus, while Steve’s observations have merit, they nonetheless smack of solipsism. Still, Steve has his moments, like when talking about his interest in beer: “Money people make money. Money is different from art and beer. Art and beer can enrich your life; they can arouse your senses; they can inspire and liberate. Money is not by itself enjoyable” (154). It is observations like these that give Steve depth beyond his role as the public face of Brooklyn Brewery and save him from falling into the role of corporate cheerleader. Tom’s even business-speak does start a bit dry, but it open up as he warms to the topic; coupled with Steve’s flair, the two present the difficulties and disagreements with more candor than a single narrative voice could.

The practical elements of starting a business stood out more than I expected. They initially dub themselves Mr. Inside—Steve—and Mr. Outside—Tom—to help identify their respective roles in the fledgling operation, and document some of their miscommunications in this regard as well, providing insight into the importance of open communication when working together. We also get a good amount of information concerning the importance of constructing and implementing a business plan. Thus, “What might appear to be a mundane 40-page report is really the dramatic result of months of imagining the world anew. It’s the founders’ distilled brainstorm of strategy, structure, management, and motivation” (44). They also emphasize the value of research coupled with the practical knowledge necessary to implement their business plan in a successful manner. And one other solid piece of advice that, while simple even to me, bears repeating: “Get It On Paper.” Or, put more succinctly, “with a partnership agreement, if the relationship dissolves, there’s a mechanism in place to make it amicable and fair” (15). Offhand, I can think of one no-longer functioning Ohio brewery that might have benefitted from this advice.

I do like that Beer School details some of the personal history that most people never tend to discover. For example, everyone knows that Garrett Oliver is the brewmaster at Brooklyn. Yes, everyone. Even that guy you know who doesn’t like beer. And rightfully so—he’s a media darling, and TheBrewmaster’s Table and The Oxford Companion to Beer have only solidified that reputation. He’s witty and personable, and as Steve tells it, is fond of using a quote from the Blues Brothers to identify his role in the world of craft beer: “I’m on a mission from God” (220). Thus, we get the story of when Steve initially met Oliver in December 1987 at a meeting of the New York City Homebrewers Guild, and later, as Steve recounts, “In the early 1990s, as we began planning to finally build our brewery in Brooklyn, I began to talk to Garrett about coming to work for us” (31). Oliver was hired in 1994, the new brewery in Williamsburg opened on May 18, 1996, and the rest is history and, well, the rest of the book. But I liked hearing about Bill Moeller, their first brewmaster, who was a “fourth-generation German-American brewer whose grandfather had brewed beer in Brooklyn at the turn of the

Bill Moeller with Michael
Jackson; from here

last century” (27). He had worked for 35 years at C. Schmidt and Sons in Philadelphia; the job at Brooklyn was “the first time in my career that an owner has ever told me to make the best damn beer I can make” (28). The original recipe for Brooklyn Lager was put together by Bill, Steve, and Tom using “the notebooks of Bill’s grandfather” (28). And it was Bill that initially helped open doors for Steve and Tom: “Bill had contacts everywhere. We were delighted to take advantage of them. For his part, he was delighted to be working on a project for a really premium beer” (51). Bill simultaneous status in the beer industry and involvement in the burgeoning craft movement was an important part of the early transition from macro- to microbrewing in the United States—exactly the type of history I’d like to learn more about.

Other points worth noting include Brooklyn Brewery’s “great detour” (77) into distribution, as well as their foray into the dot-com revolution with TotalBeer.com. While the distribution branch of the business started as a means to deliver their own beer, it ultimately included both imports and other craft beers, like Sierra Nevada. Thus, when Wine Enthusiast released a list of the 100 best beers in the world in October 1994, Steve and Tom “discovered that we distributed a strong majority of them” (95). We also learn about the industry, and the potential pitfalls of financing when moving from a regional to a national brand: “Pyramid Brewing was doing very well in the mid-1990s, enjoyed excellent organic growth, and was guided by a talented management team. When it raised $34 million in late 1995 on the promise of going national, it quickly spent most of its money in the futile attempt and saw its reputation erode from regional success to national failure. Pyramid’s shares went public at $19, and over the next 10 years they lost nearly 90 percent of their value. Pyramid has lately regained some positive momentum and still makes good beer, but the whole episode is a painful reminder that the business strategy needs to direct the financing and not the other way around” (142). While previously I was puzzled by Pyramid’s transformation, being that I was in mid-twenties during the time, I just abandoned Pyramid for one of the many other craft beers springing up in the Northwest. This explanation makes a lot of sense, though. After all, Red Hook’s “deal-with-the-devil” to achieve national distribution with Anheuser-Busch InBev fared only marginally better in regards to maintaining their reputation. Finally, Steve and Tom discuss some of the early New York microbrewers that came before them, like Matthew Reich, founder of New Amsterdam Brewery, who “pioneered the idea of contract brewing—contracting with an existing brewery to produce a beer for you” (212). They point out that one price of success is that others will “go to school on your business” (213), as they and others—like Jim Koch of Samuel Adams—did with Reich. Hence, as you’ve probably now gathered, the name of the book. While Reich wasn’t always gracious—in one interview he says of Brooklyn “I hope they fall flat on their faces. They have stolen every idea I ever had” (213)—others like Bill Newman of Albany Amber Beer, Jeff Ware of Dock Street Brewing, and Nat Collins of Woodstock Brewing exemplified the community spirit that still exists in craft brewing today.

So there’s a small snapshot of the book. There’s a whole lot more, and despite some of my earlier comments, it is both well-written and a good read. While the business language is at times a bit generic, the book offers a fascinating window into the early days of microbrewing on the East Coast, one I hope to learn more about soon.

(7/19/2013)

Book Review: Wildbrews

“Why do all of these breweries own a cat? To keep the Brettanomyces under control” (vi).

Jeff Sparrow’s Wildbrews: Beer Beyond the Influence of Brewer’s Yeast is a primer on brewing beyond Saccharomyces cerevisiae; while this is of course the subtitle of the book, I nonetheless feel compelled to reinforce this point, as it is, I think, one of the keys to understanding the Belgian approach to brewing. As Peter Bouckaert notes in the “Foreword,” Belgian brewers “are making their beer, not a style” (ix), and Sparrow expands on this point, observing that Belgian brewers “aren’t terribly obsessed with the concept of style” (9). Sparrow continues: “At one time, all beer exhibited some level of tart, sour, acidic character. Modern brewing methods helped to virtually eliminate those characteristics in beer. Only several traditional styles of wild beer exist, still brewed using traditional methods in Flanders, Brussels, and the surrounding countryside” (4). This hewing to traditional methods, along with an understanding and intentional implementation of wild yeast and beer souring micro organisms, is what makes Belgian brewing Belgian. These “hedgehogs,” as Bouckaert calls them, cling “furiously to the good old stuff” (ix). And in reading Jeff Sparrow’s well-written, clear, and detailed book, you can find the information necessary to transform yourself into as much of a hedgehog as you’d like to be when brewing.

Not surprisingly, to understand the beers, we need to understand the history that created them. Sparrow spares no detail in providing the influence of history on Belgian brewing. The traditional combination of barley and wheat in many Belgian beers dates back to, well, a long time ago: “Duke Jean IV of Brabant decreed in 1420 that all brewers in Brabant were required to use wheat to improve the quality of their beers” (40). And lambic turbid mashing traces back to an 1822 Dutch law that “fixed a duty upon the capacity of the mash tun [...] The mashes of early Belgian brewers were, therefore, turbid. This type of mash, full of starches and dextrins, is still common in the production of lambic” (40). The law, however, did have one loophole: “This law made a provision for raw grains not directly mashed with the malt in the tun, this giving a financial advantage to the use of corn, oats, or wheat in a separate cereal cooker” (49). Thus, while 400 years separate these two legal decrees, they both push Belgian brewing in similar directions.

Terroir is also a significant contributor to many Belgian breweries; process has been shaped by locale as well as the law. Chapter 4, “Beer-Souring Organisms,” offers a rundown of the different organism that contribute characteristics to beer: “Four dominant types of microorganisms commonly ferment and acidify beers: Brettanomyces, Lactobacillus, Pediococcus, and Saccharomyces. Several other important players also merit a mention, including Acetobacter, Enterobacter, and various oxidative yeasts. A wide variety of different strains of Saccharomyces cerevisiae ferment beer, and they all have different requirements and characteristics. This same fact applies to wild yeast and bacteria” (99). While broadly interested in all of these, my current interest is specifically in Brettanomyces. Thus, the several pages that Sparrow dedicates to N. Hjelte Claussen’s 1904 discovery are excellent reading: “The five currently recognized species of Brettanomyces include (with several synonyms): B. anomalus (B. claussenii), B. bruxellensis (B. abstinens, B. custerii, B. intermedius, B. lambicus), B. custersianus, B. naardensis, and B. nanus. Many different strains of each species exist within the genus Brettanomyces” (106). Next month, I’ll be making Brettanomyces-only beers with the four different Brettanomyces commercially available to home brewers; from Wyeast there is B. bruxellensis (5122) and B. lambicus (5526), and White Labs carries B. claussenii (WLP 645) and B. bruxellensis trois (WLP 644), the last which is a seasonal release and is, I am guessing, a specific strain of the B. bruxellensis species (it is, according to the Mad Fermentationist, the 3 Fonteinen strain). Thus, according to Sparrow’s list, I’ve bought three versions of B. bruxellensis and one of B. anomalus; one further distinguishing characteristic Sparrow does point out, however: “B. bruxellensis often refers to a strain obtained within Brussels, B. lambicus to strains cultured in the Payottenland. Individual strains all exhibit different characteristics” (106-7). Mainly, it looks like I’ll have to wait and compare the final products to get a sense of the similarities and differences between the four different Brettanomyces listed here, but then again, that's part of my interest in performing the experiment (and another side note: Al B. from East Coast Yeast offers B. custersianus as ECY 19). There’s also an interesting (and valuable) chart at the end of Chapter 4 that maps out the alcohol and pH tolerance of all the common wild buggies in the chapter, as well as which ones produce alcohol, lactic and acetic acid, and the temperature ranges and response to oxygen for each (115). [Brettanomyces graphs from Eureka Brewing]

Equally valuable is “Production Methods,” Chapter 5, which offers the nuts and bolts of how to produce wild beers. Of particular interest is the discussion of fruit: “Four factors to consider when choosing fruit include sugar content, acidity, the type of acid, and the level of tannins in the fruit” (130). The previous page has another helpful chart, listing fruit and ranking all four of these categories. As well, the extended discussion on turbid mashing was helpful in understanding the processes and purposes behind the practice. In regards to fermentation, Sparrow discusses three different methods: “inoculated, spontaneous, and mixed” (151); he also traces the fermentation dynamics of both Lambics and Flanders Reds, providing a sense of the complex and inter-related microbial sequence of events required to produce these beers.

The chapter on “Fermentation and Maturation Vessels,” Chapter 7, covers the characteristics of barrel and wood aging, along with information on selecting the appropriate barrel. Thus, the “designation ‘oaky’ refers to the aroma or flavor of a liquid that has interacted with the oak while in a barrel. More than 200 components of wood may directly contribute to an alcoholic beverage, although only about a dozen are detectable by the human palate, and three deserve closer attention. One of the primary compounds contributed in vanillin. This compound will lend a vanillalike aroma and corresponding sweetness, even in barely detectable amounts. Oak also contributes tannins. This compound adds a drying, astringent, acidic character often present in red wine. A third—the unique spicy character contributed by methyloctalactones—differs according to the origin (country, region, and even forest) of the wood” (191-2). The information on preparing a barrel for use (205-8) offers information I hope to be able to make use of some day.

Sparrow’s book concludes with a discussion of finishing beers and blending, an important part of Belgian brewing, and a section of recipes to get readers started. Thus, a “brewer blends beer for two basic reasons: to change the character of the beer and/or to produce a consistent result not possible from a single batch” (225). I do like this carefully and most certainly intentionally placed observation: “Anheuser-Busch carefully controls every step of the brewing process and still blends to achieve an extremely high level of consistency” (225). Rreowww!  

From here.

And finally, my new vocabulary word from this book: caveau, the name for the large stacks of bottles of gueuze, stored on their side and usually against a wall, which brewers use to age individual blends of their beer (245). Love live the caveau!

(9/12/2012)

Book Review: Brewing in Cincinnati, 1885-1985: 100 Years Hudepohl Brewing Company

Lee Oberlag’s Brewing in Cincinnati, 1885-1985: 100 Years Hudepohl Brewing Company was “written and published to commemorate the Hudepohl Brewing Company’s 100th anniversary of brewing in Cincinnati” (inside back cover). While Oberlag was the advertising and PR director for Hudepohl—after all, Hudepohl published the book—this small book is chock full of interesting information regarding  Cincinnati brewing history, specifically in relation to the larger national brewing scene. The writing does at times smack of 80s advertising patter, but the wheat is in there among the chaff. For example, Christian Moerlein, a “super premium beer” produced by Hudepohl for the local market in the early 1980s “as a salute to the fine history of the brewing industry in Cincinnati” and designed “to honor a brewery that ‘died a noble death’ due to Prohibition,” was also “the first American beer to pass ‘Reinheitsgebot,’ the stringent purity law of Germany, in 1983” (16). The combination of history—honoring a former competitor by naming a beer after them—and claiming this same beer as the first American-complaint Reinheitsgebot beer is a part of U.S. beer history certainly worth knowing. Christian Moerlein mentions something similar in the history of the brewery on their website, failing, of course, to mention who actually made the beer. As to whether the second part of the story is true—that is of course another story. And no, I don’t know the answer. But it does have the ring of something that I wish were true, specifically as the desire to acknowledge a larger brewing history existing outside the United States sets Hudepohl apart from the other competing national-scale macro breweries of the period. You know the ones I mean. But let’s jump back to start at the beginning, which, I hear, is a very good place to start.

The story of Hudepohl Brewing Company begins, as do many in this country, as an immigrant story. In 1838, Ludwig and Agnes Hudepohl immigrated to Cincinnati from Malgarten, Hannover; he was one of many Germans emigrating to the United States in general, and the Ohio Valley in specific. As Oberlag’s text recounts, the increase in German population led to a boom of breweries in Cincinnati: in 1848 there were 11, and by 1860 there were 36 (1). So in other words, growth was on par with the current microbrewery boom. Ludwig II was born in 1842, and thus came of age during this period of explosive growth. By 1877, two Cincinnati breweries had become national-level producers, with “Christian Moerlein, the 13th largest brewery in the U. S., and Windisch-Mulhauser Brewing Company, the 20th largest” (1). In 1885, Ludwig II and his business partner George Kotte “bought the Koehler Brewery, which became the Buckeye Brewery because it was located on Buckeye Street near McMicken” (1). By 1890, Cincinnati “had gained world-wide recognition as the ‘beer capital of the world,” consuming 40 gallons a year per capita (the national average was 16) (2). In the 1890, Hudepohl and Kotte sold “about 40,000 barrels of draft beer, including the brands Buckeye, Muenchener, Dortmunder, and Hudepohl” (3). When George Kotte died in 1893, his wife was a partner until Ludwig II bought her out in 1900, at which point Ludwig renamed it the Hudepohl Brewing Company, enlarging and modernizing the brewery, introducing Golden Jubilee, and expanding sales to surrounding states (3). His sole ownership was short lived,

from here

however, as Ludwig II died in 1902. His family retained ownership (well, until 1986, after this book was written), with various members running the business, beginning with his wife, Mary Elizabeth, and later his son-in-law William A. Pohl. 



World War I had an adverse affect on Cincinnati’s German-American communities, as did the temperance movement, although Cincinnati “was not as affected as other areas of the country due to its tradition of beer-drinking” (5); following close on its heels however, Prohibition and the Volstead Act (January 20, 1920) finished the job. Twenty five breweries closed in Cincinnati; Hudepohl stayed open “by making ‘near beer’ (½ of one percent alcohol), vichy water, and soft drinks” (6-7), although near beer production by Hudepohl ended in 1928. After the repeal of Prohibition in December 1933, only four previous Cincinnati breweries re-opened: Hudepohl, Bruckmann’s, Foss-Schneider, and Schaller (7). I do also feel compelled to note that prior to the “official” repeal of Prohibition, “3.2% beer was declared ‘non-intoxicating’ by Congress,” and sold starting on April 7, 1933 (7). While I do laud the duplicity of the declaration, as it parched all those dry, dry throats several months early, I also mark this as the moment America officially began its dislike of session beers. Thanks, Congress.

Hudepohl’s first year success allowed them to purchase the idle Lackman Brewery, which was needed to keep up with production; until 1958, they ran two different breweries (8). Shifts in packaging also contributed to post-Prohibition production and consumption. Packaging beer in cans, which began in 1935, shifted consumption towards the home: “In 1934, 75 percent of beer sold was draft; in 1941, 48 percent was draft and 52 percent was packaged” (9). The 27% drop reflects an almost 4% drop for each of the seven years, signaling a significant transformation in the way Americans were thinking about and consuming beer; as with Prohibition, it further limited the social and cultural elements that accompanied drinking, transforming the public act into something private. Nonetheless, Hudepohl produced “almost 900,000 barrels in 1947” (8), pointing to their continued growth.

Pictures of all cans from rustcans.com

In the 1950s, Hudepohl pioneered the 14-K brewing process. Here’s how Master Brewer Peter Marcher describes 14-K in 1953: “Under Process 14-K, each brew is sampled and checked daily, from the beginning of the brewing operation in the mash tubs and kettle, through the thoroughly controlled and unhurried fermentation and lagering periods. The final blending of lagered beer and the filtering processes are accurately controlled and supervised by Hudepohl’s well-trained brewing technicians. The exact brewing and blending and filtering produces a uniformly fine finished product which passes the rigid requirements of 118 separate laboratory tests. Hudepohl’s master Brewers augment all the ancient skill of the Art of Brewing with modern science and a new technique, which we call Process 14-K, and gives you a golden grain treasure of drinking pleasure” (12). Golden treasure indeed. I wonder how long PR had to work with Marcher to get him to remember to include the rhyme in the last sentence?

Hudepohl continued to grow; in 1973 they were able to buy the label rights to rival Burger Brewing Company when they closed (12). However, sales were declining via the competition with large national brewers who were looking to consolidate their national markets; this was the same time that regional breweries were being purchased by the likes of Anheuser Busch and Miller. Hudepohl continued to fight the good fight; in 1978, Hudy Delight, Hudepohl’s first light beer, helped stabilize brewery sales (13). As well, Hudepohl was a long-time supporter of the Cincinnati Reds, dating back to the mid-1950s, and even producing a commemorative can for their 1975 World Series championship (see above also) (18). In 1983, they also produced Pace Pilsner Beer, “America’s first reduced-alcohol beer” (20). This history, as Oberlag concludes, means that “Hudepohl offers beer-drinkers an alternative to mass-produced domestic beers and continues to gain respect and admiration throughout the United States and European brewing industry” (20). Sadly, for both Oberlag and Hudepohl, in 1986 Hudepohl was sold to Schoenling Brewing Company; beer continued to be brewed at the Hudepohl brewery until 1987, when all production shifted to the Schoenling plant. Hudepohl-Schoenling was an independent brewer until they were bought by the Boston Beer Company in 1997. For some previous comments on Hudepohl, see our entry on Bürger Classic Beer, made by the revitalized Christian Moerlein, although under contract elsewhere.

Oh, and one last delicious anecdote regarding the 1894 ceramic Christian Moerlein bottles I hadn’t heard before: “Although the bottle was beautiful—and extremely popular—the manufacturer failed to glaze the bottom, and beer seeped through and leaked. About 5,000 unfilled ceramic bottles were discovered in a storage cellar under the K. D. Lamp Company of Elm Street, a building once owned by the Moerlein brewery” (16). While I had previously heard of these bottles, and had certainly seen them trumpeted around in the brewing histories of Cincinnati (like on the cover of Michael Morgan’s Over-The-Rhine: When Beer Was King), I always wondered why all those bottles were down there in the first place—certainly they hadn’t been forgotten, had they? As this story indicates, they weren’t forgotten, they were abandoned as useless. Problem solved.

(8/8/2012)

Book Review: Farmhouse Ales

Phil Markowski’s Farmhouse Ales: Culture and Craftmanship in the Belgian Tradition is a well-written and fascinating book focusing on two basic beer styles: Wallonian saisons and French bière de gardes. As Markowski notes, “this book’s core objective is to better define two styles of ale that are often misunderstood. The many interpretations of these styles do not fit into predefined style categories. As a result, many observers brush them off as insignificant or unimportant” (6). In part, this is because “French and Belgian farmhouse brewing evolved as a ‘third way’ apart from German and English brewing, the sources of so much of our brewing philosophy” (8). In this sense, I think Markowski hits it on the nose—while this book was written in 2004, his words still hold true today, even in the über-experimental American craftbrewing scene: the lack of knowledge of what actually distinguishes these two styles, coupled with a traditional focus on English and German brewing, has led to a lot of pedestrian American attempts to recreate these beers. Think sweet, think sticky, think over-spiced. Which is really only another way of saying that doing whatever the hell you want does not make something a saison, even if it is an interesting beer.

Photo from here.

Tracing the historical development of these two beers offers numerous insights into the way these two beers are a product of similar and yet different social, political, and cultural forces. Markowski points out that there are “two primary ways to formulate a brew to help keep it stable over months of storage—increasing the hopping rate or elevate the alcohol content” (11). And as he continues, each of these beers follows one of these paths: higher hopping rates for the saison, and increased alcohol content for the bière de garde. Thus, as Markowski notes, “The higher alcohol content of today’s bière de garde evolved as a result of brewers’ efforts to make them more ‘special’” (34). More special indeed. Sounds like Belgium beat America to the punch on this one. As well, local legislation had its own influence: “for several decades of the nineteenth century, unmalted brewing grains were taxed at a lower rate than malt, providing an extra incentive” for the use of non-traditional grains like wheat, spelt, and buckwheat in saisons (155). Coupled with the shared historical background both within regions—“The use of old hops was frequent, bringing saisons close to traditional lambic” (104)—and across regions—“Modern bière de garde may have evolved from the tradition of making bière de Mars, a seasonal ale with origins similar to German Oktoberfst Maerzen” (36)—Markowski’s text provides a thought-provoking read for those equally interested in style, method, and tradition.

Phil’s new digs.

Practical brewing advice is also prevalent, relevant to those interested in fine-tuning their brewing ability. For example, in saisons, “bitterness is obtained by the use of a massive amount of hops low in alpha acids” (121). While two ounces of American Magnum can do the trick, understanding the total landscape and not just the shortcut is important. Then there is this gem: “The addition of spices can be thought of in much the same way as adding hops to a brew” (166). In other words, not only in regards to bittering, flavor, aroma, and dry-spicing additions, but with forethought and intentionality that takes the entire beer into consideration. Markowski also discusses yeast history: “the Dupont strain may have originally been a red wine yeast that over time adapted itself to a brewery environment” (172). My personal experience with Wyeast French Saison 3711 (which is not the Dupont strain) would tend to confirm this; not only is 3711 an extremely aggressive yeast that readily outcompetes (or even kills off) other yeasts, it exudes a good amount of fruit (specifically cherry) esters, especially when placed under stress. But it does make a damn good beer. Sorry, Phil, but I like it better than the Dupont strain.

Finally, Markowski offers historical asides designed to cohere the different threads of the text; he notes that “As saison was considered the drink of farm workers, grisette was the brew of the miners” (131). Before reading the book, I knew that the two names existed (Sly Fox does a Grisette), but not the reciprocal distinctions existing between the two. I did know more about grisettes prior to reading this, but in another context; not surprisingly, the two share historical roots (see the Sly Fox description and you’ll figure it out). As well, another gem: “Based on the works of sociologist and historian Léo Moulin, it can estimated that consumption levels of low gravity beer for a manual laborer in the Middle Ages was around 5 liters per day!” (99). Holy les saisonniers! And I would be remiss if I didn’t point out my newest vocabulary word: chaptalization, which is boosting fermentable sugar content through additions of sucrose. Basically, it means adding table sugar to create a leaner, drier beer. But using chaptalization should make you sound like a rock star. Or an academic, which is pretty much the same thing. Oh, and if you’d like to see some other reviews of the book, go find them yourselves, you lazy bum. Just kidding! Check out All About Beer and the Mad Fermentationist (so angry!). Word.

(6/28/2012)

Book Review: Brewing with Wheat

Es ist war ein gutes Biere die Golarische Gose,
Doch wenn man meint, sei sei im Bauch,
So lieght sie in der Hose.

It is indeed a good beer, Goslar Gose
Though when you think it is in your belly,
So it is in your trousers.

Brewing with Wheat, Stan Hieronymus’ most recent tome, gets into the nitty gritty concerning the history and diversity of wheat beers. It is witty (pun intended) and well-written: Hieronymus has an eye (and an ear) for a well-turned anecdote, and uses them brilliantly to build his narrative. For example, the above lyrics are drawn from his discussion of gose in the chapter “Beers the Reinheitsgebot Never Met,” and are used to set up a short history of the beer (157). As well, one of the most interesting overall points of this book is noted by Yvan De Baets in his “Foreword”: “For a modern brewer it is indeed funny to see that the key to a style resides in what is now considered the Evil in our breweries: lactic acid bacteria!” (xii).

Hieronymus opens by noting that “wheat is not a style” (7) before going on to discuss the breadth and diversity of wheat beer brewing. In “Wheat, Beer, and Bread,” he offers the history of wheat in beer, including the effect of the Reinheitsgebot of 1516 on wheat beer: “Among other things the ‘beer purity’ law allowed barley as the only grain in beer, ensuring that wheat and rye would be reserved for breadmakers” (18). The backdrop on this “beer purity” law, coupled with the anecdotes concerning the longstanding feud between wheat-eaters and rye-eaters, offers a broader (and certainly amusing) context in which to place the Reinheitsgebot in brewing history. When added to the geographically specific location the Reinheitsgebot initially represented, “That some would have violated the Reinheitsgebot doesn’t matter, because the rest of Germany did not adopt the Bavarian ‘beer purity’ law until 1906, and even then with some loopholes” (150). Well put.

The most useful aspect of the book—at least to me—is the depth of insight into the different ways brewers create and produce wheat beers. While Hieronymus clearly indicates that this book is not a brewing manual complete with clone recipes, it certainly does provide the “details” to understand the “challenges of brewing with wheat” (11). Thus, I found numerous comments, observations, and insights that will (well, at least hopefully) improve the quality and complexity of the beers I produce. Thus, not only did I use this as a reference last summer when I tried my hand at brewing a gose, I’ll be referring to it again shortly when I attempt to brew a grätzer. Additionally, I do love a book that provides new terminology. First, I finally got a definition of “torrified” that made sense (27). But the best new term was “shankbier”: “German law requires the starting gravity of shankbier must be between 1.028 and 1.032 (7 ˚P to 8 ˚P), producing a beer of about 3 percent alcohol by volume” (153).

My favorite anecdote is that Dan Carey of New Glarus was initially inspired by Olympia: “Dan Carey has been a sucker for copper kettles since he was a kid and saw them shimmering in the giant window at the Olympia Brewery in Tumwater, Washington” (123). It’s always nice to hear that my personal obsession with Olympia is at least partially shared by others. Other observations worth noting: historical context for the lemon garnish (86-7), the potential historical connection between wits and gose (42) as well as gueze and gose (sorry, I can’t find that reference), and finally, this gem: “In a curious turn of history the first wheat beers in Bavaria were known as ‘Bohemian’ and the first lagers in what was previously ale-brewing Bohemia were called ‘Bavarian’” (79). Awesome. As well, for other reviews of note, see Beervana and A Good Beer Blog. Then, of course, there is the press release from the Brewers Association, which interesting in its own right.

(6/02/2012)

Ohio Breweries: Book Review

Ohio Breweries, by Rick Armon, is the latest addition to Stackpole Books’ Breweries Series that features, most famously, several works by Lew Bryson. And like Bryson’s books, this one is a nice asset for those who want a quick and useful reference guide to the breweries in Ohio. Its strengths include clear organization and helpful information: it provides all the details for when and where to go, as well as how to contact the necessary people. Additionally, many of the stories about individual brewers and breweries regarding their start in the business are interesting and told with an eye for the story—I am now much more interested in visiting Rust Belt, Indigo Imp, and a couple of the Erie Island breweries via the personal experiences Rick describes in the entries for those breweries. Rick’s book also includes some details I didn’t know, like that Ohio is “one of the largest beer-producing states in the nation,” ranking “in the top five” in terms of overall production (5). This is especially hard to take living in Dayton, which currently has no local beer production—Wooden Shoe and Rivertown are both far enough away to make Tom a very sad boy.

The weaknesses are few, but I feel compelled to mention them. The self-referential Cleveland in-jokes feel forced: “Let’s dispense with the Cleveland jokes. No humorous elbows about the ‘Mistake on the Lake’ or the burning Cuyahoga River or anything like that” (17). This assumes a familiarity with the area and the jokes describing that area that I don’t have, creating an effect that felt mainly off-putting. And they continued. As well, in a book that relies on a craft beer drinking audience, he fawns a bit too much over Anheuser-Busch InBev and MillerCoors. Sure, “Ohioans love Anheuser-Busch” (7-8), but all those Bud Light drinkers ain’t buying your book. Finally, he notes that “Columbus finally got its first major professional sports franchise in 2000 when the Columbus Blue Jackets hockey team arrived,” and then continues one paragraph later that “the city also has been home to Major League Soccer since the mid-1990s” (83). Ouch! Calling hockey the “first major professional sports franchise” in Columbus means one of two things: either you hate soccer or you have an over-inflated sense of the relevance of hockey. Neither of which, might I add, is good. Oh, and he also quotes Casey McAdams, which means I’ll have to hear about that for the rest of my god-damn life. But that’s more a personal problem than a flaw on Rick’s part. Still, regardless of few downsides, it is a useful reference guide for the breweries around the state—I’ll be taking it with me the next time I head north to Akron and Cleveland.

See also Alan McLeod’s review. Check-it-check-it out.

(12/9/2011)