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September 14, 2010

So what IS the difference between barley wine and old ale?

I see Wikipedia reckons that “According to Martyn Cornell, ‘no historically meaningful difference exists between barley wines and old ales’.” Do I think that? You’ll be unshocked to learn that my beliefs are actually considerably more complex.

One problem is that in the real world, beer styles such as Burton Ale that have been called “barley wines” have also been called “old ales”. And milds. Another is that, as Michael Jackson pointed out in the 1970s, “barley wine” seems to be a name given to some very different beers. If Thomas Hardy’s Ale and Gold Label can both be called “barley wine” despite being utterly different beers, then we have a serious problem in defining “barley wine” as a style.

In fact I don’t believe there is actually any such meaningful style as “barley wine”, despite the BJCP attempting to draw up rules. Indeed, just to show how arsey such attempts at categories are, if you click on that link you’ll see the BJCP calls Fuller’s Golden Pride a barley wine and Fuller’s Vintage Ale an old ale, although they’re actually the same blahdy beer, the latter version being bottle-conditioned, the former not. And while Ratebeer and the BJCP says Thomas Hardy’s is a barley wine, Beer Advocate calls it an old ale. So: make your minds up, Yanks.

While you’re deciding on categories, however, I have to tell you – I’ve come to the conclusion that, as well as barley wine being effectively meaningless (it doesn’t even mean “any strong beer”, since no one seems to categorise Imperial stout as barley wine), there’s no such style as “old ale”, either. Not historically, anyway. From which it follows that (and this really will kick the hornet’s nest) there’s no such style as “mild”*.

It’s taken me a long time to work this out, because I was distracted, like other writers, by the modern usages of the terms “mild ale” and “old ale” into thinking that before the First World War “mild ale” and “old ale” in brewers’ adverts had the same meaning that they do today. But I finally realised that instead of there being two styles of beer represented in “mild ale” and “old ale”, there was only one style – “ale”. Regular readers will remember that I’ve already talked here about how “ale” continued to be a different, less hopped drink to “beer”, not just a synonym, right through to at least the end of the 19th century, and here about how “ale” sold mild, that is, freshly brewed, gradually became one of the most popular drinks, especially among the working classes, in 19th century Britain, ousting porter from top slot. And “old ale” was just the mild ale, aged. (Sometimes very aged: in February 1863 the Bristol Mercury carried an ad for “a vat of 200 barrels of very superior old ale, vatted in 1857, to be sold at 48s per barrel, for cash.” Assuming this was brewed in October 1857 it was then five years and three months old.)

Let’s repeat that. If ale was young, freshly brewed, then regardless of its strength it was sold as “mild”. Once it had matured, and gained the characteristics of an aged beer, it was sold as “old”. Generally only the stronger ale survived to be sold and drunk as “old ale”, as because the weaker ale would go too sour before it had aged properly. This is why today we think of “old ale” as a strong drink. So if the same cask of beer can be “mild ale” when it’s young and “old ale” when it’s aged a bit, we’re twisting the meaning of the word “style” if we try to assert that at some point in its life, the contents of that cask changed from one style to another, I suggest.

You’ll be wanting some evidence for these assertions. Here’s an ad for Waltham Brothers’ brewery in Stockwell, South London from 1889. You’ll note that of the four grades of X ale, three are called simply “mild ale” while the fourth, XXXX Strong Ale (with a price per barrel of 66 shillings, implying an original gravity of around 1090 or so, north of seven per cent alcohol by volume) is described as “old or mild” – meaning that the brewery would sell it to you aged or fresh. The fact that the next grade down (46/- a barrel, around 1055 OG) is called XXK, not XXX, is meant to suggest, I think, that you could use this one as a “keeping” beer if you wanted, giving it a bit of age; while the bottom two grades, the XX (around 1050 OG) and the X (probably not much above 1040 OG) were “proper” milds, meant to be drunk quickly. This is found with other brewers’ beers: Bass ales in 1892 were being advertised by one retailer in Bristol with the No 1 and No 2 called “Strong Ale”, the No 3 “Strong or Mild Ale” and Nos 4 to 7 just “Mild Ale”. I doubt, incidentally, that Waltham Brothers actually brewed four ales: most likely they brewed X and XXXX and the other two were blends, at different percentages, of those.

Much brewery advertising, of course, assumed that the customer knew lower grades of ale were for drinking mild, and higher grades for drinking old, and only spelled it out where there might be confusion. Here’s one from Smith and Bruce’s Barrack Ground Brewery, Colchester, Essex in December 1869 where the X and XX Ale go undescribed, but the XXX Ale (around 1060OG) is available “Old and Mild” – my emphasis. (That curious trademark on the right, incidentally, looks to incorporate a Sergeant Major’s pace stick, an officer’s swagger stick and what I’m guessing is a bell.)

The fullest early commentary on the mild/old/barley wine continuum comes from the British Medical Journal in its issue for January 15 1870, when it conducted analyses of 11 “old ales” and 16 “mild ales” from a variety of mostly well-known brewers. I’ve given the table in full, because it’s fascinating. The “old ale” list begins with two versions of Old Burton Ale from Samuel Allsopp and Sons, the first sample of which is a hefty 10.8 per cent alcohol by volume, with a final gravity of almost 1040.4, that likely tremendous sweetness countered by an acidity, in the nine-months old version, of 0.32 per cent, about the same as would be found in a contemporary stout.

(A small aside or diversion: Allsopp’s Old Burton Ale retailed in the Feathers Tavern, Hand Court, Holborn, on the edge of the City of London, for six pence a pint, three times as much as a pint of mild, the BMJ recorded. This was obviously one of the go-to outlets in London for strong old Burton. More than 60 years earlier, around 1796, the journalist and author John Mathew Gutch, a friend of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Charles Lamb, said that he and his friends “were at this time in the habit meeting at the Feathers in Hand Court, Holborn, to drink nips of Burton Ale, as they were called. One of our friends, who was particularly fond of the beverage, was called ‘Nipperkin’.” The nip or nipperkin – a half pint or less – seems to have been the standard measure for strong Burton. Francis Grose’s Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue in 1796 said that a pub not very far from the Feathers called the Peacock, in Gray’s Inn Lane, “where Burton ale is sold in nyps”, was known as the “nyp-shop”. By the 20th century, at least, a “nip” was the name in the UK for a bottle containing one third of an Imperial pint, six and two thirds fluid ounces, 190ml, the usual size, until the introduction of EU standard measures, for bottles of barley wine.)

Certainly the BMJ table suggests a definite overlap between “old and “mild”. Ignoring the most acid “old ale”, the average acidity for the olds was 0.25 per cent. Ignoring the most acid “mild”, the average acidity for the milds was 0.2 per cent, 20 per cent less. The average alcohol level for the olds was 7.65 per cent by weight, 9.56 per cent by volume. The average alcohol level for the milds was 5.39 per cent by weight, 6.73 per cent by volume, almost 30 per cent less. The average percentage of extract for the olds (important for flavour and mouthfeel) was 8.49 per cent, though the average for the four-pence-a-pint olds it was 6.32 per cent, and for the milds 5.36 per cent, 15 per cent less.>

However, there were milds stronger than the weakest olds, olds less acid than even the average mild, and olds with less extract than the average mild. So how did the BMJ, or, more likely, the pubs and retailers who sold it the ales for testing, decide in which category, old or mild, to put each ale? The only answer, I suggest, is that they were judging on the one parameter not given in this table: age. If it was young it was most likely to be labelled “mild”, if it had some age it was labelled “old”. The clue is that generally the “old ales” were more acid than the “milds” – just a couple of the 4d “olds” break this rule, both with gravities in the 1085-1092 region, and I suggest these were XXXXX ales, generally sold as “old”, that had not aged enough and were still in a mild condition. Because they were destined to be aged and sold as “old”, however, that, I suspect, was what they were sold to the BMJ as.

The beers described as “Old Ale” come from four different parts of Britain: Burton upon Trent (two different brewers), Scotland (one, which I’m guessing is Andrew Roy of the Alloa brewery, though this had been acquired by Archibald Arrol in 1866)), London (three, two old porter brewers and one traditional ale brewer, Charrington) and Wiltshire (the “long-celebrated” Kennet Ale, made by a maltster and brewer called George Butler in the village of West Kennet, near Devizes). The “old ales” represented therefore, at least four different styles of beer, assuming the London brewers’ beers were all the same: Burton Ale, Scotch Ale, London Ale and Kennet Ale.

The second beer in the BMJ‘s list of Old Ales, you’ll have noticed, is “Bass’s Barley Wine”. This must be Bass’s No 1 Burton Ale, still brewed at almost exactly the same strength on the old Bass site in Burton today. The BMJ’s is the earliest mention I have been able to find of a specific brewer’s beer being called a “barley wine”. The phrase “barley wine” certainly occurs in English before 1870. But it appears only as a direct translation of the οἶνος κριθἶνος that Xenophon, in his book Anabasis said he and an army of Greeks found the Armenians drinking around 400BC, or as a poetical synonym for “ale”, for example in Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler, first published in 1653. William Brande, in The Town and Country Brewery Book in 1830, wrote about “Barley wine and Dorchester beer” brewed at a huge ten bushels of malt to the barrel. But the phrase was used rarely enough as a description for beer that a cookery book published in 1853 could give a recipe for “barley wine” as a “very strengthening” drink that was literally wine (sherry, in fact) added to barley gruel, boiled down and flavoured with cinnamon.

Mild and strong Burton in the Ipswich Journal, 1871

Shortly after the BMJ‘s survey of old ales that listed “Bass’s Barley Wine”, in March 1871, an advertisement appeared in a newspaper called Bell’s Life in London for the “matchless home-brewed barley wine” available only at the White Lion, Digbeth, Birmingham, inserted by “E. Roberts, proprietors and brewer of this justly celebrated ale” . Since it’s not clear whether Bass itself was referring to its No 1 in 1870 as a barley wine, it looks as if Mr Roberts was the first person to make something that the brewery itself named barley wine.

If it’s not clear when Bass starting using the term “barley wine”, it wasn’t a description limited to Bass among the Burton brewers. In an article in Murray’s Magazine from November 1888, beer from another Burton brewery was given the label, when the anonymous writer, after a trip round Bass’s, added in a footnote: “Gratitude forbids me to forget that even Bass could not surpass the perfection of a glass of barley wine, Chateau Salt, vintage 1882, that I tasted in the ’lowance store of the firm of that name,” the firm being Thomas Salt & Co, one of the larger but, today, lesser-known establishments in Victorian Beertown-upon-Trent.

Apart from the BMJ in 1870, the early examples I’ve been able to find of mentions of “Bass & Co’s No 1 ale or Barley Wine” or the like are from retailers, such as an advertisement from a local grocer on the front page of the Essex County Standard using that description in December 1891. In fact, after Mr Roberts of Birmingham in 1871, the first time any actual brewer seems to use the term, it’s one of Bass’s Burton upon Trent rival, Ind Coope, advertising the beers available at its local stores in the Wrexham Advertiser in North Wales on Saturday September 1 1900. Among the bottled beers available, as well as “<><> East India Pale” (Double Diamond to you), was “No 1, Barley Wine”, half pints only, 2/6 the crate. No 1 was the designation Ind Coope gave to its own top-of-the-range Burton Ale, so once again a strong Burton Ale is described as a barley wine.

In May 1907 the Daily Mail printed an advertisement for the Burton Brewery Co, like Thomas Salt another “second tier” Burton brewer, for a list of beers including “No 1 Mild Ale”. “No 2 Mild Ale” and “No 8 Barley Wine” at two shillings and four pence a gallon. The first two were almost certainly the brewery’s bottom-of-the-range Burton Ales, the No 8 Barley Wine, like Bass No 1 and Ind Coope No 1, its strongest Burton. Another brewer with a brewery in Burton, Truman Hanbury and Buxton, had its top beer described as “No 1 Burton (Barley Wine)” in an article in the Daily Mail in October 1907, and later on in the 20th century Truman’s were using the name “No 1 Burton Barley Wine” on bottle labels.

The earliest Bass labels for No 1 call it just a “Strong Ale”. At some point Bass stopped putting “Strong Ale” on its bottles of No 1 and starting using the term “barley wine” instead. When this first happened I don’t know, but the first time I have been able to find Bass using the description “barley wine” on a bottle label was in North America, where from at least 1903 it was selling “Bass & Co’s Barley Wine – the Royal Tonic”, and actually advertising it in medical journals as suitable to be prescribed for “Nursing Mothers and in cases of Anaemia, Chlorosis, Leanness, Malnutrition, Indigestion, Insomnia, Neurasthenia, and debility from any cause.” The label bore the name “Barley Wine” without the “No 1″ designation, but it showed the diamond trademark Bass used for its Burton Ales, including No 1.

Brewers from Burton did not all rush to call their top-of-the-range Burton Ale a barley wine. Marston Thompson and Evershed advertised their Owd Rodger Burton Ale, 15/- a firkin, “long matured in our cellars”, in the Daily Mirror in 1910 simply as a Strong Ale, the same description originally used by Bass. Later, labels for Owd Rodger called it a “barley wine”, but this description seems to have vanished from the current bottles. The BJCP insists, however, that it’s an “old ale”. I say nothing.

All the same, we can declare with some confidence that, with the exception of Mr Roberts of Birmingham in 1871, all the earliest beers to be called “barley wine” were very strong Burton Ales. But did “barley wine” as a name thus delineate a style? The problem here is that “Burton Ale” was the name of the style, which, as I said in the chapter on Burton Ale in Amber Gold and Black, was popular enough to be picked up and imitated across Britain, from Dorset to Northumbria (and also in New England). In particular, Burton Ale was a big seller in London, where many brewers made a beer they called “Burton Ale” – and the alternative name for Burton Ale in London was “old”.

The journalist Maurice Gorham, writing in the book Back to the Local in 1949, said that “old” and “Burton” were used as synonyms “quite arbitrarily. For instance, Burton (or old) mixed with mild ale is usually asked for as old-and-mild, not mild-and-Burton … but if you want to mix Burton with bitter you ask for bitter-and-Burton (or BB).” Similarly, an article in the Canadian magazine Saturday Night in 1957 said in an article called “The Charm of Britain”, that “There are many varieties of beer; the best-known are bitter beer (“bitter” for short), mild ale (“mild”), old ale (“Burton”), stout and lager.” And Ron Pattinson’s researches show that the London brewers Barclay Perkins called their KK “Burton” when it was on draught and “Southwarke Old Ale” when it was in bottle. So: a beer that, in its strongest manifestation is called, at least sometimes, a barley wine, is also called an old ale. And the weakest Burton Ales, such as Bass’s No 5 and No 6, were sold under the label “mild”. So, that’s one style of beer, Burton Ale, covering “mild”, “old ale” and “barley wine”.

Nor were the Burton brewers the only ones to call their strong beers “barley wine”. The Salford brewer Groves & Whitnall published a pamphlet called A Short History of our National Beverage some time evidently in the 1930s in which, talking about its own beers, it said: “Our strong Old Ale or ‘Barley Wine’ stands pre-eminent and apart from all others …” You’ll spot that Groves & Whitnall is using “Barley Wine” as a synonym for “Old Ale”. But most of the time, from what I have been able to discover, until the 1950s, when brewers made a strong beer they didn’t call it barley wine. Many marketed their strong beer as “Old Something” – Old Tom was particularly popular in the North of England. Several, such as Samuel Smith’s of Tadcaster and Phipps of Northampton, used the name “stingo”, defined by one dictionary in 1822 as “old strong beer, old ale”. Those with a college tradition to haul in, such as Dales of Cambridge, might call their top-of-the-range brew “audit ale”, after the famous strong ales made by the breweries at colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. A large number simply named their strongest beer Strong Ale, like Tennant Brothers of Sheffield’s No 1 Strong Ale.

It was Tennants, in fact, who seem to have popularized the name “barley wine”, when, in 1952, the company’s head brewer Harold Burkenshaw, developed what the company called “a new type of sparkling barley wine”, a “unique product”, much paler than its No 1 Strong Ale, which it sold under the name Gold Label. Within two years the company’s chairman was telling shareholders at the annual meeting that sales of Gold Label were “rapidly assuming semi-national proportions”. The success of Gold Label brought a rush of imitators as other brewers brought out pale strong beers under the name “barley wine”, and led to a few original darker strong ales, such as Ind Coope’s Arctic Ale, Watney’s Stingo and Tennant’s own No 1 Strong Ale being rebadged as barley wines. But as an advert for Gold Label in 1967 boasted, these were “ordinary dark brown barley wines”.

The same ad revealed that Gold Label was being made from Proctor barley, one of the parents of Maris Otter, matured for “several months”, chill-filtered and then blended “to smooth out the edges”. Gold Label, which was advertised as “Strong as a double Scotch, less than half the price” – another old beer slogan that couldn’t possibly be used now – was recognised by the Guinness Book of Records in 1966 as the strongest beer regularly brewed in Britain, at 10.6 per cent abv, but only because, as the International Brewers’ Journal complained at the time, the Birmingham brewer Mitchell & Butler’s Strong Ale had been “so cruelly killed” two or three years earlier.

So where does that leave us in trying to decide whether there is a genuine line that can be drawn between beers that can be called “barley wine” and beers that can be called “old ale”? I fear that there isn’t – that in the category “strong ales” a division between “barley wine” and “old ale” doesn’t stand up, certainly not historically, and not in practice today, either. Tentatively, I’d suggest that a more practical division would separate Burton-style strong ales, such as No 1, Owd Rodger and Fuller’s 1845 into one group, dark strong ales, such as Robinson’s Old Tom, Thomas Hardy Ale and Gale’s Prize Old Ale into a second group (one descended, I’d say, more clearly from the original idea of an “old ale” in the pre-20th century conception of what that meant**) and pale strong ales such as Gold Label, Golden Pride/Vintage Ale and the rest into a third.

*Oh, all right – there is now. But it’s almost entirely a post-First World War construct, and has very little resemblance, if any, to anything sold as “mild” a century and more ago.

** Addendum – that is to say, XXXX Strong Ale and the like, offered by almost every brewer outside Burton.

August 31, 2010

Words for beer (3): the big mysteries

As I said when I wrote the first of these blog essays, the origins of the words “ale” and “beer” are a surprisingly tangled mystery, with no particularly obvious root for either word.

Nor has anyone ever explained convincingly why the “continental” branch of West Germanic (the one that eventually became German in all its dialects, and Dutch and Friesian) dropped the al- word for “beer” it had derived from a supposed Germanic root *aluþ- (that *, remember, indicates a word for which there is no direct evidence, but which has been reconstructed from later forms), and took up the word bier instead, while the “off-shore” branch of West Germanic, the ancestor of modern English, together with the North Germanic languages (Norwegian, Swedish, Danish and so on) stayed with words derived from *aluþ- – “ale” in modern English, Swedish öl and Danish and Norwegian øl.

Let’s look at “ale” first, the word that originally, in English, mean an unhopped fermented malt drink. It’s a word found across Northern and Eastern Europe: as well as in the Scandinavian languages, it occurs in the Baltic languages Lithuanian (alùs) and Latvian (alus), the Finno-Ugric languages Finnish (olut) and Estonian (olu) and the Slav languages Slovene (ôl) and Serbo-Croat (olovina, which means “yeast, dregs”, I believe). There is no evidence that the Baltic languages borrowed the “ale” word from the Germanic languages, or vice versa.

The word also appears away over in the Caucasus, in Georgian (apart from Finnish and Estonian the only non-Indo-European example) as ludi or, in a couple of mountain dialects, aludi, and in Georgian’s neighbour, the Iranic language Ossetian, as aeluton. Georgian linguists believe their language took the word ludi from the Ossetians, who are the descendants of the Alans.

The Alans ranged from their original home near the Sea of Azov, north of the Black Sea, as far west as France in the late 4th, 5th and 6th century AD, down into Spain and along the North African cost to modern Tunisia, as allies of other invaders of the Roman world such as the Germanic-speaking Vandals and Goths. After the final defeat of the Vandal/Alan kingdom in North Africa in 534, some of the Alans look to have returned to the border of the Roman Empire with Persia as cavalry in the Roman army. It seems more than possible they picked up the “ale” word from one of the Germanic peoples and brought it back to the Eastern Black Sea, where they met up with other stay-at-home Alans who had been pushed up into the Caucasus by the advancing Huns.

But where does “ale” come from as a word? One school wants to trace it to an Indo-European base *alu- (-d, -t), meaning “bitter”, a root found in the modern English word “alum”, the highly astringent salt used in, for example, leather tanning, and in the Proto-Slavonic root *el-uku, “bitter”, which has apparently given words such as the dialectic Polish ilki, “bitter” and the Czech žluknouti, “turn rancid”. This would make ale etymologically “the bitter drink”. Unfortunately there’s no evidence ale WAS originally a bitter drink: without hops and herbs (and English ale, at least, seems to have been drunk quite often without herbs) it would probably have been a sweetish drink to begin with, and then acidic or sharp, rather than bitter, as it aged and soured. Indeed, in a list of words in one now-extinct Baltic language, Old Prussian, compiled by a German writer in the 14th century, alu is glossed as meaning “mead”, fermented honey, which is definitely sweet, not bitter. So, no cigar for that idea.

Keep reading →

July 12, 2010

If you get them to taste it, they will be converted

Henrietta gets turned on by Alastair to the complexities of beer, in this case Hospital Porter

There’s a good video short featuring the Old Brewery at the Royal Naval College, Greenwich just gone up on the Guardian‘s website here which illustrates perfectly the fact that people are best converted to good craft beer by having it shoved in their faces and being ordered: “Drink that!”

When people DO try a craft beer from somewhere outside their zone of experience and, wondrous thing, find it to be good in all manner of ways, and deeply pleasing to the heart and mouth, then do they fall to praising the small brewer, and forswearing crap megafizz for ever. As you will see at about the 6:25 mark in that video, when Alastair Hook, bossman at Meantime, the company behind the Old Brewery, hands Henrietta Lovell of the Rare Tea Company a glass of Hospital Porter, a blend of one-year-old and comparatively fresh beers meant to emulate the kind of beer that would have been made at the original brewery on the Royal Naval College site in the 18th century, when it was the Royal Naval Hospital.

As Henrietta tastes the porter, her eyebrows almost rocket into orbit, while a grin wide enough to bridge the Thames splits her face and she declares: “Wow, that’s really good … It’s like nothing I’ve ever had before … it’s really deep, completely multidimensional … I’m amazed at the complexity. There’s no level of complexity missing in this that you would get in a wine. This has been around since 1717 and yet I didn’t even know it existed. To have a fizzy pint of something industrial instead of this – it’s a tragedy.”

It’s certainly a tragedy that Ms Lovell, presumably someone whose taste for the satisfying is away from the common run, since she is known, Google tells us, as the “rare tea lady”, has never previously been exposed to beer of the standard reached by Meantime, and many other artisinal brewers around the world. And yes, it costs £7 a pint, but at eight per cent abv and with that level of complexity, forget your pocket, you’d be doing neither the beer nor yourself any justice by wallying back pints of it. These are beers to be savoured, sipped and appreciated – and Hospital Porter, I suggest, is perhaps a sixth of the cost of an equivalent quantity of fine wine of the same sort of complexity.

So how does the beer world reach out to the likes of Ms Lovell, seekers after excellent taste experieneces but innocently unaware of the miracles that can be found in hops and malt. How can we convert them to the idea that complexity is not to be found only in a wineglass, and beer does not have to be one-dimensional fizz? What sort of evangelical effort should be made to open their mouths, and thus their eyes? Are there enough tastings being organised, enough roadshows, enough side-by-side beer versus wine challenges, enough occasions where food and wine buffs gather and beer, too, is presented as an equal partner at the table? Judging by the time it’s taken for Ms Lovell to realise how good beer can be, no. Is it so, craft beer brewers and craft beer retailers: are you reaching out to the unconverted enough?

July 11, 2010

Summer reading

I was delighted to see that Amber Gold and Black, my just-published history of beer styles, has cracked the summer holiday reading market and will be seen on all the best beaches alongside Stieg Larsson’s The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest and whatever codswallop Dan Brown is currently minting millions from, if this message from Joe Inglis reflects a general desire to read about the truth behind IPA and porter while crisping under a layer of factor 30:

Your book rocks. Read it once, hugely entertaining and informative, so much so that it’s on my list of books to go on holiday with next week.

You can find out if it really does rock by buying Amber Gold and Black yourself for just £9.99 plus p&p via this link if you’re in the UK or Europe, or for $16.47 from here if you’re in the Americas. Should you not like Amazon, you can also order it from my mate Paul Travis at Beer Inn Print here.

And if Joe Inglis doesn’t convince you to buy AGB, the first and best complete coverage of the history of every beer style ever made in Britain, here are a few critical comments from around the globe, the first by Jay Brooks, the highly respected Californian beer writer and blogger, writing in the Bay Area News a few days ago: Keep reading →

June 17, 2010

IPA: the hot maturation experiment

In any modern account of the history of India Pale Ale, you’ll generally find a declaration that the casks of well-hopped beer sent out to India by ship via the Cape of Good Hope in the late 18th century matured and developed quickly in a way that the same beer kept at home in Britain did not. It was this accelerated maturation in a short time (three to four months or so) caused by travelling through the warm waters and hot climate of the central Atlantic and the Indian Ocean as the sailing ships twice crossed the equator that gave IPA the character that was so much appreciated by expatriate Britons in Bombay, Madras and Calcutta, supposedly. But is this actually true?

You’ll be pushed to find contemporary (that is, 18th and 19th century) confirmation of the “hot maturation” theory for IPA’s popularity in India. Contemporary writers talked about the enthusiasm with which IPA was consumed in the Indian heat, but never seemed to mention whether it was altered to the good on its way east.

Certainly “hot maturation” can’t be the cause for any popularity for IPA back in Britain, since if the beer did go through any accelerated changes on the voyage to the sub-continent, this couldn’t be happening to the beer stored in chilly cellars back home. Are current writers on beer guilty of assumptionism (otherwise known as “you’re making this up”), the crime of assuming without evidence that situation A must surely have brought about result B – that beer on board a sailing ship travelling through the tropics must surely have matured quickly?

Keep reading →

June 3, 2010

How to be a beer historian in just 10 books

Countless times I’ve been asked: “Martyn, how do I become a top-drawer beer historian like you and Ron? “Countless” meaning, of course, zero. But if I were putting together a course on the basics of British brewing history, here’s the ten books that would be top of the reading list:

1:Peter Mathias, The Brewing Industry in England 1700-1830, Cambridge University Press, 1959 (reprinted Gregg Revivals 1993)

More than 50 years on, this is still the book that all other studies of the brewing industry have to live up to. It’s basically “only” 600 pages on the big 12 London porter brewers (although it does take a look outside the capital, and at brews other than porter). It covers just 130 years, from just before improvements in the production of brown beer enabled those dozen players to grow to previously unheard of sizes, through to the year of the Beerhouse Act. The Act dramatically liberalised licensing laws, and it marks a convenient point to halt in the history of British beer drinking, since after 1830, probably coincidentally, the giant porter brewers would be slowly overhauled by their rivals. Matthias uses his sources brilliantly, marshalls his arguments superbly, and presents a book so definitive it is impossible to see why anyone would feel there was any need to tackle the same area again. Completely necessary reading to anyone interested in British brewing history, as well as a brilliant example of how to write well about a complex subject with a huge amount of statistical information where it would be dangerously easy to be dull.

2: Terry Gourvish and Richard Wilson, The British Brewing Industry 1830-1980, Cambridge University Press, 1994

Another 600-pager: Gourvish and Wilson pick up the baton where Mathias left it leaning against the side of the mash tun, and cover a similar number of years in almost equal detail, this time ranging across Britain rather than concentrating mostly on London. They are excellent at picking up the recurring themes since 1830 in Britain’s beer manufacturing and retailing businesses, themes that are still with us three decades after their book’s narrative ended. You cannot, I think, understand the British brewing industry today without reading Gourvish and Wilson, and seeing how the five-way pull between brewers, retailers, consumers, legislators and social restrictivists has operated continually since the reign of William IV. Just as with Mathias, if you’re going to write about the history of beer in a British context, this book needs to be (a) on your bookshelf and (b) heavily marked up with highlighter pen.

3: Judith M Bennett, Ale, Beer and Brewsters in England 1300-1600, Oxford University Press, 1996

Bennett, an American, looks at the history of brewing in medieval England from a feminist perspective: the subtitle is “women’s work in a changing world”, and her thesis is that as making ale and, after 1400, the new hopped drink beer became increasingly professional, so women were squeezed out of the brewing scene they had once dominated. If this seems a narrow line to plough, know that while presenting her arguments Bennett manages to supply easily the best coverage on medieval brewing in England currently available. If you don’t want to appear a fool when writing about the assize of ale and similar subjects, Ale, Beer and Brewsters is another vital volume.

4: Pamela Sambrook, Country House Brewing in England 1500-1900, The Hambledon Press, 1996

Sambrook details an aspect of the story of ale and beer that is often ignored: the enormous (until the 19th century) “private” brewing sector, when almost every home over a certain size, especially outside the south-east, would have its own brewery to supply ale and beer to family, servants and workers. It’s a fascinating read anyway, and it gives essential knowledge for a proper perspective on British brewing.

5: Max Nelson, The Barbarian’s Beverage: A History of Beer in Ancient Europe, Routledge, 2005

A long shelf of nonsense has been written about beer in the classical world, by people who didn’t speak classical languages and who relied on (often poor) translations by scholars who did not know enough about brewing to make sense of what they were reading. Nelson is a classicist who clearly has considerable knowledge about beer making, and The Barbarian’s Beverage is a currently unbeatable survey of brewing in the pre-Roman, Roman and immediately post-Roman eras. Some of Nelson’s theories are unconvincing: I don’t believe at all, for example, that the cerevisia and camum of the Romans were names for barley beer and wheat beer respectively. All the evidence I have seen suggests they were simply regional names for beer in general, each the equivalent of zythum in Egypt. But Nelson’s main theme, that the ancient Greeks are responsible for the lack of respect still given to beer, compared to wine, two millennia and more on is a likely-sounding and satisfying one.

6: Terry Gourvish, Norfolk Beers from English Barley, a history of Steward & Patteson, Centre for East Anglian Studies, 1987

Terry Gourvish’s history of the Norwich brewer Steward & Patteson is equalled as an example of the very best in single-brewer historical studies only by his fellow East Anglian brewing history academic Richard Wilson’s Greene King, a Business and Family History from 1983. It’s detailed, it’s thorough, it provides masses of invaluable information and it ties in the particular story to the wider events that were influencing the growth of S&P and its eventual takeover and demise. If you think you might like to write a history of your local brewery, read this and see how it should be done. (Unfortunately this now appears to be an extremely rare book and is currently available second-hand on the net only at the “you’re ’avin a larf” price of $245.)

7: John Bickerdyke, The Curiosities of Ale and Beer, Swan Sonnenschein, London, 1889 (reprinted Kessinger Publishing, 2009)

Any student of brewing history has to read at least one of the “antiquarian” books on beer, simply to see where so many of today’s myths have arrived from, and this is the best: lively, wide-ranging and entertaining. Charles Henry Cook, who wrote under the name “John Bickerdyke”, was a journalist who clearly believed in the newspaperman’s motto “never let the facts get in the way of a good story”. Much of his writing wilts when the light of evidence-based historical research is shone on it. But you’ll have fun being misled.

8: Paul Jennings, The Local, a History of the English Pub, Tempus, 2007

You can’t study the history of beer without studying the development of the pub, and Paul Jennings, who produced an excellent book on The Public House in Bradford, 1770-1970, followed this up with a fine study of the pub in general and its relationship over centuries with its customers, its suppliers, the local community and the state.

9: Martyn Cornell, Beer: The Story of the Pint, Hodder Headline, 2003

I remember my tutors at university used to put their own works on the reading list (one told us he didn’t mind if we stole his books from the university bookshop, as the publisher would already have been paid …) and I’m big-headed enough to plug my study of brewing from the Sumerians to the start of this century because I still don’t think there’s a better, more comprehensive and more accurate general history of beer brewing in Britain available. And Mrs Zythophile agrees.

10: Martyn Cornell, Amber Gold and Black: the History of Britain’s Great Beers The History Press, 2010

It’s even more true that there isn’t, yet, another book covering the backstories of all the beers made in Britain, past and present, at all. AGB is the first ever comprehensive beerstyle history book, it delivers some dramatically different versions of the histories of major beer styles to the ones that almost all other books about beer put forward, and any student on the History of Beer course who reveals in their essays that they haven’t read it will be given an automatic F …

May 26, 2010

All your beer blogging updates in one place

If anybody has been missing Really Simple Beer Syndication, the American “beer blog aggregator”, since it went down apparently never to rise again a couple of months ago, a very nice chap called Pelle Stridh has put together a site called All About Beer which aggregates the feeds of all your favourite beer bloggers from the UK and Ireland in one place, with a few extras tossed onto the pile as well.

Pelle (I’m so glad this is the webternets and not radio, as I have no clue how to pronounce his name) is a Swedish beer fan and runs a similar site in Sweden. Now, out of the great goodness of his Nordic heart, he’s done the same for us here in the British Isles, and I for one will be buying him several pints when (as I hope one day to) I meet him to thank him: there are a couple of British beer bloggers who have automatically updating lists of the latest from other people’s blogs, but neither, understandably, is comprehensive. This is a service the British Isles beer blogging community needed, and now, thanks to a Swede, we have it.

All About Beer currently has more than 20 different beer blogs listed, in order of most recent postings, each with the first 20 to 30 words of the post, which gives a good flavour of what each post is about. The site is neatly laid out, although orange wouldn’t be my choice for the colour of the heads and subheads, there are fuller listings of recent blog titles from Wikio’s top British Isles beer blogs and lists of postings from North America’s top beer bloggers as well, plus news from Camra, RealBeer, Beer Advocate and the New York Times (lovely piece there on the Taybeh brewery in the West Bank which I’m glad to have been directed to – thanks for that, too, Pelle).

Get over there, take a look, add your suggestions, criticisms and comments: Pelle has already tweaked the name because I told him the Beer Nut wouldn’t like being filed under “UK”, he seems a friendly chap willing to take suggestions, and he deserves all the support we can give him.

May 24, 2010

So what WAS the first purpose-built lager brewery in the UK?

It’s a comment on the public perception of beardy beer buffs that people who know I like pongy ale* frequently look surprised when they discover that I drink lager too. My response, of course, is that there’s plenty of great beer not brewed to traditional British criteria, that often a cold one from the fridge is exactly what I need, and anyway, there is a growing number of British brewers committed to brewing top-quality lager.

So hurrah, there’s now a group dedicated to pushing the message that British-brewed lager isn’t all Stella and Carling, they’re called Lager of the British Isles (LOBI – can’t decide if that’s creakingly bad or rather clever) and their website is here. You can also join them on Facebook, here. Maybe if LOBI lobbies hard enough, fewer people will drop their beerglasses like bystanders in a Bateman cartoon when they see the one the beer buff is holding has a lager in it.

But whoops, the “historical inaccuracy” alarms have gone off: LOBI’s Facebook page claims that “Britain has a long heritage of brewing fine lagers, with the country’s first lager brewery, the Anglo-Bavarian Brewery, open in 1864.” WRONG. A little investigation shows that LOBI has based this claim on, yes, bleedin’ Wikipedia, which has an article on the Anglo-Bavarian showing its usual mixture of inaccuracies, misunderstandings and historical assumptionism. However, one of the reasons I started this blog was to put proper historical details up on the web, and try to counter the mountain of misinformation available to anyone with a PC and an internet connection. So let’s state the facts: the Anglo-Bavarian brewery, despite its name, never brewed lager and it wasn’t Britain’s first lager brewery. And it wasn’t opened in 1864, either.

Keep reading →

May 16, 2010

Cask beer equals live music, bottled beer equals CDs

A few weeks ago I went to a performance by Wynton Marsalis, whose music I have been buying since the early 1980s. He arrived then as a young trumpeter who could play jazz and classical music with equal genius: I remember listening to his recording of the Hayden Trumpet Concerto in 1983 and feeling that every note he blew was placed in exactly the spot required: not a femtosecond too early or late, too long or too short. At the same time it was Hayden’s music, but played by someone who was aware of everything that had happened after Hayden.

All the work he’s done since, I think, has been while standing on that same platform: technically impeccable, respecting the music’s history, recognising that we listeners come with modern ears. I commend to your own ears Mr Jelly Lord, his CD from 1999 of Jelly Roll Morton tunes first put down by the fellow New Orleans master 75 or so years earlier. It’s properly Morton, but played by people who are aware, and who know that we the audience are aware, of bop and other developments in jazz history in the decades since Morton’s death.

And yet … I came out of the Marsalis concert feeling that I had listened with real enjoyment to musicians who had played flawless improvisational jazz, rooted in the music’s history, though with enough of a flavouring to show this was not merely a reproduction, a tribute band. But I wasn’t blown away. Was that evening much different to listening to Wynton Marsalis on CD? Not a lot.

Seven days later I saw a performance by the Zawose family from Tanzania – and if you don’t have a grin across your face within 45 seconds of starting to watch those ladies, have yourself checked by a doctor: you may be dead. Fantastic, exhilarating, explosive: as a live experience they shove Wynton Marsalis off stage and out the door. I wouldn’t want to buy their CD, though. The Zawose family are an excellent illustration of a great live act that won’t reproduce well on an MP3 player, or similar sound-only recorded music deliverer. Tremendous visually, fantastic enthusiasm, send you home very happy, but paddling about in the shallows musically.

What has this got to do with beer? Only that while I was thinking about the difference between live and recorded music, and how ultimately live music, when it’s good, is unbeatably superior to the best recorded music, because nothing surpasses the enjoyment of being there while it’s happening, it occurred to me that I have similar feelings about cask beer, proper live maturing-in-the-cellar brews, and bottled beer.

Keep reading →

May 4, 2010

Note to self: it’s only beer history, must stop getting so upset by other people’s errors

Interesting piece I stumbled across from the Washington Post last week about an “abbey” beer project in the heart of the American capital: not actually brewing beer in an abbey, but a homebrewer’s bid to make beers off-site that use ingredients from the grounds of the 113-year-old Mount St Sepulchre Franciscan Monastery in north-east Washington. But ach! Ach! There in the third paragraph, a repetition of the old canard that “as early as the ninth century, the Abbey of St Gall in Switzerland had three breweries in full operation.”

Nobody else probably gives a sh!te about this, I know, and I shouldn’t be such a nerd, but it’s WRONG and when you get this parsecs-from-the-facts stuff repeated in respected organs such as the Washington Post you end up with utter crap like the following:

“Europe’s first big businesses were three breweries owned by the Monastery of St Gall in Switzerland during the dark ages.”

Who is making this stuff up? What are they reading (or drinking) that makes them draw this kind of utterly ludicrous, unjustified conclusion? This is bollocks on so many different levels (mind, the same press release from last year says in the preceding sentence that “Hildegard Von Bingen, the Abbess of the Convent of Bingen in Northern Germany, is credited with introducing hops to beer around 1067AD,” which is even more wrong, at four gross errors in just 19 words).

Must calm down. Time for another entry on the list of False Ale Quotes: for the real facts about the “three breweries of St Gall abbey” click here.