On the Trail of Ale

The born-again beer

by Roger Protz

A handful of rural pubs in Britain share the bizarre and singular name of "Who'd Have Thought It." The name comes from the astonishment expressed by travelers at finding an inn in a remote setting when they expected to go hungry and thirsty until they reached the nearest town.

It is fitting that these inns sell ale, a style of beer that was once considered to be quintessentially British but which is now enjoying a renaissance throughout the world, most spectacularly in the United States.

As we approach the millennium, it is a remarkable and demonstrable fact that the beer style consigned to the grave-not the least by the major British brewers-is now clambering out of the coffin and finding a new generation of admirers. For most of the twentieth century, lager beer had swept all before it. Ale hung on in just a few isolated pockets, enjoyed by the same nostalgists who played Glenn Miller 78s on wind-up phonographs or by blue-collar workers determined to drink what their fathers had drunk before them.

Beer, like any other social phenomenon, is subject to change, often sharp and even revolutionary change, but all such change has deep roots in the past

The ale lifestyle

The ale revival is complex and multifaceted. It is connected to a lifestyle; an often desperate bid to hang onto traditions and roots in a fast-changing, hostile and brutal world; and "green" perceptions of healthier food and drink.

In Britain the groundwork was laid by the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA), a consumer movement now approaching 50,000 members, which for 25 years has been arguing and demonstrating the merits of a beer style. The ripple effect washed up on many shores, saving and reviving sales in many other countries. In the United States it has encouraged craft brewers to come out from the awesome shadow of the giants. The new generation of brewers realize that even in a country dominated to a frightening extent by light and largely tasteless near-lagers, there is an audience demanding the smack of malt and hops in their beer.

Sadly, the revival of ale has not been matched by extensive research. Too many beer writers skim along the surface of the subject, content to dish up warmed-over legends and myths.

Beer, like any other social phenomenon, is subject to change, often sharp and even revolutionary change, but all such change has deep roots in the past. Nevertheless, "big bang" theorists around. Hops are seen as a break with past practice rather than a development of the use of spices and herbs for many centuries. Spices, herbs and hops were used together for several more centuries, as late as the eighteenth century in England.

Poor Ralph Harwood, preserved by history in his east London brewpub, no more "invented" porter than Gabriel Sedlmayr "invented" lagering. For a start, Harwood's "creation" (entire butt) was not the same as porter-both styles existed side by side for the best part of a century-and developed out of a blend of beers dominated by country brewers able to mature "stale" ale for many months. Porter and entire were motivated by the desire of brewers to wrest control and profits from the country brewers.

The beers coincided with the rapid development of London as the world's greatest city peopled by a new urban proletariat thirsting for ale to both refresh themselves and mask the squalor of their lives. It was these social upheavals that created a mass market for porter and an entrepreneurial brewing industry. Harwood had a role to play but he was scarcely the Lenin of the brewing revolution.

For centuries brewers in English-speaking countries called yeast "God-is-good" as they stood in awe of the curious, fudge-colored substance that miraculously turned their sweet worts into ale

'God-is-good'

Pale ale marked a far more fundamental change in brewing practice than did porter. But even pale ale must be seen in its social context. The ability to make pale malt had existed for a century or more before Hodgson in London and then Allsopp and Bass in Burton-on-Trent brewed their "India ales." It was the powerhouse of the industrial revolution, forcing cataclysmic scientific as well as industrial change, that allowed pale malt, cured over coke rather than wood fires, to be made on a vast commercial scale rather than in tiny batches for rich country brewers. Although Britain may be a poor relation of the industrial world today, it was the unquestioned leader in the nineteenth century, to such an extent that Sedlmayr of Munich and Anton Dreher of Vienna made an extensive tour of the country to examine brewing techniques. Pale ale and lager are opposite sides of the same coin, not styles separated by a Chinese wall.

What is beyond dispute is that ale is a palpable link with the origins of brewing. The earliest "bread beers" of ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia were fermented spontaneously by wild yeasts. The method was handed on, refined and refashioned. But while mashing and boiling techniques changed and improved, especially with the arrival of the hop, fermentation remained uncontroled and largely uncontrollable by top-fermenting, multistrain yeasts.

The yeast Arthur Guinness used to brew his porters and stouts in Dublin at the turn of the nineteenth century had five competing strains within it. For centuries brewers in English-speaking countries called yeast "God-is-good" as they stood in awe of the curious, fudge-colored substance that miraculously turned their sweet worts into ale.

It was not until the late nineteenth century, as the lager revolution was underway, that Louis Pasteur revealed the mysteries of yeast. Brewers rushed to employ chemists and scientists to clean their yeasts and remove strains that impeded rather than improved fermentation. But while Guinness's yeast is now single strain and Bass's in Burton-on-Trent is two strain, they and the other brewers of the British Isles kept faith with warm fermentation .

The lager revolution

The lager revolution bypassed the British Isles as a result of the islands' political and cultural isolation from mainland Europe, allied to an imperialist arrogance that refused to acknowledge a beer style invented by the arch-enemy, Germany. The apotheosis of ale, its cask-conditioned form, survived in Britain-England in particular-as a result of a "tied house" system that allows brewers directly to own pubs in which well-trained employees are well versed in the arcane rituals of venting still-fermenting casks of ale with porous pegs or "spiles."

But even Britain could not remain in splendid isolation for long. In the 1960s a rash of mergers and takeovers, spearheaded by the Canadian Eddie Taylor, owner of Carling Black Label lager, produced six new giant brewers. They set about changing both the face of the British beer market and of beer itself. The new "keg beers" -- chilled, filtered and pasteurized -- were still ales but were a thin and gassy version of the style.

They prompted a revolt by beer lovers that became one of the world's most successful consumer movements, Ralph Nader writ large and more enduring. Today CAMRA is regularly called in to advise both the British and European governments on beer legislation. But it remains fiercely independent, in hock to no one, still fighting monopolists and cheapskates, and, most important, inspiring beer drinkers everywhere.

Not only has pale ale in its cask-conditioned form been saved but it has spawned new wave of ales, may of them new versions of old styles. As lager sales dip, even some of the brewing giants have responded to the craze for ale, with porters and stouts based on nineteenth-century recipes; India pale ales made in the strict Burton fashion; old ales, barley wines, harvest ales and Christmas beers. We now enjoy some marvelously quenching and peppery-hoppy summer ales, the perfect antidote to the truly abysmal versions of lager foisted on the undeserving British drinking public by the major brewers.

In Europe, all eyes turn to Belgium; a small country split by linguistic and cultural differences manages to produce some of the most remarkable and idiosyncratic ales in the world

Mainland Europe

The impact of lager in mainland Europe seemed destined to kill any vestige of ale. But now, even in such great lager-brewing nations as Germany and Belgium, it is members of the ale family that are, physically and literally, on everyone's lips.

In Bavaria, the craze for wheat beer seems unstoppable. Twenty years ago, the style was derided as an "old lady's drink." Today, 30 percent of all beer consumed in Bavaria is wheat beer, mainly the finest version, the cloudy "mit hefe" (with yeast). By an irony both pleasing and cruel, the Spaten brewery, where Gabriel Sedlymayr II perfected lager brewing in the last century, now devotes half its production to its Franziskaner wheat beers.

In Cologne, the golden, top-fermenting Kölsch beers are protected by a government ordinance, a type of appellation controllee of the beer world. Close by, the alt (old) beers of Dusseldorf have become cult beers among the young. One of the great joys of the drinking world is to wander the cobbled streets of the Old Town, sampling the alts of the several brewpubs there.

A few miles to the east, the Netherlands is more difficult terrain due to the enormous power and dominance of Heineken. The ale tradition was almost totally lost there. When I visited a fascinating exhibition on beer in Amsterdam last year I found that, just as English brewers had made India pale ales in the last century, so, too, had the Dutch made East Indies ales for their colonies.

No records exist of those beers. They were snuffed out by the craze for pilsner created by the likes of Heineken and Amstel, the later originally called the Amstel Bavarian Brewery.

But ales are slowly reviving. The t'IJ brewpub in Amsterdam offers some superb ales in a bar built, naturally, beneath a windmill. In the far north, the Sint Martinus micro in Groningen concentrates on ales based on old recipes, including one, Cluyn, a medieval wedding ale made with spices.

Heineken's ale subsidiary, De Ridder in Maasstricht, produces an excellent wheat beer while Heineken itself is testing the market by selling a version of Killian's Irish Red Ale, brewed by its French subsidiary, Pelforth. The Schaapskoi Trappist brewery near Tilburg, with some aggressive marketing frowned upon by the Vatican, is winning growing success for its ripe, orange-fruity, bottle-conditioned ales.

In Europe, all eyes turn to Belgium. A small country split by linguistic and cultural differences manages to produce some of the most remarkable and idiosyncratic ales in the world.

In spite of the growing world power of Interbrew, recent purchaser of Labatt in Canada, pilsners are declining in Belgium. Not all the specialty beers are growing-the sour, red beers of Flanders, most notably Rodenbach, are having a hard time.

But in general the ales of Belgium are winning a new audience. The five Trappist breweries, Chimay in the van, are now available on a world scale. Stunning golden ales such as Duvel, hop-resiny pale ales from De Koninck and Palm, deep and complex brown ales from the Oudenaarde region (the best known being Liefmans), the "saison" (season) beers from French-speaking Wallonia-all are gaining new friends and admirers.

The greatest revelation are the lambic and gueuze beers of the Senne Valley around Brussels, beers fermented by wild yeasts, offering a visible and tangible link with brewing practices stretching back several hundred years. To inspect the cellars of Cantillon, Timmermans and Belle-Vue is to walk back through history to a time when the gamboling peasants caught for posterity in the paintings of the Bruegels were supping lambic, not wine, from their earthenware crocks.

Lambic and its blended version, gueuze, matured for months and even years in oak casks brought from the port industry, have a sour, lactic, almost cider character that stresses the absurdity of the snob-driven gulf between beer and wine. The fruit lambics, cherry and raspberry, shockingly dry yet refreshing, gently and delicately fruity, with a faint hint of almond in the cherry "kreik" from the pips of the fruit, are two of the marvels of the beer world.

Growing impact

The impact of Belgian ales has been felt even across the border in that great yet haughty wine-growing country of France. Beers lost for centuries are finding markets, not the uninspired lagers of the Strasbourg region, but the biere de garde (keeping beers) of French Flanders. Like the saisons and "provision" beers of Wallonia, they were once brewed by farmers for their families and workers. Many still are, but they are also sold commercially. The best known abroad is Jenlain, a fine example of the style, brewed with dark malts and resiny hops, and with a deep, complex flavor with powerful hints of dark fruit and chocolate.

In the United States, it is almost impossible to keep track of the ever-growing craft brewery sector. Beer newspapers and magazines reach me every month, packed with a mind-boggling variety of new ales pouring from hundreds of new breweries and brewpubs.

The dedication to style is impressive. When I sat in on a beer tasting at the Woodstock Brewery in New York state a couple of years ago, I was sternly admonished when I failed to distinguish properly between brown porters and black porters.

Superb brewers of the caliber of Garrett Oliver and Thom Tomlinson have equally sternly suggested that the Brits no longer know how to brew India pale ale. They have produced versions of the style with sufficient bitterness units to make hair grow on the baldest of heads.

Last summer I spent a memorable week traveling the West Coast from San Francisco to Seattle, visiting craft breweries in California and Oregon, driving over the Cascade Mountains to visit Bert Grant in his Yakima redoubt, and sampling yet another amazing IPA, this time from Charles Finkel at Pike Place in Seattle.

With the exception of Anchor Steam, I drank only ale for the duration of the trip, including a hoppy-fruity, cask-conditioned Coho in the BridgePort brewpub in Portland.

Prohibition has finally been laid to rest. Ale is being brewed proudly again in the United States. Even Anheuser-Busch and Miller are tip-toeing into the market place.

Ale, the born-again beer, may yet conquer even the most powerful pulpits.

Roger Protz edits What's Brewing, newspaper of the Campaign for Real Ale in Britain. He was named Beer Writer of the Year for 1995 by the British Guild of Beer Writers. The Ale Trail is available in our bookstore. This article originally appeared in All About Beer Magazine in November 1995.