Homebrew, sweet homebrew

As I have mentioned multiple times in this blog, there has been a large increase in the number of brewers in the world over the last 20 years or so. The increase has been fuelled by the so-called Craft Beer Revolution, which started in the USA when a handful of people got sick of the poor and bland selection of beers offered by a small number of massive breweries that had aggressively bought up most of the competition. The new breweries were often quite small, and thus called themselves microbreweries (oddly, the obvious intermediate stage “millibrewery” was simply skipped). It didn’t take long, however, for these microbreweries to grow quite big – former micros such as Sierra Nevada now output more than 100 million litres per year. This created the need for a new description of breweries that are genuinely small – so please welcome me in raising a nano-Olympic-pool-sized glass to the arrival of the nanobrewery, though apparently these are also getting bigger now so I guess it won’t take long before the first picobrewery is opened.

An old friend of mine, resident in the fine city of Drammen situated in the shockingly expensive (at least when beer is concerned) country of Norway recently decided that his house contained way too few breweries, namely zero. To remedy this very unfortunate situation, he invested in appropriate equipment as well as various types of malt, hops and yeast – and started his own nanobrewery. This, incidentally, is one of the few legal ways to avoid paying some of the world’s highest alcohol taxes – the taxman in Norway has yet to start invading private homes in order to collect about €0.50 per litre and also per alcohol percentage by volume that you have to pay in the shops, bars and restaurants (for example, also including 25% VAT on top, you pay about €2 only in taxes for a half litre of 5% beer). Anyway, my friend also happens to be the type of person who takes his hobbies seriously, so when he invited a select group around for a tasting session of his first 15 or so brews, I knew that this was the opportunity of a lifetime to taste some of the best beers ever brewed in that particular house. I immediately booked a flight, made sure to get a connection through Brussels, and sat down to twiddle my thumbs.

A few days later the plane left on time with a thirsty beer blogger on board. I stocked up on a Big Bottle of Belgian Beer in Brussels, which I thought could serve as a baseline for what the pros typically achieve, and flew onwards towards Oslo in a cute little jet (which should be called a jetlet, I think). The next day, I rang my friend’s jolly-sounding doorbell at the exact time specified in the invitation. Seldom have I been more excited about a beer drinking session. Another great thing about my friend is that he doesn’t waste time on small talk, so no words needed to be exchanged on meaningless topics such as the weather, which incidentally was very rainy and not at all like the winter weather used to be when I was young, back when we had to shovel through about a metre of snow just to get to the front door before even leaving the house, if we were LUCKY!

There were two beers on tap. The first one I tried was called “Flying Penguin IPA”, which was, unsurprisingly, an India Pale Ale – usually a beer that most brewers manage to not screw up completely. Full of beery anticipation, I put the glass to my mouth, tilted, and poured an exploratory amount into my mouth. I immediately knew that this could indeed be one of the finest beer tasting nights of the decade. The beer was actually a bit darker than pale, and thus had a firm, malty body – but best of all was the balance between the hops and malt. It was, simply put, very good.

A very good IPA from a very small brewery

As the evening progressed, we tried out the entire available selection, all bottled, named and labelled with great care: the aforementioned IPA, an American Pale Ale (“Thirsty Crow APA”), a Pils (“Pilsen Pils”), a Bitter (“Humpty Dumpty”), a traditional Christmas Beer (“Evil Santa”), a Stout (“Toxic Waste”), a Kölsch (“Drammen Kölsch”), a Belgian-style Abbey Ale (“Sacred Prayer”) and two Oktoberfest-style Märzen (“For Fulle Mugger” and “Vinterøl”). Every single beer was true to its type, and with the exception of the APA (which I suspect just needed a few weeks of maturation), they were all beautifully balanced and either very good or excellent – these beers would have been top notch even for a commercial brewery. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, so I was probably quite sad to leave this splendid place, though my memory was getting a bit hazy by then since we also tried out both the Belgian beer and a bottle of Pilsner Urquell, purely for scientific comparison reasons you understand.

A truly outstanding example of a traditional Christmas beer

So, what have I learned? First and foremost: beer remains the finest drink on the planet, and the supply of this splendid drink keeps being expanded in ways that favour drinkers who value taste, quality and variety. Second, opportunities to taste a home-brewed range as splendid as this one are as rare as a hen with a single tooth, and it’s an honour and a privilege to have been allowed to participate in such an occasion. Third, home brewing isn’t for everyone – the amount of time and money you have to invest is rather large, and although the pleasure of drinking beer in Norway is undoubtedly enhanced by the knowledge that not a single krone goes to the taxman, it is not something you would do to actually save or make money. Fourth, if you do decide that home brewing is worth pursuing as a hobby, then it is possible to make excellent beer.

There is, interestingly, a trend for small groups of people (typically known as “friends”) to gather together their financial and temporal resources to invest. As quality keeps increasing, this could create an interesting situation where more and more people who would otherwise buy their beer in shops instead get all the beer they need for home consumption from their share in their own little brewery. Currently, this would only work if enough people were willing to take their turn at the wheel as it were, but it will be interesting to see how this evolves, especially in a country like Norway where the tax situation creates a real financial incentive. I shall stop speculating at this point, but should I ever move back to Norway, well, suffice to say that I may find a few kroner to invest. And on this note, I shall raise a glass of German Glühwein to all the home brewers of this world, since I’m heading out to the local Christmas Market. PROSCHT!

The bitter taste of..... beer!

Hello everyone, and welcome back to the blog! It’s been a memorable winter, mostly because it never arrived, and we now have early summer instead of spring. Summer is definitely one of my top four seasons in which to drink beer, so the arrival of warm days and long evenings has also spurred me into making sure that my fridge is well stocked with bottles of my favourite tipple.

My wife asked me a few weeks ago why I never take her on a guided tour of the different beer styles of the world, and she had a point. We’ve been cycling around Germany several times, visiting dozens of lovely breweries in the process, but there are many beer styles that are hard to come by in Germany which are also worth sampling. Furthermore, by sampling them all as part of one guided tour, perhaps she would learn to appreciate the differences between them, and appreciate the vast variety of styles and tastes a bit more.

As a direct result of this, I wasted no time in waiting a few weeks before finally getting around to inviting a couple of friends over for a big tasting party. I originally had this concept that I’d order in beers from various online beer stores to get a real global selection, but of course the weather was too nice and I left it too late. So, instead, I cycled to the local super-supermarket, the one where they have more beer than you can poke a shaky stick at, whatever that means, and proceeded to buy a decent selection.

I wanted to mix a few typical German beer styles with a couple of typical non-German ones. I quickly chose the former: a Pilsner, a Märzen, a Munich Helles, a Munich Dunkles, a Doppelbock,a Kölsch, a Bock, a Schwarzbier and a Zwickl. That clearly leaves out a dozen or so styles from this country, but I figured there will be other occasions. The international selection wasn’t great, but I was able to find a lambic – an Oude Geuze from Boon no less – as well as an American-style Pale Ale. That meant that we had 11 different ones to drink our way through.

The concept for the evening was straightforward: the participants did not know which beer was served, but they got a list of all the beers with tasting notes from the RateBeer web site. The challenge was then to try and identify the beer on the basis of colour, nose, palate, mouthfeel and luck.

These tasting notes you find online are actually quite interesting. Not seldom do you see people describing beers using phrases like “freshly mown grass”, “old leather”, “not quite ripe raspberries” or “hints of a 15-year old single malt whisky”. Personally, I divide beer tastes into three categories: “malty”, “hoppy” and “yeasty”, which nicely corresponds to three of the four main ingredients in beer (I also use the last ingredient, water, to describe beers sometimes, but usually not in a positive context). Anyway, this didn’t help the participants of the evening very much, so I was forced to elaborate by claiming that malty is a bit like biscuit-y or bready, hoppy a bit like spicy, and yeasty a bit like flowery or fruity. As you can tell, I’m not very good at this myself.

The sheet with tasting notes and a handy pen

Nevertheless, as the evening progressed, it became quite clear that the taste buds had been sharpened, because one beer after another was correctly identified, at least by a majority of the participants. It turns out that individual tastes and colour perceptions vary, so there was considerable discussion and a couple of minor fist fights, but all in all an impressive amount of correct answers were given. Interesting was also the favourite beers of the group – the clear winner was the Belgian Lambic, which considering its sour taste is not one that usually wins out amongst people used to “normal” beer. The clear losers were the bitterest of the beers – the Pilsner and the American Pale Ale in particular.

The winning beer was a bit of a surprise

At the end of the evening, I was challenged to do a blind taste where I was not allowed to even see the beer before drinking it, and although I correctly identified the American Pale Ale, I managed to mistake the Munich Dunkles for a Pilsner. Yes, you read correctly. Even I, the taster of a thousand beers (and some), can make such elementary mistakes. It turns out the science of tasting is heavily influenced by sight, smell, mouthfeel, mood, and, last but not least, how drunk you are. Oh well, better luck next time.

The take-home message from the blog post is: try something new! If you regularly choose to stock up your fridge with the same “safe” selection, you’re missing out on some amazing taste experiences that you probably never knew existed. Even if you think that you don’t like beer very much, perhaps it’s simply because you have never tried the type of beer that suits your particular palate. With online beer shops sprouting up everywhere and beer selection improving in almost every supermarket, you’ll be spoilt for choice unless you live in some beer-forsaken place like Iran. Then, after you’ve stocked up, do a little research on the internet, invite a few friends over and try to taste the beer whilst having fun drinking it. A competitive element like blind tasting adds to the fun, as does having the next day off work.

In conclusion, I've learned a few things about beer. First and foremost, I've reconfirmed that I like pretty much every style of beer on the market. Then, I have observed that people who don't count themselves as particularly into beer can still enjoy drinking it. Finally, I have learned that it's not always easy to know one's arse from one's elbow, even though you perhaps thought you had those body parts figured out years ago. On this happy note I shall say a very merry night to you all - and may your fridges forever be well stocked. Terviseks!

Wake up and smell Cologne!

Many cities can lay a half-decent claim to be the beer capital of the world. Plzen and Prague in the Czech Republic, Munich and Bamberg in Germany, Brussels in Belgium, perhaps even Portland in Oregon, they all have an established beer culture, long traditions and plenty of fantastic pubs where you can happily sip your way through a selection of the world’s greatest beers.

However, if I were going to list the 10 best beer cities in the world, and perhaps I will one day so that you all can make proper plans for your next 10 holidays, one city just has to be included: Cologne, or Köln as it is known in its native language, German, or Deutsch as the language is known in its native language. Why Cologne? Because it’s simply one of the finest places to sip beer on planet earth.

Cologne has, until recently, been a somewhat unfortunate place. It sits on the west bank of the mighty river Rhine, and is therefore separated from the majority of Germany by one of Europe’s most strategic waterways. This meant that the city was frequently part of some war or other, and changed hands from one crazy emperor to the next roughly as often as people used to change underwear in those days. The upshot was that the people in Cologne learned to get on with their lives with a healthy dose of scepticism for authorities. During that big clash now known as World War Two, Cologne was pretty much reduced to a giant pile of rubble – the only thing of note left standing was, amazingly, the cathedral, which is so big you’d think it’d be impossible to miss.

But this blog post isn’t a history lesson, it’s about beer. What in St Gambrinus’ name does Cologne have to do with my favourite drink, I hear you cry. Well, as it happens, Cologne is one of the very few cities on this planet to have a beer style named after it. Those of you who have paid attention to my earlier posts will know this already: it’s called Kölsch, a top-fermented yet golden and clear ale with hoppy and sometimes flowery notes. Most people haven’t even heard of it – when the Pils style was busy being copied and abused all over the world, the citizens of Cologne decided to jealously guard theirs by drinking it all themselves and making sure that nobody outside their region was allowed to brew it.

In other words, to experience Kölsch you have to go to Cologne. It’s worth the trip. The old town, which was partially rebuilt after the aforementioned war and now looks quite nice, is home to some of the finest drinking houses in the world. When you enter one of these for the first time it can be a bit of a shock. As soon as you’ve found a place to sit, stand or otherwise deposit the body parts not required for drinking, a waiter will deliver beers. You may at this point think that you’ve already lost your sense of perspective. Rest assured, the glass is small, it’s not far away, and you can reach it assuming you’re still capable of lifting your arms. Kölsch beer is traditionally served in 0.2l glasses. Now don’t panic! As soon as you’ve finished the last sip, the waiter will automatically bring you a new, fresh one unless you’ve put the coaster on top of the glass.

Beginners don’t normally realize this, so it’s great fun to watch people desperate to get out of there to catch a flight or sober up or something equally pointless, and not being able to due to new rounds of beer constantly appearing. Once they finally figure it out, they’ve usually missed their flight anyway so they might as well continue to the next great place to drink Kölsch, which is always conveniently located next door, across the street or, in some tedious cases, around the corner. The other thing to note about these beer houses is that the atmosphere is extremely friendly, even if the waiters can be quite rude if you don’t know the rules, don’t speak their dialect or otherwise look like you haven’t grown up in their neighbourhood. You can solve this problem by ordering a 5 or 10-litre cask delivered at your table, and pour new beers as often as you like until you invariably end up realizing that you should have been thrown out several hours ago.

Finally, at the end of the visit, you’ll also understand how the waiter kept track of the number of beers you drank – he made a little pencil mark on your beer coaster every time he brought a new one. Paying your bill, then, involves simply counting the marks and multiplying by the price per beer, something the waiter luckily will do for you. I have never tried to cheat by substituting the coaster or something like that, and I certainly wouldn’t recommend doing so since the waiters all look like they’ve dealt efficiently with a little mischief here and there in the past. They’d probably chuck you in the Rhine and tell you to swim downstream to Düsseldorf.

There are about 20 different varieties of Kölsch. They all have the same colour, but the taste can vary significantly. However, I’m not going to reveal more, partially because I cannot remember, and partially because the great thing about Cologne is to go there and do a massive pub crawl to discover your own favourite. Be warned: whatever you do when you get there, don’t even think about ordering a beer other than Kölsch – and especially not the type so beloved by the people living just downstream, namely Altbier. If you do, you’ll join the people who cheated on the coaster marks sooner than you can say “Rheindampfschiffahrtsgesellschaftskapitän”. Then you can, to pass the time whilst trying to keep your head above water and out of the propellers of the myriad of barges, think about the old Cologne saying: “We drink Kölsch. After we’ve drunk it, it eventually ends up in the Rhine where it flows downstream to Düsseldorf. There they use it to brew Altbier”.