Microbrewed Adventures (29 page)

But, alas, all these numbers take on another meaning when you discover that the average price of beer in China is 16 cents per 650-millileter (20 oz.) bottle. That doesn't leave much room for profit and success—in the short term. The complexity of the marketplace is mind-boggling. China is not one country with a single regulating government. It is a country of regions and a great variety of people, languages and cultures.

To overcome these vast differences, the large multinational beer companies have poured vast amounts of money into China. It's a natural business-as-usual thing big brewing companies do. But a lot of their efforts are wasted. The Chinese-owned brewing companies are number one in their own country. Foreign interests are last.

I asked myself, where is anyone doing anything to develop a culture of beer enjoyment and diversity?

What frightened me were not the huge investments multinational companies have made, but the logic and research behind their decisions. In our 12 days of visiting brewing companies we talked with experts representing the Chinese, Danes, Americans, Japanese, Germans, British, Irish and others in Beijing, Shanghai, Qingdao and Hong Kong. Our experiences and the information we received created an overload and posed more questions than they answered, until those last few pints of Ruddles, Speckled Hen and Guinness during our final day's conversations in Hong Kong. There, it all seemed to
come together. It began to make some sense. We knew we were not experts, but the diversity of experiences, conversations, beers, breweries, cultures and perspectives we observed made us all wonder how anyone could endeavor to start a company or enter a new market without inviting diversity and pondering the questions asked in their research. The key to success seemed to hinge on truly becoming involved, immersing yourself in the research and the culture you were trying to win over to your beer. What we observed, with a few small exceptions, seemed to display a disregard for the true nature of the potential beer drinkers themselves.

It seemed clear that on a larger scale, companies didn't understand the situation, they simply threw money around. People always smile when there's money to pick up, but then they go home and couldn't care less about why it was there to find. On the large-company scale you are bound by the reality that you will make big mistakes and encounter unforeseen gnarly situations. We heard plenty about the ridiculous mistakes companies had made, simply because they hadn't really made the effort to “be there” and understand what was actually going on.

Still, there were several encouraging beer experiences that seemed to highlight our group's hopes for the future.

We visited China's largest brewery, the Yanjing Brewery. Its expansive halls and buildings are built of marble. It reminded us of India's Taj Majal.
Yanjing has an annual production capacity of 9 million hectoliters and has 7,800 employees. Their beer is one of the least expensive in the marketplace, and they dominate the Beijing area market. They claim to be profitable. During our visit in mid-November, the place looked empty and was not in production. We learned that most Chinese do not drink beer in the wintertime. In their tasting room we were offered tea, not beer.

Enjoying ten-dollar liters of craft beer in Beijing

On our return to Beijing, our bus passed by a small building where we all noticed gleaming copper and stainless steel tanks in a restaurant window. That evening several of us embarked on an unscheduled adventure, returning to the Duck and Dark to enjoy a brewpub-brewed pils and dark beer, served fresh from tank “pigtails.” A completely local establishment, there was no English spoken there. The dark was excellent. The place was empty.

Earlier we had enjoyed the Paulaner Brauhaus, a small brewpub in the Kempinski Hotel in Beijing where in 1997, 70 percent of their customers were foreigners. By 1999, 70 percent of their customers were local Chinese, paying $8 to $10 a liter for their unfiltered German-style Helles, Oktoberfest, pils and Weizen. Compare that with about 20 cents a liter for local beer in the supermarkets and you begin to understand how bewildering things can be. Days later, at a Guinness pub in Shanghai, we heard the same statistics—a 70 percent turnaround from foreigners to locals. These establishments serving specialty or import-style beers are few, but they succeed in their own super-micro way. We were told that there are eight brewpubs in Beijing, but we suspect there are more.

The Chinese enjoy an astounding diversity of foods, yet the only beer they know is very low-hopped light lager. Is there potential for diversity? We asked the question: Isn't there any dark beer in China, made by Chinese breweries? Hardly, though Tsingtao makes an excellent very dark lager (brewed at 14 degrees Plato; 1.056) for some of their Southeast Asian export markets. We found that Tsingtao Dark went extremely well with Chinese food. Furthermore, the locally available Tsingtao light lager was more complex in malt and hop flavor than the same beer they export to America and Europe.

The Chinese government actively encouraged consumption of beer and wine over distilled spirits. Developing the market for female beer drinkers was of much interest. Why? Asian women's capacity to drink alcohol is greater than that of Chinese men, because Asian men have less liver enzyme activity than Asian women to detoxify alcohol. Price rules. Market share rules. Volume rules. There is little brand loyalty. Welcome to the Wild East.

We enjoyed Oktoberfest-style lagers at a brewpub in Shanghai called the Bund Brauhaus Festhaus and visited and sampled at a microbrewery in
Hong Kong. Perhaps if you are a contrarian, offering quality microbrewed beers that express beer culture and passion, you may succeed where others are bound to fail.

The city of Qingdao, home of Tsingtao Brewery #1, was of interest to all of us when we heard that the city hosts the largest beer festival in China every year in late August and early September.

American beer? We encountered several Budweiser and Corona billboards in Shanghai, but rarely encountered the beer. In Hong Kong, Samuel Adams Boston Lager was the American beer featured at our hotel. And mind you—it tasted fresh.

Bula! Vale Vakaviti
Fiji Homebrew

A
S ALL
of those places I have been become special to me because I've been there; so it has been with Lakeba, a tiny island of the Lau group, one of the 300 islands of Fiji. On a globe it is a tiny speck in the South Pacific surrounded by blue, just west of the International Date Line.

From the main Fijian island of Viti Levu, my decision to embark on an adventure to the outer island Lakeba was unplanned, made on a whim. The most important thing I had going for me was what I had already found to be the overwhelming friendliness and generosity of the Fijian people.

Lakeba was to be full of surprises. On first impression, it seemed just one of those South Sea copra islands surrounded by the quiet, clear, blue-green ocean, gentle hills and sandy and sometimes rocky coast. Five small villages were scattered along the encircling coastline. In 1978, there were no hotels nor any other type of “tourist accommodations.”

So where did I make my stay? I didn't. I admit that having gone to Lakeba so blindly, I had psychologically prepared myself for the worst. I could very well not have been graciously accepted into the community of these islands. In such faraway places, I could expect this to be the case for any number of reasons or circumstances.

As it turned out, I fortuitously found myself given the most gracious Fijian hospitality by the Vabula family in the tiny village of Tubou. Suffice it to say that a simple series of chance acquaintances the morning of my arrival led me to Johnny Vabula. For 10 magnificent days I lived an intimate Fijian lifestyle. In Fiji, you don't hurry.

Within hours of settling in the household, my thirst for beer overwhelmed me. I asked, “Johnny, would there be a place nearby where I might buy some beer?” I never really expected an encouraging answer. Johnny replied, “You want to drink beer on Lakeba? Yes, you can buy Fiji Bitter, but the price is so dear to us that we do not drink it too much.” I became discouraged, but he quickly added with a mischievous smile, “But if you like to drink beer, tomorrow we will drink Fiji Homebrew. And when we drink, we will drink to hell—cowboy style!”

I somehow had stumbled onto a Fijian homebrewer. I was amazed at my luck to find such hospitality. But wait a minute, I thought, why couldn't we have some now? I ventured to ask, somewhat hesitantly, “Johnny, where is your homebrew now?”

“Oh, tomorrow we will have Fiji Homebrew. This afternoon I will make it and tomorrow it will be ready and we will drink to bloody hell.” And he unwound a hearty laugh that slowly trailed off to my own anxiety about bloody hell.

I had let the afternoon's conversation trail with the words “bloody hell” and soon resolved, “what the hell.” Fate had brought me successfully this far and if it were to make a stop in bloody hell, well, I hadn't been there yet and might as well see about it.

That night, lying in bed, my mosquito coil lit, I reconsidered my initial anxiety about what the “Fiji Homebrew” could possibly be. I managed to forget my anxiety by remembering my American Homebrewers pledge: “Relax. Don't worry. Have a homebrew.” I repeated this to myself three times and immediately fell asleep.

My morning came and went, and an afternoon was passed sharing a meal and drinks of kava kava (the national drink of Fiji, derived from the roots of a certain pepper plant) with Fijian prime minister Sir Kamisese Mara, whose home happened to be the village where I was staying. I waited quietly with
anticipation, encouraged by Johnny's winks throughout the day as the brew fermented in a corner of his tiny general store. “It is almost ready, Charlie. Almost ready.”

Johnny Vabula, Lakemba, Fiji

Johnny's store closed in the late afternoon. It was time!

Johnny sauntered into a side room and drew a pitcher of his Fiji Homebrew. He proudly poured a tall glassful. I stared at it, looked at his devilish smile, and then together we bottoms-upped on our way to bloody hell, wherever that was going to be.

The beer had a rich yeast appearance and flavor that wasn't at all unpleasant. For sure it was alcoholic. A very mean concoction to be sure. What was it made from, and how? Well, that was easy: water, sugar, a quarter-pound of yeast and the juice of boiled cassava (tapioca). Cassava is a staple food of many South Pacific islands. Incredibly easy to grow, the potato-like root is cooked much the way a potato would be. It is very starchy. As I later learned, Fiji Homebrew can also be made with green coconut water or boiled green papaya juice rather than cassava. And as for the yeast content of Johnny's five-gallon batch of brew, he says, “The more yeast you use, the stronger and quicker it is.”

“When I drink—I drink to hell,” Johnny said. And so we went into the latter part of the evening, talking about things that two happily tipsy friends talk about. Above all, he impressed upon me his own personal lifestyle—“cowboy style”:
“You know how they do in cowboy movies. If a cowboy wants to put his feet on the table, he puts his feet on the table. If a cowboy wants to smash a glass, he smashes a glass. When a cowboy wants to drink, he drinks. Never mind anything else. That is what we do here in my house—COWBOY STYLE.” Rolling into a hearty laugh, he continued, “So, carry on, Charlie. Carry on.”