Microbrewed Adventures (30 page)

Matters of Homebrew

T
O MAKE SURE
I have the beer I like to drink whenever I travel, especially to foreign lands, I simply pack a bottle or two. Sometimes, with the help of friends, I'll pack 100 gallons. As any homebrewer already realizes, homebrew is great, especially if you've made it yourself. And it's even greater when you've taken a bottle with you to some remote corner of the world to enjoy with friends or new acquaintances.

Perhaps the most memorable of all my homebrewing travels was in 1984, when 54 other homebrewers and myself journeyed together to the South Pacific islands of Fiji. Twenty five-gallon canisters of homebrewed beer and mead accompanied us. We anticipated that Fiji would be an island paradise with or without our homebrew, but having 100 gallons of our own stuff turned out to be a beer maker's and drinker's heaven.

With the permission of our resort, restaurant and ship's management, we were allowed the freedom to enjoy our own beer in between thirst-quenching quantities of the country's own Fiji Bitter. We used a magnum champagne bottle as a “pitcher” when serving our hand-pumped brews for dinner. What the waitresses didn't realize was that we had our keg stashed in a cool room outside the dining room. Mysteriously and magically, to their astonishment, that one bottle seemed an endless pour of beer and mead for all 55 of us. The entire trip was pure paradise, with good friends, good feelings, great scenery, special experiences and the best beer in the world.

But when you've had one great experience, why not plan for another? Three years later I led an excursion into the jungles of northern Thailand with 18 other homebrewers. In addition to bringing our own homebrew, we proudly hauled a round of Thai One On Pale Ale into remote hill-tribe country on the backs of several elephants (no, we weren't drinking and driving on elephants).

The first day's journey was delayed by several hours by the lack of elephants for our group. I ended up riding bareback and behind the ears of one of the elephants for five hours. We arrived at our first hill-tribe village after dark. It was a cool night. The fire felt good, and I recall the meal of chicken, chopped banana flowers, rice and homebrew as one of the best meals I've ever had. I think that the homebrew saved my butt, literally, after riding five hours on the ears of an elephant, whispering sweet nothings, through darkening jungle. You'd feel the same way about that homebrew as I did, I'm sure.

B
Y NOW
I hope you've engaged yourself with a few beers. Where does the beer take you? You've read the reflections of several brewers in response to this question. You've imagined their songs, dance and poetry and what really makes them tick. You have been awakened to the spirit of the brewer and the personality behind every beer you enjoy.

I, too, get “taken by the beer.” Perhaps the opportunity to melt into a comfortable chair and gaze through the bubbles does not present itself as often as I would like, but perhaps that is the nature of being involved with special experiences. They happen, but they do not happen every moment—that is why they are so special.

What is an ultimate beer experience? For me, there are so many. Though, curiously, I recall this experience in the Caribbean as one I would wish to reincarnate in a thousand different ways. Whenever I do have an ultimate beer experience, the beer is always something I see beyond, in the world of my imagination.

An Ultimate Beer Experience
Kriek, Cassis and the French Caribbean

A
BOVE ME
loomed Mt. Pelée, a volcano that 85 years ago exploded and instantly killed the 30,000 people who had resided in St.-Pierre, a picturesque town on the French West Indies island of Martinique. Below me beckoned a perfectly chilled glass of Belgian-made ale, Leffe Brun. Beyond the glass and the pleasantly warm outdoor café, the seaside view found me hardly believing I was in the Caribbean, able to enjoy a variety of interesting beers.

There are many wonderful islands in the Caribbean, though beer is usually not the primary reason for heading there. But beer is my business, and I was here to work.

I've been pleased to discover dozens of wonderfully small breweries scattered throughout the Caribbean. All of them make thirst-quenching light American/Caribbean-style lagers. Many are contract brewing (or owned by) Heineken or a powerfully tasty and strong (7.5 percent alcohol) special export Guinness. Some also make their own island brands of stout. In April 1994, I flew to Martinique, an island “state” of France, to attend the 33rd annual convention of the Master Brewers of Americas, district Caribbean.

I took the opportunity of having come all this way from snowy Colorado to explore a bit of the island culture before the convention began. While almost all other Caribbean islands are tiny nations, I was often reminded, “Right now you are in France.” This was just the beginning of what made this island unique.

While Martinique's own Brasserie Lorraine produces a hard-to-find porter and a light lager with pleasantly discernible malt and hop character, there were other beers I soon discovered. Lorraine was a welcoming, island-brewed fresh lager sufficient for the first few beers of my cultural explorations, but I was soon very intrigued by the tap handles at local bars and restaurants.

Lorraine was not to be found on draft, anywhere. I discovered the available draft was imported Belgian-brewed Stella Artois, Leffe Blonde and Leffe Brun. They were ubiquitously available throughout Martinique. Ahh, the Blonde was refreshingly good, but I really enjoyed the zestiness of the Brun. In all my travels to tropical islands and climates, this was my first encounter with specialty beers (other than stouts and the brewpub beer of Santiago's on Cayman Island)—and this was from Belgium no less! Things were looking
up; the volcano was not blowing smoke and there was a warm sea just outside my window.

But never, and I mean never-ever, have I been so pleasantly beer surprised than when I encountered Le Terminal Bar at 104, rue Ernest Deproge, in the capital town of Fort-de-France—a quiet, comfortable, unpretentious second-floor bar with a view of the harbor. As I entered and crossed the stairwell, I noticed many familiar beer labels and signs from around the world, but not knowing French I dismissed them as wishful decorations. But when the beer menu arrived, language posed no barrier. Before me, I suddenly had a choice of 80 different beers from around the world, of which more than 25 came from Belgium and 15 from France.
Whoohoo!
I was in the Caribbean without any homebrew, but I seemed to have found the next best thing.

I recalled that I was “actually in France.” With that in mind, I delved into the choices to be made among Jenlain, Adelscott, Bière du Démon, Gueuze de la Bécasse, Lucifer, Abbaye de Leffe Radieuse, Mort Subite Cassis Lambic, Chimay Rouge and Chimay Bleue, Sixtus, Kwak, Duvel and Orval, to name just a few. While sipping on Jenlain, a French country ale, I learned from some of the folks who owned and tended the bar that all their beer, regardless of its origins, had been imported from France. The beers of the United States, Australia, Canada and even Mexico—in some cases just a few hundred miles away—were all, incredibly, first shipped to France and then to this tiny island, where Le Terminal did the best they could in presenting some classic brews. I asked why, but the Frenchman seated beside me shook his head in confusion and only explained in a heavily accented deep, gravelly voice, “Ahhh, but thees ees
France
!”

With this in mind, I chose beers that could hope to do well with age and journeying. But not before my curiosity got the better of me and I asked what a “Picon” was, listed on the menu under the “country” of “Terminal.” Someone explained, “It is something we drink in France when the weather is warm. It is quite popular.” Half expecting some type of wheat beer with lemon, I pressed for details and found myself with an almost green-colored beer with a strangely citruslike aroma and flavor. “It is artichoke liqueur with light lager,” someone offered in explanation with a “wait-and-see-whether-he'll-drink-it” smile. With one half-squinted eye, I paused a moment, then replied cautiously, “You mean like artichoke heart liqueur and beer?” Yes, and so I sniffed, swirled and sipped. Now both my eyes squinted at the sweet, citrus character and warmth of alcohol. I managed to artfully choke down the rest of the graciously complimentary French beverage, but I must admit it's not something you'll find me paying dollars, francs or euros for in the future.

After this unholy baptism I was not to be disappointed. That evening I had one of my very few “ultimate beer experiences.”

I enjoy an occasional good cigar. I had brought one of my favorites with me just in case I found myself with some time to relax. I'm very pleased to report that a Davidoff Corona begun at sunset with a Chimay Bleue (9 percent alcohol), followed with a Cassis Lambic Mort Subite, can only be described as out of this world. The mild nutty-coffee-cocoa aroma and flavor of my cigar. The charm of Cassis Lambic with its rich berry-balsam fir and fruitlike aromatics and the calming sensation of deep red bubbles accompanied with a superbly quenching balance of sweetness and acidity was dreamlike. The warm night air and breeze carried the smell of sea foam. The lingering effects of Chimay Bleue, with its malt and hops, had exquisitely concealed its alcohol—at first.

There are certain combinations of flavors and aromas that can evoke one's spirit with regard to the best things in life. Unknowingly and quite naturally I drifted toward the beers whose essences are microbrewed. A spirit of beer filled the bar, my glass and the evening—all accomplished because of microbrewers somewhere else in the world. They were communicating with me.

That moonlit night in Martinique at Le Terminal began and ended with some memorable bests. My one and only regret was that I couldn't speak French. A place like this certainly may have inspired me to learn to do so. There was much to talk about, but no one seemed to understand—but me.

The American Ark

W
HILE WALKING
down the grand and long corridors of the train station in Munich in 1997, I had a chance encounter with a member of the American Homebrewers Association. He recognized me, between his train connections. He was Belgian. We talked, and he was very supportive of
the direction that American microbrewing has taken. He made a point of telling me, “You can find a greater and truer-to-tradition variety of Belgian beers in the United States than you can in Belgium. Belgians think they have all the tradition. But we are losing it. It is the Americans that are helping save what we Belgians are losing…but no one will listen to me. They won't believe me when I tell them what is happening in the United States.”

A British real ale personality, judging at the Great American Beer Festival, similarly confided in me, “Good English mild ales are becoming less common in the U.K. I can find better English mild ales in the United States now than I can in the U.K.” I, myself, reflect on how the new American breweries have indeed revived the traditions of English porter and oatmeal stout. Some beer journalists of fame often note how some styles of beer were close to extinction before the new brewing revival in America saved them from the archival tombs.

Oktoberfest in Munich often heralds the lamentations from Americans and Germans alike: “They're modeling their Oktoberfestbier after Coors Extra Gold” (adding that Extra Gold was a great beer, but certainly not an Oktoberfest style). “The tradition of Oktoberfest beer is being diluted…I can find better Oktoberfest-style beers in America.”

I can't help adding my own opinion. The character of the Munich Helles style of lager continues to migrate in flavor toward a low-hopped, mild pils. The Hellesbiers I remember from my 1989 German beer journey are slowly and quite sadly losing the richness of malt and special flavor of hops. I know that I can make or find a better Helles in the United States than I can generally find in Munich today. Though I do faithfully seek the small countryside breweries where the spirit of microbrewing and beer passion continues, and tradition and flavor are still being preserved, I am concerned for their future.

I often recall my world travels and the country beers, enjoyed from small casks, made by great men and great women. Are they destined to be inundated by the need to modernize
and become competitive in the international marketplace? In the face of the floodwaters, their response is often one of panic and almost always a concession to the rising water to abandon their hopes and swim among the light lager waters rather than create a safe harbor. Might I dare say that they must recognize and take heart in their uniqueness?

I believe, as do many of my colleagues, that here the United States of America we have created an American Beer Ark that is not filled with things American. How odd is this? Wouldn't the rest of the world assume that if Americans were to create an ark to protect treasures from impending doom, we would of course protect our own American treasures? For with our newfound sense of tradition, we have created something unique in the world of things important, lasting and of immeasurable value for generations to come.

We have created the American Beer Ark to float above the light-lagered oceans of the world, harboring with care and passionate enthusiasm the great beer traditions of the world. Little does the world recognize the care and effort of American beer enthusiasts and microbrewers in taking aboard the ark the world's well-and lesser-known beer types. With heart and care and without pretension, they seem to be scouring the earth for threatened and lost beers, to revive and explore them here in the United States.

At the risk of seeming a bit too pretentious, I write these thoughts as an American writer, observer and beer enthusiast myself. I share them with you not because they are my own, but because they are those of knowledgeable people who respect the traditions of beer and are not necessarily American.

The American Beer Ark is my own concept, though not without precedent in the world of Slow Food, traditions and cultural treasures. As the waters continue to rise, the question becomes, what will we take on board? Fortunately, arks are only needed until the waters recede. It is my hope that brewers and consumers will take heart in the culture of beer and traditions and that the day will soon arrive where we don't need an ark.

The Pride of a Brewer

S
INCE
1978
I have journeyed, meeting and talking with homebrewers, brewmasters and beer enthusiasts throughout the world in quest of understanding not only the brewing world we live in but why it is we pride ourselves as brewers. I recall my origins as a brewer, and to this day there dwells in me a certain undefined pride that I am knowledgeable in the brewers' craft. I'm sure that it dwells in the soul of every brewer, yet its presence is not easy to define.