Postcard from 1906 showing the ‘largest and smallest employees’ of Watson Brothers’ Wembley brewery, Sudbury, Harrow, North London. The brewery closed in 1910. There’s no particular reason for showing this picture, except that it’s great
As a man who owns 14 different books just on the subject of hops, I am not, perhaps, the target market for such recent volumes as The Little Book of Beer Tips,Yet Another Atlas of Beer, or even 1001 Beers to Try Before Your Liver Explodes and You Have to Spend Three Years on a Dialysis Machine Waiting for a Transplant. I buy guides to beer like 1001 Beers cheaply, second-hand, in charity shops, because as they age they become good records of what was happening in beer in a particular year, which is very useful if, as has just happened, I write something on the recent history of a particular beer style. The 1984 Connoisseur’s Guide to Beer by James D Robertson, £5 in a second-hand bookshop in Chiswick four years ago, was out of date within, probably, two years but is now invaluable as a picture of the world of American brewing (and what it was doing with porter) just before it underwent Big Bang-style super-inflation, when there were fewer than 100 operating breweries in the US, across only 28 states. And not a single one in Vermont. I buy new books on beer only when I think I’ll learn something I didn’t already know, and, ah, yes, this is big-headed, but that doesn’t happen very often. So that means I’m not the best person to make recommendations about possible beer book Christmas presents for your ale-loving mum or dad.
However, I CAN still recommend two books that came out this year, one because it’s probably the most comprehensive in-depth look at the subject of beer and its ingredients as you’ll find anywhere right now, so that all but the most nerdily knowledgable will definitely have their beer education levels lifted, and even better, it’s entertainingly well-written; and the other because it’s on one of those subjects that, until you read a book about it, you probably hadn’t realised you needed to read a book about it: the history of the pub in the 20th century, or How We Got from Lloyd George to Tim Martin (not the actual sub-title, which is “From Beer House to Booze Bunker”, though perhaps it should have been …).
Pete Brown’s Miracle Brew (sub-titled “Hops, Barley, Water, Yeast and the Nature of Beer”) is a book whose time had come, in that at least two other beer writers, to my knowledge, had been contemplating a “history of the ingredients” before Pete announced what his next book project would be about. Astonishingly less than a quarter of the population could tell you what all the ingredients of beer actually are, even though it’s still, by total number of glasses consumed, easily the biggest-selling alcoholic drink in the UK. As awareness of those ingredients grows, however – led, of course, by the increasing narrative around hops and hop varieties powered by the craft beer movement – curious drinkers do seem to be finally wishing to educate themselves more thoroughly on what goes into their beer, judging by the numbers (almost 600) who pledged money to the crowd-funding that paid for Miracle Brew to be published. That may not sound a lot in advance sales, but it’s better than many books do in total.
Pete is a travel writer as much as – or possibly more than – he’s a beer writer, and Miracle Brew explains how the ingredients that go into beer work with a series of journeys: to Warminster in Wiltshire, and to North Norfolk, to see how barley becomes malt, and to Bamberg, to talk about speciality malts with the people from Weyermann, whose name you will see on bags in the malt store of most breweries you might get to visit; to Dublin, Bohemia and Burton upon Trent, to investigate the biggest ingredient in beer by far, and the most under-appreciated, water; to Bohemia, again, and Kent (where he meets, and hails, a man who is also one of my heroes, Dr Peter Darby of the British Hop Association – amateur enthusiasts love professional enthusiasts) and Slovenia, and Oregon and Tasmania, to try to understand the allure of hops; and back to Burton, to Copenhagen, to Brussels and Amsterdam, and finally to Munich, in pursuit of yeast.
I don’t think it’s possible to write any fact-crammed non-fiction book without getting some of those facts wrong – I never have, and I was kicking myself only recently as I reread one of my early books and wondered why I had written that a butt of beer contains 120 gallons (it is, of course, only 108 gallons – three barrels). Miracle Brew does pretty well: there’s a howler on page 10 where the date that the Fuggle hop was discovered is given as 1785; the London & Country Brewer was indeed published anonymously in 1736 (p59) but we’ve known for around half a century at least that the author was a Hertfordshire farmer called William Ellis; Guinness didn’t start adding roasted barley to its stout as soon as it could (ie 1880), but waited around 50 years (p117); unhopped, unherbed ale isn’t automatically sweet, but has a tannic dryness and probably would have had a woody smokiness too, from the way the malt was dried (p174); the surname Hopkins most definitely does NOT mean “children of the hop” and was NOT given to babies born nine months after the hop harvest who ended up in orphanages, even if Dr Darby says so (p265) – it’s fundamentally the same origins as Robertson; and “kvaic” (it’s properly spelt “kveik”) is from Norway, not Finland (p354). And that’s it. Six small stumbles in 407 pages: well done Mr B and/or his fact checkers.
Pete is, no question, the most stylishly dextrous and verbally entertaining writer about beer in the English language right now, and because of that, Miracle Brew is a great read even, probably, if you’re barely interested in beer at all. Buy it for a pal you know likes beer: buy another one for yourself, you’ll enjoy it.
I was slightly surprised to find just how many people I knew of those mentioned in the pages of Miracle Brew, though beer is a small world. I was more surprised to find how many of the outlets mentioned in Jessica Boak and Ray Bailey’s 20th Century Pub I also knew: indeed, Chapter Four majors on a discussion of one pub I knew well from the age of six, the Pied Piper in Longmeadow, Stevenage New Town, which was a short walk from where my grandparents lived after they moved out from Burnt Oak, North London, and which had a large garden where children could run around and choke themselves on the blue bags of salt that used to come in packets of crisps, while their elders drank pints of mild and bitter from Simpson’s brewery in nearby Baldock. B&B use the visit by the Queen to the Pied Piper soon after it opened in 1959 as peg from which to hang a discussion of the 4,000 or so new pubs built in the decade or so after Queen Elizabeth’s coronation in 1953.
Pied Piper, Stevenage, 1959, designed by Messers Moore, Simpson & Cleverly for Simpson’s Brewery, Baldock
Probably a couple of hundred of those new pubs were built, like the Pied Piper, in the first wave of New Towns, from Crawley to Glenrothes. It would be interesting to know how many of those New Town pubs have now closed: of the 15 pubs that were built in Stevenage New Town, at least seven have shut, including the very first one to open, in 1953, the Twin Foxes (named for a pair of notorious early 20th century Stevenage poachers, Albert Ebenezer Fox and his identical twin Ebenezer Albert Fox) in Bedwell, which is now flats. For comparison, the original Old Town of Stevenage, once a major coaching stop on the Great North Road, and the surrounding hamlets and villages the new town swallowed, had around 20 pubs and beerhouses in 1953, of which eight have disappeared: the New Town has thus lost 47 per cent of its “original” pubs, the Old Town and surroundings just 40 per cent (while gaining two more).
The Twin Foxes, the first pub to open in Stevenage New Town, built by Stevenage Development Corporation and least, at first, to three brewers jointly: one local, McMullen’s of Hertfprd, and two from London, Whitbread and Mann’s
It’s that kind of question which 20th Century Pub constantly provokes: it is comprehensively researched and excellently footnoted, and will be a book I know I will be turning to whenever I have a question about recent events in British pubs, just as I turn to Brew Britannia, their equally comprehensive and deservedly award-winning survey of the past four decades of British brewing, whenever I want to check a fact. Run down the index, and it ticks off almost all the more obscure subjects I would wish to find in such a survey of pub history 1901-2000: the foundation and growth of the Trust House movement, Thomas Nowell Parr, Levy & Franks and the Chef & Brewer chain, the roadhouse movement, the ploughman’s lunch (thanks for the hat tip to my own Strange Tales of Ale, chaps!) Everything seems to be covered: the pre-First World War battle between brewers and the temperance parties about the very existence of the pub, the problems of the First World War, the “improved pub” movement of the 1920s and 1930s, “modern pubs”, estate pubs and theme pubs, gastropubs and superpubs, the threat to the community pub, and the concomitant rise of the micropub. And yet: I’d have liked more in-depth discussion of the history of many of the topics that flash by, such as Chef & Brewer, founded some time before the Second World War, probably the longest-lived “non-brewer” pub brand still going, albeit now under its fourth or fifth owner, Greene King, still with 145 pubs operating under the brand, but not one in central London, where the brand began: indeed, there are now only four Chef and Brewer pubs inside the M25. What happened to all the former Levy & Franks Chef & Brewer pubs? Are they closed, or running under other names?
The public bar at the Twin Foxes, the first pub in Stevenage New Town. Note the five handpumps on the bar
I would also have liked more discussion on a topic that, as someone who grew up in a town that had large numbers of brand new pubs competing against large numbers of pubs that had been open for hundreds of years (the oldest pub in Stevenage, the White Lion – recently renamed, with no good excuse, the Mulberry Tree – has been around since at least 1652), continues to fascinate me: why were all the new pubs so soulless? B&B quote an Architects Journal piece from 1964 on “the post-war pub” which says of the sort of estate pub that dotted Stevenage, at one end of every parade of shops, with a church at the other end: “… in their architectural decoration [they] tend to reflect the type of house which surround them … often the pub could in fact be another house except for the inn sign and car park.” But if you look at New Town pubs, while they often do indeed reflect the surrounding estates in architectural style, namely blandardised “neo-Georgian”, they look more like a New Town corporation house after a huge intake of steroids: swollen and bloated. The family resemblance is still there, but if you took the innsign away, you still wouldn’t mistake this for a normal dwellinghouse. They were cold-looking and unwelcoming outside, and the insides were no friendlier. Nobody I knew drank in a New Town estate pub: Friday and Saturday nights it was on the bus and away to the Old Town. But why? What were those New Town pubs missing, and could they have been injected with it?
Kveik: a word we’re likely to be seeing a lot more of in the beer world. But what is kveik? Here are a couple of things it’s not:
Two different varieties of dried kveik, from Hornindal, Norway
Kveik is NOT a beer style. It’s the name given in parts of Western Norway to yeast used in the local tradition of farm brewing, it looks to be derived from an Old Norse word meaning “kindling”, as if the kveik kindled the fire in the brew, and it is apparently related to the English word “quick” in the sense of “alive”. In particular, kveik is NOT the Norwegian equivalent of Saison. Kveik is just one of half a dozen or so terms for “yeast” used in Norway, the others including barm (also found in Britain, of course), gjaer, gjest (from the same root as “yeast”) and gong, with kveik limited to the south-west of the country, but competing, even there, with the latter three words, which all had wider distribution.
The old turf-roofed kitchen at Borghild Tunet in Hornindal where Stig Seljeset runs his Stalljen home-brewery, named for the Norwegian word for ‘stallion’
Some similarities can be found in the brews made across the area where the term “kveik” is used: north of the Jostedal glacier they will generally be “raw” ales, that is, made without boiling the wort, and hop usage will be light to non-existent: generally restricted to leaving a bag of hops in the stream of wort running from the mash vessel. All will be made with water that has been boiled with branches of juniper in the pot, which gives a sharp, lemony/citric flavour to the ale, as well as helping to preserve against bacterial infection.
Boiling up juniper water in a 100-litre pot on a fire fuelled by off-cuts from a local furniture factory
Kveik is NOT a particular strain of yeast, and saying “kveik yeast” is a bit tautological, although the term looks to cover a distinct family of yeasts. However, within that family are dozens, perhaps hundreds of different individual strains, and any one person’s kveik can contain between two and ten different individual strains. This use of multiple yeast strains appears to be important.
Stig adds water to the mash tun, while Canadian yeast scientist Richard Preiss looks on
Some kveik are bottom-fermenting, some top-fermenting, and some intermediate, depending, basically, on where the brewer collected the yeast from at the end of fermentation. According to Lars Marius Garshol, who literally wrote the book on Norwegian farmhouse brewing, “in some areas, such as Sunnmøre and Nordfjord, there was a tradition that yeasts should be mixed every five years or so, and kveiks from those places show a much greater variety of yeast strains.”
Stig adds malt to the ‘mash tun’
Stig’s 45-year-old mash stick, carved from a juniper branch
Stig stirs the mash with his juniper-wood mash stick
Richard Preiss, co-founder of Escarpment Laboratories, based in Guelph, Ontario, whose company has done perhaps the most research into kveik of any on the planet, has suggested that these different strains need each other, that one makes a vitamin that the other ones need, and vice versa. According to Garshol, Preiss “always seems to get slower fermentations with single-strain yeasts from kveik cultures than [we see from others] with the mixed cultures. So they can survive without each other, but fermentation goes faster and easier with the help of the others. But doing an experiment to prove or disprove that in a way that’s reproducible by others is very difficult.”
Checking the consistency of the mash – is that stick going to fall over?
That is not the most interesting fact about kveik, however. The aspect of kveik brewing that is most likely to ensure its adoption outside Norway is the range of flavours it is possible to get from the yeast, fruity and deep, which chime with the search for more flavour that seems to power much of the innovation in craft brewing right now. But there are other wonders: the high temperature tolerance exhibited by kveik strains, for example, many of which are happy fermenting at up to 40ºC.
Stig’s mash filter
Preiss, a tall, bearded and friendly Canadian, speaking at the Norsk Kornøl Festival in Hornindal, Western Norway, last month, revealed that his company had tested 25 different strains from samples of kveik supplied by Garshol, “and all of the ones we tested grew at 40ºC, while two thirds of them were tolerant to 42ºC, which isn’t normal in the larger world of beer: most people are fermenting at 20. This is remarkable. There are prominent yeast scientists that have engineered yeasts to work at 42ºC, and here’s a whole bunch of natural ones from Norway that do it too.
In Hornindal, in beautiful remotest Western Norway, if you tried to explain to the locals the fuss being made about cloudy New England IPAs, they would laugh, or look bemused. There are around a hundred or so people in the area who make beer, in a tradition going back hundreds of years. All of it is cloudy, and it likely always has been. This is partly, probably, because Hornindal is one of the centres of “raw ale”, rå øl in Norwegian, where the wort stays unboiled before fermentation. That is far from the only difference between what is called locally kornøl, literally “grain ale” (to differentiate it from other farmhouse brews such as birch sap beer – bjørkesevjeøl – or beer made just from sugar). All the beers are made with water that has had juniper branches boiled in it (but never the berries – too bitter). Hops are used lightly, if at all: a small bag of hops will be hung in the vessel that collects the wort. Perhaps most importantly, the yeast, known as kveik (a word that goes back to Old Norse kvikur, and seems to be related to the English word “quick” in the sense “alive”), will have been collected and dried from previous brews, and will give flavours quite unlike those from yeasts used by “mainstream” brewers. These are beers that push out the boundaries of the ale experience.
Now the rural brewing traditions of Norway are becoming more widely known, thanks in considerable part to the hard work of Lars Marius Garshol, whose writings have made him the Michael Jackson of gårdsøl (“farm ale”). Yeast companies are studying, and selling, kveik yeast, and commercial brewers in Norway are starting to make gårdsøl-style ales. The movement now has its own shop window, the Norsk Kornøl Festival in Hornindal, which has just been held for the second time, and I was privileged and honoured to be invited by the organisers to come and report on the event.
Hornindal is not a simple destination if you’re leaving from West London: one plane to the giant shopping mall with airport attached that is Amsterdam’s Schiphol, then another plane 700 miles north to Ålesond, a town on the west coast of Norway about level with the Faroes. After that it’s a further hour and a half to cover a distance of just over 30 miles as the Norwegian kråke flies, but double that by road and ferry, even with the multiple kilometres-long tunnels that have been drilled through the mountains and under the fjords by North Sea oil income. The scenery, however, is spectacular, and Hornindal itself is stunning: it sits at the top of the 14-mile-long Hornindalvatnet, the deepest lake in Europe, with the surrounding mountains going up to over 4,600 feet.
Vykintas Motuza with the brewing kit he and Simonas Gutautas brought 1,000 miles from Lithuania , including rocks for heating the mash, flax for acting as a strainer in the mash tun and birch leaves for flavouring
The two-day kornøl festival is held in the sports hall attached to the school in the village of Grodås, a substantial building which also looks to have benefited from North Sea oil cash. Last year, its first, the festival saw ten home brewers handing out their brews, three commercial brewers and around 450 visitors. (Since Grodås has a population of only some 350, this was, in local terms, hordes.) This year, home brewer number were up to more than two dozen, there were 11 commercial brewers represented, and 600 visitors turned up, from as far away as Canada, Denmark, Poland, the UK and Lithuania.
Simonas Gutautas adds water to the mash tun as Vykintas Motuza looks on
Vykintas Motuza shrouded in steam after adding hot rocks to the mash
The Lithuanians brought their own brewery with them, in the back of a van, and put on a demonstration in the hall of Lithuanian-style farm brewing, including mashing with hot rocks, (filling the air with steam and gorgeous smells) and brewing with a super-fast yeast that produced a drinkable 5.2 per cent abv beer in 15 hours. Go back and read that again: 15 hours from raw wort to drinkable beer. It was still warm as cow’s milk when we tried it the next day, orange and cloudy, slightly tart, but delicious. The Norwegians boggled. The Poles boggled. I boggled. Canadian yeast scientist Richard Preiss, who had flown in from Ontario to give a talk at the festival on kveik and collect more samples of same for his company, Escarpment Laboratories, itched to get that yeast-monster back to the lab.
Håvard Beitland, maker of REALLY traditional ale – just malt, water and yeast.
The beer I was most thrilled to drink wasn’t from Lithuania, though, or Hornindal, but Stjordal, near Trondheim, about 175 miles to the north-west. Home malting is still common around Stjordal, with an estimated 200 maltsters in the district, and Stjordal represents one of the three major centres, with Hornindal and Voss, about 100 miles to the south, of farm brewing still remaining. Håvard Beitland brews on a farm that has been in his family since the early 1800s, growing his own barley, malting it himself and them smoking it, using locally cut alder wood, in the farm’s smokehouse, which is several hundred years old and is also used to smoke elk meat, venison and salmon (The ashes from the maltings fire are used to make lutefisk.). His beer is brewed with 80 per cent smoked malt, 20 per cent pale malt, a standard lager yeast from the EC Dahls brewery (a Carlsberg subsidiary) in Trondheim – and nothing else, no hops, no herbs, no outside flavourings. This is an ale in exactly the sense that an English brewer of the 13th century would recognise, a survivor from 800 years ago. It was dark, delicious and far from the sweet mess some have speculated pre-hop herbless ales must have been: there was sweetness in the background, but also a tannic dryness, probably from the husks of the grain, and, of course, the smokiness, just the same smokiness that medieval ale brewers would have had, since wood-dried malt was pretty universal.
Teacher Terje Raftevold from Hornindal, whose sheepfarmer uncle taught him how to brew
Hornindal home brewers do not, generally, do their own malting, preferring to use whatever malt they can buy – usually pale malt. It has been suggested that this preference for pale over dark is because in the past, Hornindal farmers would have sun-dried their malt, which can only result in pale grain. They also use hops, though unboiled: Terje Raftevold, a teacher from Hornindal who was one of the home brewers at the festival, made his raw ale in a typical local fashion, having been taught how to brew by his uncle, who ran a small sheep farm. Today he makes beer for weddings, and at Christmas. For the brew he took to the festival, he used half lager malt and half pale malt, boiling up his mash water with juniper branches (einer log in Norwegian), then mashing, and afterwards running the wort into a can in which was suspended a bag containing a small amount of Hallertau and Northern Brewer hops. Many of the home brewers were using Cornelius kegs (should that be Kornølius?) to serve their beers. Terje had his in a jug, and complained it was under-conditioned, but to my cask ale attuned palate it was almost perfect – though, as was universal, far cloudier than any acceptable cask ale would be.
Lars Andreas Tomasgård from the Lars-tunet farm in Hornindal and his raw ale. In the traditional wooden Norwegian drinking bowl is some of his dried kveik yeast
Another local farm brewer, Lars Andreas Tomasgård, uses pilsner malt and 200 grams of East Kent Goldings boiled up in a small amount of wort to make his raw ale, with the fermentation done with kveik yeast his grandfather had acquired from a neighbour in 1959. The brewing equipment at his farm, Lars-tunet, is “older than me, and I’m 55,” he says. The resultant ale is, again, cloudy and tart, but excellent, with the lemony, slightly astringent result that comes from boiling juniper branches in the mash water.
Torkjel Austad, in his 30s, from Setesdal, 200 miles away to the south, had learnt to brew three or four years ago from a Setesdal brewer, and made a boiled ale with pale ale, pilsner, smoked and caramalt malts, “half a shopping bag” of mountain juniper in the mash water and a small amount of Saaz hops in the mash and in the subsequent boil. That boil took two to three hours, during which time the volume of the wort reduced 30 per cent. The result was a beer with an abv of 10 per cent, and dangerous drinkability.
Torkjel Austad with juniper twig and traditional Norwegian ale bowl
It was fascinating to discover, going round the tables where the home brewers sat, how easy it was to spot the raw ales: they all had a roundness on the tongue, a fullness, that the boiled ales did not. Lars Marius Garshol has suggested that Norwegian farm brewers accept a lower extraction rate than commercial brewers would seek because they believe they are getting better flavours, and around Stjordal they sometimes use a percentage of unmilled grain. Jørund Geving, who, with his brother..
Daughter, Mrs Zythophile and I played a new game as we negotiated the M1 last week (or at least I did): spot other saloon cars laden to the roof with the finest Ikea supplies for fitting out a new undergraduate’s bedroom and kitchen. I won’t lie, I was slightly disappointed that Daughter did so well in her A levels she was able to spurn an offer from Liverpool University and flutter her eyelashes at York instead, which swiftly threw open the gates of the city. Sorry, Scousers: it’s not you, it’s us. I had many happy hours in the pubs of Merseyside when I was not that far out of studenthood myself. But the rest of the family were delighted that York was now the destination, and I could at least explore the pubs and bars of a city I’m ashamed to say, soft southern Jessie that I am, I hardly know.
First impressions were good, apart from all the bouncers on the doors at 3pm. What time does it usually kick off in Tykeland? In London we like to leave it until well after we’ve had our cocoa before we need the A&E. It’s desperately infra dig to lump anybody before 11pm, unless there’s a footie match in the vicinity.
Mind, I felt like lumping someone when I saw the pump clip pictured here, in an otherwise very pleasant and friendly craft beer bar in the middle of the city. It’s from Eye Brewing, based near Leeds, which claims to be “the UK’s first wheat brewery”, an assertion the white ale brewers of Devon and Cornwall in the 19th century and before would have forthrightly rejected, as would the monkish brewers at establishments such as St Paul’s Cathedral in London, where ale was being brewed on a considerable scale in the 13th century using wheat and oats, as well as barley.
Worse, of course, was the claim that the beer, sold under the name Kleiner Wasted, was a “session white IPA with tropical fruits”, which squeezes four oxymorons into just six words, surely a record. OK, I know “session IPA” is now supposed to be a thing, but the beer’s specs, according to Eye’s website, include an abv of 3.6 per cent and 30 EBUs. That’s both weaker and less bitter than Eye’s own “wheat best bitter” (35 EBUs) and well below the US norm for a “session IPA” (around 4.5 to five per cent abv).
Next, a hoppy wheat beer is not, in any sense, a “white IPA”, it’s a hoppy wheat beer. And last, it’s good that, as Eye’s website greenly boasts, Kleiner Wasted is made with mangoes, pineapples and papayas saved from landfill by the Real Junk Food project, and it’s a novel idea to match the tropical fruit flavours found in many modern hops (Waimea, from New Zealand, goes into Kleiner Wasted, apparently, but that’s described as a hop with citrus and pine flavours rather than mango/passionfruit) but “fruit IPAs” are not any sort of category I’m aware of, snd if they are I’d guarantee they’re all stronger and more bitter than Kleiner Wasted.
Still, the description given by the brewery made my purchasing decision easy (no sale, obviously – it sounded vile) and it generated some predictable fun on Twitter when I posted a picture of the pump clip and announced that the Beer Style Police had been informed and arrests were imminent. The Canadian beer blogger Alan McLeod had a one-word response: “Aaaaarrrrgh!” (There may have been more or fewer A’s and R’s – I wasn’t counting.)
Ironically, a week later I’m at the Norse Kornøl Festival in Hornindal in deepest rural West Norway (kornøl being the local term for what is known elsewhere as gårdøl, farm ale) and while most of the beers available are from amateurs, one of the beers from a professional brewery, Nøgne Ø, is a “Norwegian black IPA with juniper branches and kveik [Norwegian farmhouse yeast]” . Hypocritical of me, but THAT I had to try.
I was discussing this “pushing the IPA envelope until it rips” with Georgina Young, head brewer at Fuller’s, on Tuesday (I was giving a talk on “historic breweries on the banks of the Thames” to 90-plus members of the Chiswick Pier Trust, and Georgina was following this with a tutored tasting of beers from the last London Thames-side brewery elect), and she rolled her eyes: I don’t think she was in the mood to hear about wacko IPAs, since she had apparently spent the afternoon arguing with Fullers’ marketing department about the need to maintain production of Bengal Lancer, Fuller’s own “properly English” IPA, made with masses of Goldings and Fuggles. As she said, modern American IPAs are all well and fine, but if a brewery like Fullers can’t make a British IPA, what’s the point? Marketing, apparently, disagrees …
Back in May I was asked by Johan Holm, editor of the Swedish beer magazine c/o Hops, if I would like to write 2,500 words for the 10th anniversary of the death of the beer writer Michael Jackson, to explain to young Swedish beer drinkers who might never have heard of him who he was and why he was important.
It was one of those commissions that was a pleasure to accept (even ignoring the fee), since it gave me the chance to ask a host of people from all sides of the beer industry a question I had been pondering as that anniversary, August 30, approached – what if Michael Jackson had never lived? Was he actually that important to the development of today’s beer scene? And how relevant is he today, when the beer scene globally has changed massively, particularly since 2011, with a tsunami of thousands of new breweries opening up from Argentina to Archangel, and a host of new and revived beer styles, from Gose to barrel-aged sours, he never knew?
The answer, from all the people I talked to, was firm: yes, Michael was important, and yes, his influence continues. I also got some great stories, particularly from Mitch Steele, formerly of Stone Brewing in California, currently brewmaster at the New Realm Brewing Company in Atlanta, Georgia, about Michael’s dealings with Anheuser-Busch, which I didn’t have room to include in my piece for c/o Hops and which you’ll find below.
So what about his importance? Ray Daniels, founder and director of the Cicerone Certification Program in the United States, which educates and certifies beer sommeliers, and currently has around 85,000 certified beer servers and 2,800 certified beer cicerones in 50 countries, told me: “Michael Jackson is, quite simply, the foundation upon which modern craft beer is built. There’s not a single person who started a brewery or wrote about beer before 2000 who was not directly influenced by his work. And I’d argue that everyone since then has been either directly or indirectly influenced by him as well.”
The Danish brewer Anders Kissmeyer said: “My first personal encounter with Michael was at the first ever Copenhagen Beer Festival back in 2001. I had obviously heard a lot about him in advance, but I was still amazed by the way he conducted himself. Although courted as had he been a Roman emperor by a score of dedicated Danish fans, he still took the time to talk to anyone who approached him. It was like our very, very young craft beer scene was granted a holy blessing by Michaels – at that time the undisputed world champion beer guru – appearance and encouraging comments to us
“Michael Jackson was in the eyes of the entire Scandinavian brewing scene and myself a guiding star and a tremendous inspiration due to his extremely deep insight into the universe of beer, his never failing enthusiasm for crusading on behalf of good beer, and – last but not least – his ability to communicate his always interesting and well-founded views on all things beer related to a very broad audience. I believe that the craft beer revolutions all over the world would have been slower and less powerful had there been no Michael Jackson.”
Alastair Hook, who founded Meantime Brewing Company in Greenwich, South East London in 2000, said: “When Michael published his Pocket Guide to World Beer around about 1980, very few people wrote about beer. As an 18-year-old I used it as a travel companion for a trip to Europe and it was my main inspiration that resulted in a career dedicated to beer. What is remarkable is that I know hundreds of middle-aged brewers who have been part of the modern beer revolution who were all inspired by Michael and his work. He brought the world of beer to life, pretty much single-handed. A generation of new brewers disrupted the market as a result. The incredible choice available across the brewing world is down in no small part to his even-handed but inspirational writings.”
Jeff Alworth, author of the excellent Beer Bible, said: “Jackson’s greatest contribution was writing about beer as a product of culture. He is regularly credited with having given currency to the idea of ‘style’, and perhaps rightly so. This was a downstream effect of his larger work, though. It’s hard for me to even imagine how difficult his work would have been, driving around the Belgian countryside, stopping into funky little breweries, and trying to figure out what in the world he was drinking and how it related to anything else. He had no internet, no information, nothing but paper maps. A lesser writer wouldn’t have looked at the threads connecting those beers to the people who made and drank it, and wouldn’t have then led to the deep thinking that resulted in his ideas on style.
“He’s dinged for getting some stuff wrong, and obviously he did. He got some of the history wrong, and he got some of the styles wrong (it doesn’t make much sense to divide English browns or the tart red-brown beers of Flanders). But he got stuff wrong because he was doing such a tremendous amount of work. As a one-time scholar, I know that the process is one of creative destruction –contemporary work will always give way to the next generation when better information comes along. But creating the framework in which all that work happens is something very, very few people get to do and we are enormously lucky that Jackson was the one who did it for beer. Freud’s theories about the mind are largely discredited now, but he remains such a large figure because he gave us the context of psychotherapy. Jackson’s our Freud – but one who got a lot more right.
“The man was also a gorgeous writer. This is never mentioned, but it was critical to his success. In ways small and large, so many beer writers unconsciously echo the way he wrote about beer. It was literary but clear and always evocative. Here in the US especially, Jackson’s writing was critical in sparking craft brewing. The people who were involved in good beer in the 1970s and 1980s were romantics, and they fell in love with this world Jackson described; they wanted to be a part of it. That’s one of the most obvious ways the old guard differ from the new guard; the latter are more pragmatic, flinty, and knowing. The old-timers just wanted to become Dupont.
“I can’t guess what Jackson would have made of the past decade. There was always a strong element of the reporter in Jackson, and he was reporting on this great story of “beer” until he died. It has changed and I’m sure he’d have had evolving thoughts. He did seem to find wonder in the world of beer, and I doubt seriously that these years would have dimmed his astonishment. But exactly what flavour of wonder he’d have had – well, sadly, we’ll never know. I would bet my bottom dollar that it would have been worth reading, though.
Mitch Steele, like Alastair Hook, also owned up to being massively influenced by Jackson in his career as a brewer: “Back when I was starting out in a pub brewery, San Andreas Brewing Co in Hollister, California) in the late 1980s and early 1990s, very few people in the US knew much about the beer styles of the world. Homebrewers, who by and large were the people that were starting brewpubs and breweries at the time, had learned almost exclusively from British homebrewing books, so the beers most of us made were English-inspired ales. We all looked at Michael Jackson with extreme reverence – he had travelled the world and written about so many different types of beer, and really was the first person to categorize the beer styles of the world with names and descriptions of what the beers should be. His World Guide To Beer was my bible for many, many years, certainly well into the late 1990s. I used that book all the time when I was in charge of New Products at Anheuser-Busch, I used it to develop recipes, and I used it to educate the team at AB, because all they really knew was American and German lagers. Later, Michael’s Jackson’s Beer Companion book further defined beer styles and became an excellent resource for me.
“In 1990, the Association of Brewers (now the Brewers Association) organised a west coast brewery tour with Michael Jackson, and they all came to our little brewpub. I took off early from my day job to be there, and brought my World Guide to Beer for him to sign, which he did. We served him a bunch of beers, and he liked them well enough, and even wrote us up in his Pocket Guide to Beer, which was a great thrill. We found out after the fact that he would’ve been much more impressed if we had given him some food! It didn’t even cross our minds, we were so concerned about whether he’d like our beers or not. But he did make special mention of a woodruff ale we had brewed for the springtime, which was really great.
“Judging with Michael at the GABF, one quote that made me re-think how we were judging beers. He said, ‘What you call “flaws”, I call “interesting and flavourful”. If all the beers in the world were brewed without any flaws at all, this would be very boring.’
“When I was researching for my book on IPA, I had the opportunity to look at the Michael Jackson files at the Oxford Brookes University Library. In addition to some great notes on historical and current IPA, I also found the notes he had taken back when he visited our San Andreas Brewery in 1990, and that was pretty exciting.”
“When I was working with Anheuser-Busch, in the mid 1990s Michael Jackson visited to meet with the VP of Brewing. I wasn’t at that meeting, my co-worker went, but we all heard that Michael emphatically told Gerhardt Kraemer [vice-president for brewing at AB] that the brewers should decide what beers should be brewed. This was so against how AB operated at the time (new beers were always dictated by Marketing, with varying low levels of input from brewing) that it created a huge stir. Our brewing team was thrilled, and the marketing team was in shock. It never played out like we had hoped, but his comment made me realise that the way AB released new beers was really messed up, and since then I have sought out companies that believe in their brewers for innovation. And I remember Gerhardt Kraemer’s comment after the meeting, ‘He’s an odd fellow, isn’t he? But he certainly loves beer.'”
So: Michael Jackson, very important, yes. But indispensable? If Jackson had never lived, would we now be living in a world where all our beer is supplied by less than a handful of global megabreweries, as suggested in the cartoon up at the top there, published just after his death? No, I don’t think we can say that. He did a huge amount to popularise the beers of Belgium, for example, but Tim Webb has done arguably almost as much with his series of guides to the country, and while Michael might have been the person who introduced American brewers to the thrills of geuze, saisons and sour brown ales, they would have discovered those delights on their own anyway, eventually, through someone like Garrett Oliver, or Stan Hieronymus, or Tim.
His influence on the British brewing scene, apart from brewers such as Hook who were (and are) unusual in having a wide knowledge of European beers and brewing styles and techniques, was, to be honest, fairly minimal. And although he was feted in the US, there were plenty of others who could have taken his place. As the Canadian beer blogger Alan McLeod told me for my article in c/o Hops: “The problem is not so much Michael Jackson and the degree to which he influenced good beer. It’s that he has become code for the foundations of microbrewing and, after his death, the rise of craft brewing. If we read a bit we come to understand that people like Peter Austin [the British microbrewing pioneer] and Bert Grant [the Scottish-American microbrewing pioneer] were well down the path towards good beer before Jackson came on the scene. As were other beer writers. In the end, he is a great figure in the popularization of good beer. But he was not alone and many who also played important roles are too often lost in his shadow.”
Still, do we miss him? Yes, I do, certainly. I would absolutely love to be able to read his views on the past ten years of developments in beer. They would, without a doubt, be interesting, erudite, thoughtful and entertaining. As it happens, this year I am the same age as Michael was when he died, 65. That, I can assure you, is far too young an age to go.
One for the tickers: Plane Ale, from Mikkeller, only available at 35,000 feet on SAS flights. Thanks to the wonders of GPS-enabled smartphones, I can tell you I was six and a half miles above the small Dutch village of Rottum, in Groeningen province, while drinking this beer
If you’re one of the people who believes no beer writer should ever accept hospitality from a brewer, for fear of being corrupted, then you’ll need to stop reading this post now, because everything that follows was gathered on a trip to Copenhagen last week paid for by Carlsberg. I wasn’t on my own, of course: there were also a dozen or so beer writers and trade journos, and, more importantly from Carlsberg’s viewpoint, 250 or so assorted others including customers from key markets, staff from Carlsberg operations around the globe (I met some very nice men and women from Tuborg Turkey who insisted on having their pictures taken with me, having seen me in the film I was paid to appear in about last year’s Carlsberg ReBrew project, recreating an 1883 lager), people from PR and design companies who have Carlsberg as a client and mates of the Carlsberg Foundation (Carlsberg’s owner), all there to help celebrate 170 years since JC Jacobsen opened the Carlsberg brewery in the Copenhagen suburb of Valby.
The brewing kit at Warpigs, the joint-venture restaurant/brewery by Mikkeller and Three Floyds in Copenhagen’s meat-packing district
For unknown reasons, this trip has encouraged a mountain of scorn and mockery from the rigidly puritan, obsessively put on public record every free pint anybody ever bought you end of the beer-writing world, with the top of that mountain of scorn claimed as the moral high ground. There are a host of reasons for believing this is a stupid and nonsensical position to take, but here are just three before we return to the important stuff. If you believe you have responsibilities to your readers as a writer about beer, you ought to take every opportunity to uncover information they will find interesting. If that includes accepting a free trip from a brewer, and you prefer to insist that your integrity will suffer unless you stay at home, you’re badly letting your readers down by refusing to go and learn stuff on their behalf. Next, if you accept payment in magazines or newspapers for your writings on beer, what do you think the ultimate source of that payment is? The advertising budgets of those brewers you refuse to accept direct hospitality from, of course.
The Warpigs bar in Copenhagen with Henry and Sally, the two Mikkeller chaacters invented by illustrator Keith Shore, rendered in neon
Finally, does anyone think Michael Jackson paid for all his trips round the world to investigate breweries in dozens of different countries? Of course he didn’t: they were paid for by brewers, maltsters, distillers and the like, and those paid-for trips helped him become the massively influential beer (and whisky) writer he was. I have a book written by Michael, and translated into Polish and published by the Tyskie brewery in Poland, a subsidiary (at the time) of SAB Miller. If you had suggested to the Beer Hunter that by his accepting a commission from a multinational brewer to write a book his other work was irrecoverably compromised, he would have looked at you over his glasses with an expression that told you exactly what he thought you were. I’m not Michael Jackson, but I’ve learnt something useful on every trip any brewer has paid for me to go on, and that all feeds back into what I write.
Water Mother by the Danish sculptor Kai Nielsen, in the main hall of the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek
Back to Copenhagen. The highlight of the trip was supposed to be a TEDx event on the subject “Trust Uncertainty”, held for the 250-plus attendees in a hall at the deeply impressive Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, the art museum founded by JC Jacobsen’s son Carl, and paid for, of course, by the sale of many millions of pints of lager. (It has copies of Rodin’s Burghers of Calais and Degas’s Little Dancer of 14 years, and would be worth visiting just to stand in front of either one of those. You can see another copy of the Burghers outdoors in Victoria Tower Gardens, by the Thames in London, but for me the darkened, indoors setting of the Glyptotek greatly heightens the emotional impact of Rodin’s six stoic, heroic, literally monumental figures, depicted in the moments when they still believed they were about to be executed by the English, having chosen to sacrifice themselves to save their fellow citizens from being massacred.)
A horse-drawn Carlsberg dray in the yard of the old brewery in Copenhagen. Note the casks slung below the dray, and attached by a gibbet-gab, the doublehook and chain I talked about here
The TED talks were, I’m afraid, TEDious: what you need at these kind of events is at least one speaker with a little charisma. The finale was a speech by JC Jacobsen, founder of Carlsberg, who died 130 years ago, but appeared in front of the audience apparently resurrected and talking live (using what was described in the publicity as “holographic technology”, but which was actually the 155-year-old theatrical technique of Pepper’s Ghost). The talk by JC Jacobsen (ror rather, the actor playing Jacobsen) was, again, on “embracing uncertainty”. This was, as someone else (Pete Brown?) remarked, deeply ironic, since the real Jacobsen’s entire career, and also that of his great protégé Emil Christian Hansen, who pioneered pure yeast cell cultivation, was devoted to removing as much uncertainty as possible from beer brewing. But it was very much an internal PR event for Carlsberg, as these shows generally are: it was being streamed live so more than 4,000 company employees around the world could tune in.
Zoran Gojkovic, the director of brewing science and technology at the Carlsberg labs
The “break-out session” at the end, however, was much greater fun, since our group was taken off to the Carlsberg research laboratories for a presentation by Erik Lund, head brewer at the labs, and Zoran Gojkovic, the director of brewing science and technology, on three pioneering beers. The tall, thin, ascetic and slightly starchy Dane and the rounder, jollier, goatee-bearded Serbian make a great double act, powered by the huge enthusiasm they both obviously have for their jobs.
The first beer they gave us was made from what Carlsberg is calling its “fourth generation barley”, a variety grown in New Zealand that has had the lipids that give papery, cardboardy flavours when a beer gets stale, the polyphenols that give rise to haze in beer, and the compounds that end up as dimethyl sulphide, DMS, which gives an unwanted “sweetcorn” taste to beer, bred out. The result, said Zoran, is ” a very, very stable beer, it’s a very clear beer, you don’t have to stabilise it at all, because there is no haze development as happens with a normal barley.” According to Erik, “if you kept this beer in your home for six to nine months you would hopefully find it will stay fresh longer.” The other advantages, from the brewers’ viewpoint, is that they can use less energy in malting and wort boiling to educe DMS, they don’t have to “lager” the beer to wait for any DMS flavour to disappear and the beer to clear, and they don’t have to filter it or chill it to just above its freezing point and add clarifiers remove either the protein fraction or the polyphenol fraction which cause haze in beer, because the haze-causing polyphenols are not there. This, of course, saves energy, money and time.
The problem for Carlsberg is that its attempt to apply for patents surrounding the development of this new barley have been greeted with much angry protesting from organisations such as Greenpeace and No Patents on Seeds, who claim the patents the company has been granted are illegal under EU law. Carlsberg, for its part, says the patents were not for the barley but for the technique used in its development. It’s a slightly uncomfortable row for the company whose founder specifically refused to patent the crucially important techniques for pure yeast cultivation his laboratory worked out in the 1880s, and instead gave the secrets away to anyone who asked. But just because you didn’t patent one technique 130 years ago, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to protect your investment in much later research. Nice-tasting beer, anyway, whatever side you take on the controversy, unpasteurised, fermented with a newly developed Carlsberg lager yeast at 16ºc, lightly hopped to 17 BU, and then slightly dry-hoppwd with Nelson Sauvin, straw-coloured, and 5 per cent abv.
Carlsberg’s experimental unripe barley beer, with ears of unripe barley
The next beer up was almost certainly unique, and we were the first people outside the Carlsberg labs to try it: lager made from green, unripened barley. This project started, according to Erik, “after we were asked, ‘Could you make a beer in Greenland?’ It’s nicely cold already, you..
Sitting 30 feet below the surface at a table in a workmen’s refuge dug out of the soft Bohemian sandstone, drinking unfiltered, unpasteurised lager made in 80-year-old open wooden fermenting vessels and poured from big copper jugs, I reflected on how long it had taken me to make this journey. Being a beer writer who has never visited the Czech Republic is highly embarrassing, like being an art historian who has never seen Florence. But every attempt I had made to get to the birthplace of pale lager, in more years of trying than I want to recall, had gone wrong: until now. Another tick on the bucket list, at last.
Two ticks, actually: one for finally getting to the Pilsner Urquell brewery, and its fabled caves, and another for finally drinking at U Fleků, Prague’s almost legendary home-brew pub, eulogised by Michael Jackson 40 years ago in the first edition of the World Guide to Beer and somewhere I had wanted to drink ever since I read about it. The gods of beer guided my hand: it turned out the hotel I had booked in Prague, based solely on a balance of cheapness and closeness to the city centre, was just two minutes from U Fleků (which looks to translate as “The Spot” – as in “hits”, perhaps …).
The tree-shaded courtyard at U Fleků
Reviews I had read years ago suggested the locals at U Fleků did not appreciate all the tourists disturbing their drinking, but on a warm Central European afternoon, parked at one of a dozen big black trestle tables in the pub’s tree-shaded central courtyard sipping a cool glass of Flekovské pivo, the only beer U Fleků makes, a typically fine Czech dark lager, I noticed no such vibe: possibly because the place was still pretty quiet, and tourists were the only customers. But the waiters were attentive, the beer both cheap (compared to West London) and excellent, the snacks first-rate (based on my deep-fried beery cheese) and even the twinkling elderly accordianist over on one side of the courtyard wasn’t too irritating. I need to go back when the place is busier and sample drinking in one of the pub’s big refectory table-filled rooms, all empty of customers when I was there, but it was a good start to my first visit to Prague.
One of the rooms at U Fleků, awaiting its nightly rush of drinkers: note the beer glass chandeliers
Next for something completely different: this was a trip organised by the Brewery History Society, ably aided by Max “Pivni Filosof” Bahnson, Argentine-in-exile and author of Prague: A Pisshead’s Pub Guide (a fine book, apart from the dodgy maps), who was acting as our cicerone and translator. Max had suggested we all meet in Hostomická nalévárna, a pub in Prague Old Town that acts as the brewery tap for the “resurrected” Pivovar Hostomice, based in the town of the same name south-east of Prague, which, like a lot of new Czech breweries, makes only classic Czech lagers. (The Czech drinker, as well as topping the table for the most beer consumed per head, at 142 litres a year, 40 per cent more than the Germans and more than twice as much as the UK’s frankly paltry 67 litres, is also the world’s most conservative beer consumer, it appears: IPAs are starting to become popular, but with a distinctly Czech spin – more bitter, less floral than the American version.) Hostomická nalévárna is pretty much your basic Czech locals’ boozing bar, which is surprisingly similar to your basic British locals’ boozing bar, plainly decorated in the dark-brown-and-cream colour scheme Richard Boston identified as the classic pub look, matchboarding walls, furnished with utility as the prime intent, and excellent for that reason: there are fewer and fewer places like this left in Britain, something to be regretted as gentrification sweeps the simple boozer down the drain.
Max, who is another old internet friend I had “known” for years before finally meeting him on this trip, then took us to Prague’s newest own-brew restaurant, Lod’ Pivovar, which is actually on a boat moored in the Vltava river – something you could guess if you spoke Czech (I don’t), as lod’ means ship. I wasn’t taking notes, so I can’t tell you about the beers, though the brewing kit, which filled much of one of the boat’s decks, looked beautiful: if you want to know more, read Max’s blog review.
The Černokostelecký brewery in Kostelec nad Černými lesy
This being the BHS trip to Bohemia, old breweries, rather than new ones, were our primary target, and the next day Max led us on a two-hour train-and-bus journey to the small village of Kostelec nad Černými lesy (which translates as “Churchtown underabove the black forest”). The Czechs’ vast consumption of beer means that even small communities – Kostelec’s current population is fewer than 4,000 – had big breweries: Cernokostelecký pivovar was producing more than 62,000 hectolitres a year before it was closed in 1987 after the wood-fired brewery boiler packed up and was decreed too expensive to repair. In 2001 a Czech beer historian, Milan Starec, and some colleagues acquired the brewery site to use as a home for old brewing artefacts, and have been working to restore it under the name Černokostelecký zájezdní pivovar. In the meantime a microbrewery, Minipivovar Šnajdr has been installed in part of the old brewery premises; it produces a draught dark beer, Černá svině (“Black Swine”) and a bottled Baltic Porter, imperial stouts being one of the “craft” styles the Czech drinker appreciates.
A repurposed malt-barrow or japonka in the toilets at the Kostelicy brewery. British malt-barrows generally have solid wheels: Czech ones appear to be spoked
Milan himself took us round the brewery, starting in the restaurant, which has a tremendous collection of old Czech breweriana on its walls from dozens of now-closed breweries (and lavatories that contain repurposed malt-barrows, japonky in Czech, as washbasins), then on to the huge and frankly beautiful polygonal malt-mill, once horse-powered, and built as a result without a single internal column so nothing would get in the way of the horse as it trudged on its daily circular journey (the bracing in the roof is a carpenter’s dream) and the maltings, which contain the only granite steeping tank I have seen. The main brewery building was filled with ancient kit: huge disused coppers, mash tuns and lauter tuns, enormous coolships, and the biggest vertical cooler I have ever come across, around seven feet high and eighteen feet long.
The octagonal malt mill at Cernokostelecky Pivovar, now let out for weddings and other party events
Maltings at the Cernokostelecky Pivovar, with malt-barrow
Granite steeping tank, maltings, Cernokostelecky Pivovar
Milan told us that the coolships would take the hot wort down to around 60ºC, and the vertical cooler, which had cold water running through the interior as the wort ran down the outside, would drop it to 9ºC. Once cooled, the wort was run into open fermenting vessels – old-fashioned even when the brewery closed – before being lagered in huge casks in the permanently cold cellars below the brewery. The cellars also contain some original, long-disused wooden fermenting vessels; and a new microbrewery, which opened on New Year’s Eve 2013 and is named for one of the people involved in its construction, Jaroslava Šnajdra.
Formerly disused vessels, partlynow restored, in the brewhouse at the Cernokostelecky Pivovar
In these times of gloom and grey skies, it’s great to have some good news. So hurrah, rejoice, the ten-sided pint mug, iconic symbol of all that is great about British beer, is back in our pubs! If that doesn’t make you feel at least a little bit happier, you’re beyond help, frankly.
The ten-sided mug, known, for fairly obvious reasons, as the lantern tankard (though it goes under several other names, as we shall see), looks to have been introduced in the early 1920s, and was picked up by the Brewers Society in the 1930s as, literally, the face of British beer in its long-running “Beer is Best” promotional campaign: the campaign’s Mr XXX was a man with a ten-sided beer mug as a head.
The face of beer: the Brewers Society’s Mr XXX in the 1930s had a head that was a lantern beer mug
By the 1950s, however, the lantern tankard was being challenged for its position as the number one favourite by the dimple mug, which eventually vanquished its rival some time soon after 1965, and the ten-sided mug disappeared from production. By the early 1990s the only place lantern tankards could be found by those who loved them (as I do) was in charity shops, the harvest of post-death house clearances, those glasses having clearly been stolen from pubs 40 or 50 years earlier by people who had been in their late teens and early 20s when the ten-sided mug was common, and who were now dead and leaving their relatives to dispose of decades of household junk in the most conscience-salving way they could, by donating it to Oxfam or Cancer Research. Within 15 years even that supply had vanished, since the cohort of dying pensioners from 2005 onwards had been stealing pub glasses when the dimple had pushed the lantern off the bartops of Britain
Henry Stephenson of Stephensons with the original 1949 lantern beerglass made by the Crystal Glass Company, and the reproduction modern glass his company is now selling to pubs and bars
Now the lantern tankard is being brought back, by Henry Stephenson, managing director of Stephensons Ltd, a 149-year-old supplier of catering equipment to the pub, restaurant and hotel trade.
Henry, now in his 40s, is the fifth generation in charge of the family business: his great-great grandfather, also called Henry, used to go down with a horse and cart to Stoke on Trent to pick up ceramic goods and bring them back to Salford Flat Iron market to sell. In 1868 the operation moved in to Barton Arcade in Deansgate, Manchester and traded there for 99 years as a retail sellers of glass and ceramics, with other shops in places such as Lytham St Annes. Henry, who contacted me after reading my piece about beer glass history here to reveal he was resurrecting my favourite beer glass, told me: “As the 1960s came along we ended up more and more into the wholesale side of the market, and we moved to Stockport 50 years ago, and we’ve been trading out of that site ever since,” supplying restaurants pubs and hotels, leisure centres, with everything a restaurant or pub would need to do with food and drink, from plateware, glasses and cutlery to pots and pans.
A lantern glass, manufacturer unknown (although it looks like a Crystal Glass Go model), decorated with the Royal Arms for the coronation of 1953 – although that lion should be gold, not white …
“I love glassware and I’ve always been a big fan of the dimple tankard,” Henry told me. “Obviously when Ravenhead and Dema [Britain’s last two big glassware manufacturers} died out, it was only the French still producing them, and they nearly discontinued it, which would have been the end of the dimple tankard. That was back in 2007. Since then the dimple tankard has grown back in popularity significantly – our sales are about 12,000 per cent up compared to 2007. It’s driven by the whole nostalgia thing, and people using it in cocktails as well, so it’s not just a beer thing. So the dimple tankard has come back with a vengeance. The good thing about the dimple from the trade perspective, is that it’s a pint to brim – so including the head, you save a few points on your margin on your beer sales.
“Where I started from was thinking about producing a tall, handled tankard that was pint to brim. I then started looking into the history of the beer pint glass, remembered the ten-sided tankard, and thought, ‘Why not bring this back to life, with all the heritage and the interest that comes with that. I fell in love with the idea of bringing a little bit of Britain back. I want to re-establish this as the glass to drink real ale and real cider out of, again.”
Tumblers and cans illustrated in the 1927 Bagley’s catalogue, with several in the Queen’s Choice 1122 pattern. Note the different handles on the two pint glasses second and fourth from the left on the bottom row: number two, with the handle shape slightly tweaked at the top, would become the “classic” Bagley Queen’s Choice pint mug
Henry chose to replicate a glass estimated to have been made in the late 1940s, probably by the Crystal Glass Company, a subsidiary of the glass manufacturer Bagley of Knottingley, West Yorkshire, as it carries the “301” stamp, meaning it was verified in West Yorkshire. That particular example was chosen because it had a very good finish and the handle shape is “really, really comfortable in the hand.” The glass that has effectively fathered a new generation of lantern tankards is owned by Henry’s father, who acquired it 20 or 30 years ago when he spotted half a dozen old lantern pint glasses hidden in the back of the clubhouse of a canal cruising club in Cheshire he was a member of. “He did them a swap – gave them half a dozen new dimple glasses in exchange for the lanterns,” Henry said
The cheapest place to get pressed glass pint mugs today is China – any new dimple mug you have been drinking from recently almost certainly came from a Chinese manufacturer – so Henry got in touch with his company’s contacts in the Far East. “We spoke to different glass manufacturers, we trade a lot in glassware already, so we got the best quotes and a good price at a low volume – you have to take a view on the cost of the mould, amortise that over a number of years. My father’s glass went out to China for them to make the mould from. I told the owner of the company we are working with that my dad’s wrath would fall on him if they broke the glass! However, it went all the way out to China and came back in one piece, which is fabulous. ”
Possibly the first time in the 40-year history of the Great British Beer Festival that anyone has drunk beer there out of a ten-sided lantern mug. (That’s Fuller’s Vintage Ale, incidentally: it seemed a suitable brew to christen my new glass with …)
The first of the new glasses arrived in the UK earlier this month, and I met Henry at the Great British Beer Festival, where he was handing out samples (one of which he was good enough to give to me: I already have five old lantern pint mugs, but it’s good to have a modern version I don’t need to worry so much about breaking). He is looking at a half-pint version: “The obvious line to do traditionally would be a 10-oz, but there’s a lot of call these days for a 13-oz, two thirds glass, since two thirds of a pint is now a legal measure, and that would also work as a bottle glass [being 38cl]. We’ll see how it goes, and I’ll canvass opinion on that, but potentially the glass we’ll get asked for more is the bottle glass.”
I do hope Stephensons succeeds in its drive to revive the lantern tankards, because it’s not just a great glass to drink beer out of, with a satisfying heft and an excellent transmission of the colour of your drink through those multiple facets: it really does have a fascinating history. The “lantern” beer glass was apparently pioneered by the Bagley and the Crystal Glass Company, although “pioneered” may be too strong: the pattern was apparently “lifted” from an original design by William Jacobs of the Ohio Flint Glass Company in the United States first made in 1907 and called Chippendale, which was used to make pressed-glass products from vases to salt and pepper pots. Bagley’s production of Chippendale look-alikes has been described as “among the most flagrant cases of glass-pattern plagiarism”.
The design was first used by Bagley’s in around 1921, and registered on 16 May 1923 as pattern 1122, registration number 689049. It was used for a vast range of items including fruit bowls, mustard pots, water jugs, tumblers, honey jars, jam pots, flower vases, grapefruit dishes, egg cups, sugar bowls, parfait glasses, sundae dishes, beer jugs, powder pots, trophy vases, salt dishes, custard cups, milk goblets, milk jugs and even butter dishes. Bagley’s took a stand at the Wembley exhibition of 1924, and after Queen Mary purchased several examples of pattern 1122, it was subsequently called “Queen’s Choice”.
Whatever you think of Camden Town Brewery’s beer – and enough people like it to swallow more than 300,000 pints of Hells lager, Gentleman’s Wit and the rest every week – the company’s expansion in under seven years from nowhere to third-biggest brewer in London, with two of its beers, more than any other craft brewer, in the list of top 100 pub brands is hard not to hail.
Camden Town Brewery’s new Enfield plant: not your usual boring box, at least
Now it has made the biggest investment in a new brewery in London since Guinness revealed its Park Royal plant in 1936, 81 years ago. On Saturday Camden Town let the public have a first look round its 57,400 square feet production facility in East London which actually started brewing a month ago, and is capable of producing 200,000 hectolitres a year (122,000 barrels in Fahrenheit), more than ten times as much as the original railway arches brewery in Wilkin Street Mews, NW5, opened 2010, and with the potential to rise to 400,000hl a year. Several hundred people covering the spectrum from hipster to sceptical elderly real ale fan (he knows who he is), including families with toddlers in buggies, took advantage of the free tickets, and the offer of bars, food stalls, music, games, beer at £4 a pint and trips round the brewery (with one free beer), and ignored the rain, to travel to Ponders End to see what £30 million of shiny German stainless steel and other assorted high-tech beer-making equipment actually looks like.
Sir John Hegarty, famed adman and Camden Town Brewery founder Jasper Cuppaidge’s father-in-law
I went along too, and managed to (1) grab a paparazzi-style photograph of Sir John Hegarty, famous advertising guru and father-in-law of Camden Town’s founder, Jasper Cuppaidge, (2) meet three people I knew (nice to see you, Jeff), and (3) nab an interview with Rob Topham, Camden Town’s head brewer. Rob joined the company from Fuller Smith & Turner in 2014, after nine years with the Chiswick brewer, and Jasper Cuppaidge was already planning a bigger brewery than the railway arches in Kentish Town could handle. Progress in finding a suitable site, however, was slower than the company’s growth: “The first iteration was for a 70,000 to 80,000hl brewery,” Rob said. “But each time we couldn’t find the right premises, or we couldn’t get everything sorted, it was going up by 10,000hl, 10,000hl, and we got to the stage where we’d just outgrown all of our own plans.”
Camden Town head brewer Rob Topham
Expansion needs money, of course, and Camden Town, despite wealthy backers like Jasper Cuppaidge’s pa-in-law and his pals, still needed financial help from outside. The first step was to appeal to the public, but soon after that came an offer that must have seemed impossible to refuse, even if it brought down wrath and abuse from hard-core craft beer fanatics: an £85 million take-over from the biggest brewing company in the world. “When we had the Hellsraisers [the crowdfunding push in the summer of 2015 that saw Camden Town raise £2.8 million from more than 2,000 investors for 5.4 per cent of the business], that was a fantastic point in time, we had the money to expand, we were making plans based on that,” Rob said. “But when AB InBev came in, they’ve allowed us to do straight away everything that we wanted to get to in five, six, seven years’ time.”
A copper at the Enfleld brewery with, in the distance through the windows, the hills of Epping Forest – and ‘amusing’ safety notice
The Belgo-Brazilian overlords don’t interfere, despite paying the bills, Rob said: “We’ve been allowed to be separate from ABI, and to do things the way we want to do them and the way we believe is right.” He admitted that Camden Town looked at some of the kit left over when AB Inbev closed the giant Stag brewery at Mortlake barely weeks before it announced it was buying the North London brewer, but “it was more hassle than it was worth” trying to take it across London and repurpose it for life in Enfield.
Enfield brewhouse fermenting and lagering vessels
The new Ponders End plant has around 25 production workers, Rob said: “We need only 15 to 20 per cent extra people to run this brewery, which is five times the size of Kentish Town. That’s partly because we were running 24/7 down there.” Attempting to keep up with far more demand than the railway arches could cope with has seen Camden Town farm out a huge chunk – 60,000 to 70,000 hectolitres – of its production to a brewery in Belgium. The opening of the new works alongside the Lee Navigation (which once carried 60 per cent of the malt used by London’s brewers) means all the beer sold can now be produced in the capital, and the company is looking for sales at the end of this year of 120,000hl, “possibly close to 130,000,” Rob says. “We’re hot on the tails of Meantime, and we’re hoping to surpass them, we’ll be at looking to hit 150,000hl, possibly 200,000 by the end of 2018.” With the present tank set-up at Ponders End, “we can currently do just over 200,000hl if we go to 24-hour. We’ve got room for another eight 600-hectolitre fermenters and another three 600-hectolitre bright tanks, we will be able to take it up to just around 400,000 hectolitres. But it would take an awful lot of work to do that, and another chunk of investment.”
The sign above the packaging hall, commissioned from the artist John Bulley in imitation of the one he painted for the railway bridge by Camden Lock Market in 1989
Meanwhile “we’re going to use Kentish Town as our research and development and innovation centre, and we’ll be able to go back from that being a flat-out production plant – we’ve already started to wind down – to using it for specials, for collaborations, and trials. We’ve got a bunch of ideas, barrel–aged beers, we’ee got some little secret projects that we’re looking at, I won’t say too much. We’ll really be able to capitalise and get ahead of the game by having a second site with a smaller brew size. I was fairly heavily involved with the barrel ageing projects at Fuller’s, we’ve done three releases of barrel-aged beers already, we’ve got the fourth one in barrel at the moment, we change the beer and the barrels each year, and try to match them, and going forward we’ll be able to maximise that, use Kentish Town as the ‘wild’ brewery, if you like, doing the crazy stuff, and keep the Enfield brewery for ‘clean’ experiments. Those wackier yeasts petrify me as a brewer, I want to keep them well away from my mainstream brews!”
No, actually, thanks all the same
Having the original brewery devote itself to the wild and woolly is probably not going to bring back the fanatics who swore they would never touch Camden Town beers again after the AB InBev takeover. But I’d be surprised if Rob, Jasper and the rest of the Camden Town crowd care. They’re appealing to a much broader demographic, which is appreciating craft beer in a totally different way to the lovers of obscurities, one-offs and beers that look as well as taste like mango juice. It was clear that the new brewery was deliberately designed with tours by the public in mind, with “wacky” signs everywhere (“no swimming” above a fermenting vessel, for example) and “jokey” slogans etched into the windows on the coppers and mash tuns where other brewers merely have the company logo, as well as wide walkways capable of coping with crowds and a big bar in the heart of the brewery. (One problem: the “jokes” were clearly coined by someone who thinks they have a sense of humour, and badly needs disabusing. Still, half a mark for trying. And minus five marks for not being at all amusing. The same goes for the “wacky” cartoon murals decorating the walls: I know all the trendiest brewers have funky artists go creative all over their interiors, but if you do it, it has to be done very well.)
Beer writer Mark Dredge, currently gigging as a guide at the Ponders End brewery, with some of those (*whisper* not very good *end whisper*) murals
Top marks, though, for having an industrial estate brewery that at last has an exterior with some sense of style: Rob says Camden Town was able to work with the developer once the brewery had decided the site fitted its requirements, to have the basic “shed” altered, in particular to make sure all the drainage and other essential brewery services went in as needed, and that seems to have meant tweaking the standard boring box, too. Ponders End doesn’t have many tourist attractions. It might just have a new one.
“He shall charge you, and discharge you, with the motion of a pewterer’s hammer, come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer’s bucket.”
Sir John Falstaff, Henry IV part 2, Act III, Scene 3, by William Shakespeare
Better brains that yours or mine have failed to identify what Falstaff meant by “brewer’s bucket”. It’s to do with carrying liquids, certainly, but unrelated to pails. And actually, you’ve probably seen illustrations of a brewer’s bucket, thought it would not have been called that in the captions. What is more, you’ve probably used the word “bucket” in the sense intended by Shakespeare, though I doubt you or anyone who heard you realised that.
The passage mentioning the brewer’s bucket occurs in a scene where Falstaff and his gang are raising levies among the Gloucestershire peasantry for the king’s army to fight against the rebellious Earl of Northumberland. The two likeliest-looking recruits, big sturdy men called Peter Bullcalf and Ralph Mouldy, bribe Bardolph, Falstaff’s deputy, with 40 shillings each and are allowed to sneak away home (Bardolph, of course, tells Sir John he was only given £3 to let them go) and Falstaff insists the three weeds he has left, Simon Shadow, Thomas Wart and Francis Feeble, will make cracking soldiers.
From Drinks Of The World by James Mew, published 1896, two 17th century brewers with bucket
Shadow, he says, is so thin the enemy gunners will not be able to hit him, Feeble will be suitably speedy in any necessary retreat, while Wart will “charge and discharge” (terms used by gunners – see page 39 of The Art of Gunnery by Nathanial Nye, published 1637) using the quick movements of a pewtersmith planishing the surface of whatever piece he is making, and “come off and on” (which look like swordfighting terms, as in “come on guard”) swifter than – well, what, exactly?
Samuel Johnson explained this passage in his annotated edition of Shakespeare’s works, published in 1765 as meaning “swifter than he that carries beer from the vat to the barrel in buckets hung upon a gibbet or beam crossing his shoulders”. Earlier the same year, Johnson had become friends with Henry Thrale, owner of the big Anchor brewery in Southwark, one of London’s leading porter brewers, and Thrale’s wife Hester. Readers who knew this may have believed Johnson had seen such a thing at the brewery. However, the Irish politician and literary scholar John Monck Mason (1726-1809), in Comments on the several Editions of Shakespeare’s Plays, published in 1807, gave the dictionary writer a kicking for this interpretation, complaining: “I do not think Johnson’s explanation of this passage just. The carrying beer from the vat to the barrel must be a matter that requires more labour than swiftness. Falstaff seems to mean “swifter than he that puts the buckets on the gibbet”, for as the buckets at each end of the gibbet must be put on at the same instant it necessarily requires a quick motion.”
Two 18th century figures, a gentleman and a brewer (in apron) with a brewer’s bucket, from a receipt for beer issuerd by William Sykes, a common brewer in Leeds, in 1796
Two centuries on, SparkNotes, the US-based study guide website familiar to tens of millions under the age of 30, explains the passage in its “No Fear Shakespeare” section in a similar manner, saying that Shakespeare meant Wart could “advance and regroup faster than a brewer’s delivery pail can be refilled.” But like Johnson and Mason, SparkNotes is making a fundamental error: because “bucket” in this passage does not mean “vessel”. And Johnson and Mason made another mistake as well: for not only were the buckets not buckets, they weren’t hanging from a gibbet.
The only Shakespeare commentator to get it right, or mostly right, seems to have been Sir Sidney Lee, editor of the Dictionary of National Biography, in his Complete Works of Shakespeare of 1906. Lee pointed out that “bucket” here is clearly the separate word meaning “beam or yoke on which things may be hung or carried”, from the Old French “buquet”, meaning “trébuchet, balance”. “Gibbets” means “hangs”, Lee says, and “The reference is to the practice of hauling about barrels of beer by attaching them to chains depending from a beam borne on the shoulders of the brewers’ men,” so that the passage means “swifter than he that hangs barrels on the yoke of the brewer’s men.” “The attribution of swiftness to this method of haulage is ironical,” Lee says.
Two brewery workers in Amsterdam about 1710 lifting a cask from a horse-drawn sled with a brewer’s bucket, by the Dutch artist Jan Luyeken
Multiple illustrations over several centuries show brewery workers carrying around casks suspended by chains from a yoke they support on their shoulders: it looks to have been a common method of transporting full casks. The yoke is the bucket. Confusingly, while gibbet can mean a pole from which something is hung (which is what Johnson and Mason thought the word signified in the passage from Henry IV), here it looks to mean the chains and hooks that attach the cask to the bucket. The records of the city of Aberdeen in 1477 mention “A brewyne fat, a hemmyr stand, a bukket, and a gybbate that it hang by.” In Scotland, where the “gibbet or swee” was the name given to the chimney-crane that supported a pot over the kitchen fire, which was “attached to [the swee] by a strong double hook called the gibbet-gab”, exactly that double hook on a chain you can see hanging from the bucket on all those pictures of draymen.
(Small aside: I don’t think, without internet access or a copy of A Dictionary of the Older Scottish Tongue in your library you would have any chance of guessing what a “hemmyr stand” was. “Stand” is an old Scots word for a vessel or, in this case, a cask. “Hemmyr” is the old Scots for the port and city of Hamburg. So a “hemmyr stand” was a Hamburg barrel, a specific size of cask holding, depending when and where you were, 14 [Scots] gallons [in 1489] or 12 [Scots] gallons [in Aberdeen in 1511]. A Scots gallon was equal to six and two thirds Imperial pints, so 14 gallons Scots was 11 2/3rds Imperial gallons.)
Ale brewer’s draymen, drawn by Frederic Schoberl for The World in Miniature, published by Rudolph Ackermann in 1821, showing the brewer’s bucket was still not obsolete
You will have spotted, I hope, that Lee looks to be in error with the claim that “‘Gibbets’ means ‘hangs’.” “Gibbets on” should more properly, I suggest, be “gibbets-on”, with “to gibbet-on” meaning “to attach something to a bucket or yoke with hooks on a chain” – just like the chap at the rear is doing in the illustration of the brewer’s bucket in use in Amsterdam.
So why did Shakespeare use the act of gibbetting-on a brewer’s bucket as a metaphor for speed (or, if Falstaff was being ironic, for slowness)? If my maths is up to it, a full wooden barrel weights about four hundredweight, or 200 kilos. Even two men carrying the bucket on their shoulders would not be nipping about speedily. All suggestions for what Stratford Willy actually meant gratefully considered.
Finally, “bucket” meaning “yoke or beam” does have one common modern usage, albeit metaphorical and with no one using it aware of its origins. The OED quotes a newspaper from 1888 as saying:
“The beam on which a pig is suspended after he has been slaughtered is called in Norfolk, even in the present day, a ‘bucket’. Since he is suspended by his heels, the phrase to ‘kick the bucket’ came to signify ‘to die’.”
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