Author Archives: A Tempest in a Tankard

Beer Goes to the Museum

Just a little over a year ago, the internet was abuzz with news that the Smithsonian was in the market for a beer historian. That the venerable Smithsonian Institution would be looking to collect, document, and display the history of brewing in the United States is a striking move. It is also a move entirely in keeping with the booming popularity of craft beer in the United States –– itself a phenomenon with aspirations to reconnect beer drinkers with local traditions.

The German Hop Museum in Wolnzach (Hallertau)

Alas, I’ve been bored senseless by one too many museums of breweriana. You probably know the kind: beer signs, beer coasters, beer bottles. Not that these can’t be interesting objects in their own right, but all too often displays of breweriana lack the kind of layered contextualization that both historicizes and revitalizes the object in question. As a historian, I find it encouraging to see an institution of national stature taking a scholarly approach to documenting the rich history and tradition surrounding brewing in the United States. At some point over the next few years I plan to make it out to D.C. to see how their efforts at collecting, exhibiting, and programming have worked out.

For now, though, here’s a look at two museum exhibitions from my recent time in Europe: a temporary exhibition dedicated to the history of the German Purity Law (Reinheitsgebot) in Munich, and a hop museum in the Hallertau region of Bavaria. Even if the Reinheitsgebot exhibition has since closed, I talk about it here because it demonstrates the potential of well-crafted exhibitions to enrich our experience of what’s in the glass.  At any rate, I’m certain it won’t be the last of its kind.  And there’s always the extremely informative catalogue if you’re able to read German.

How Beer Made Munich

On the occasion of the five-hundredth anniversary of that famous German beer law that some people love and others loathe, the Münchener Stadtmuseum (Munich City Museum) staged an exhibition called “Munich––Powered by Beer.” The English title doesn’t quite capture the essence of the pun in the German title, Bier. Macht. München, which translates roughly into both “How Beer Made Munich” and “Beer. Power. Munich.” Either way, the title of the exhibition alludes to how beer has shaped everything from medieval brewing rights to Munich’s urban development. The exhibition also underscores the extent to which the beer industry was and is closely entwined with the political and economic powers that run the city.

In scarcely any other major city is the culture of beer so much a part of its history and identity. The exhibition traces the history of brewing in Bavaria from the days before the enactment of the Purity Laws in 1516 through the industrialization of production in the nineteenth century to domestic export networks in the twentieth century.

Industrialization and scientific advances in brewing technology play a major role in the exhibition. One segment recounts the interconnection between the lager-style beers prevalent in the region and Munich’s role in the development of refrigeration. Beer in popular culture plays a large role in the exhibition as well, with galleries dedicated to consumption (beer halls, beer gardens, taverns), advertising, and the history of Oktoberfest. The curators also tip their hat to other annual beer festivals that revolve around particular styles of beer, religious holidays, or changes of season.

“Munich—Powered by Beer” is celebratory, to be sure, but manages to maintain a critical distance. Its treatment of the role of beer halls in the rise of Nazism is but one example, along with its (albeit brief) acknowledgment of the overlooked contribution of Jews to German beer history. As a whole, the exhibition draws on a well-calibrated mix of written documents, artworks (engravings and paintings/portraits), photographs, postcards, technical objects used in the brewing process (hydrometers, refrigeration units), advertising placards, a wide variety of objects (such as tankards, steins, barrels, taps, figurines), and installations of original tavern rooms and bars.

A Hop Museum in the Hallertau

The German Hop Museum (Deutsches Hopfenmuseum) is right in the middle of the Hallertau hop-producing region and well worth a side trip from Munich. Open since 2005, the architecture of the building pays tribute to the local hop yards, while the exhibition itself is a welcome departure from the breweriana of most beer/brewing-themed museums. The exhibition was designed with a focus on interactivity, whether in the form of touch screens with maps and layers of information, hands-on displays, or even a station in the shape of a hop cone that generates hop aromas.

With the aid of objects such as tractors, mechanical pluckers, trellises, and a life-sized replica of a hop kiln, the exhibition details the social and economic history of the hop industry. It also delves into topics as diverse as the role of monasteries in medieval hop cultivation and the use of pesticides more recently. The first part of the narrative emphasizes hop production as a labour-intensive seasonal occupation that drew upon migrant labour and involved the entire village. The latter portion addresses the radical changes and dislocations wrought by the postwar mechanization of the industry. All the while, the exhibition deftly resists the urge to romanticize the back-breaking work of hop picking while also relating compelling tales of camaraderie during the cycle of planting and harvesting. Singing, dancing, and festivities were all hallmarks of the hop harvest.

All of the objects, documents, films, and installations come together in what amounts to a fascinating and sometimes surprising cultural history of hop production in Bavaria. Objects on display include scientific writings on hops ranging from early botanical studies such as those by Hildegard von Bingen to recent works on hop processing. A series of films focus on scenes from everyday life in the hop villages as well as on the dangers faced by those who constructed the hop trellises. Throughout the exhibition, photo albums and oral histories bring the hop harvest to life. The very last section of the exhibition focuses on the market for hops during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and pauses to shine a light on the often overlooked history of Jews in the hop trade.

Unsurprisingly, hops rule the roost in the museum’s gift shop as well. If you’re in need of a pick-me-up after taking in the exhibition, you can buy delectable chocolate containing hops. You’ll also find hop soaps, hop teas, hop jellies, and hop pillows alongside books on hops and postcards with botanical renderings of the hop cone.

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I must confess that I’m always a bit baffled when I hear people complain about how beer and politics don’t mix. What both of these thoughtful exhibitions demonstrate is that beer is intimately bound up with economic and political power. And not only that. The agricultural crops that go into our glass have given rise to rich cultural histories of labour and sociality. Where there’s a history of this, that, or the other, you can be sure that beer’s not far away. So when you’re contemplating your next beer pilgrimage, set aside some time to support museums like these in both North America and Europe.

Cheers to beer in museums!

Related Tempest articles:

When Once They Drank Beer Warm: Cocktails and Concoctions from Olde Albion

A Season for Strong Beer

From Horse Races to Beer Steins: Oktoberfest Since 1810

All images by F.D. Hofer.

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

Cooking with Beer: Aged Gouda and Doppelbock Fondue

Not long ago I went on one of the more stellar culinary journeys of my life. Mortadella and bowls of tagliatelle di ragù in Bologna. Mounds of culatello and Parmigiano Reggiano in Parma. Vitello tonnato and carne cruda all’Albese in Alba. Every kind of snail dish imaginable in Cherasco, home of the Cherasco Worldwide Institute of Snail Breeding. (Bet you didn’t know there was one).

And, of course, several liters’ worth of wine from Barbaresco and Barolo to round out all the wine we had drunk in the Emilia Romagna region. We did have a few bottles of beer as well, including some prima ones from Birra Balladin (Piedmont) and Birrificio del Ducato (Parma) — but those are worth another round of words.

So what does Italia have to do with Doppelbock and aged Gouda? While we were on our adventure in search of the fine cheesemakers at San Pier Damiani in the Parma countryside, I got to thinking about recipes that combine beer and cheese. And what better way than to put the two together than in a fondue? The recipe below doesn’t feature Parmesan cheese for a few reasons. Parmesan doesn’t melt as well as many other cheeses. I also haven’t had a chance yet to experiment with Parmesan to finish fondues. Last but not least, I just so happen to have this old tried-and-true recipe kicking around that’ll help you stave off the evening chill of these autumn evenings.

Brechtian moment: I know it requires a bit of lateral thinking to get from Point A (northern Italian wines and cheeses) to Point B (northern European cheese and Bavarian beer) to Point C (fondue), but I’ve been looking for a way to work my Italy trip into a post for quite some time now. At any rate, it’s probably not the worst writing sin I’ve committed. And what’s not to like about Italian food and wine?

Before we get to the recipe itself, some beer and wine pairings:

  • Aged Gouda is a distinctive cheese, and melds seamlessly with both the Doppelbock and nutty sherries like Oloroso or Amontillado.
  • Stouts and porters match aged Gouda’s nuttiness and notes of caramel.
  • The “cru” Beaujolais wines from communes such as Moulin-à-Vent, Fleurie, Morgon, and Chiroubles balance fruity elegance with enough staying power to counter the cheese.
  • If you can find something like Birra Baladin’s Nora or their Elixir, you’ll be in for a treat. Nora is a rich and spicy “Egyptian” ale redolent of dates and candied orange peel, and Elixir is a cornucopia of honeyed figs, rum-soaked cherries, Demarara sugar, and plums accented by Belgian yeast aromatics.

At San Pier Damiani, one of many artisanal makers of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese

And now for the recipe:

Doppelbock Fondue (Serves 4-6)

Ingredients:

  • 0.75 lbs. aged Gouda
  • 0.3 lbs. Gruyère (the Swiss versions have more character)
  • 0.2 lbs. Emmenthal (ditto)
  • 1 500 mL bottle of Doppelbock (you’ll only use about 300 mL, but you can drink the rest)
  • 2 tbsp dry Amontillado or Oloroso sherry
  • 1 tbsp Moutarde de Meaux (or other suitably grainy mustard that isn’t too sharp or hot)
  • 1 tbsp shallot, finely chopped (a bit less than half a shallot, depending on its size)
  • 2 tbsp flour, divided
  • pinch sea salt, pinch cayenne, pinch nutmeg
  • 1 loaf sourdough bread or rye bread

Directions:

Cube the bread and grate the cheese. Mix in about a handful of flour into the grated cheese. Heat the beer till it bubbles, add shallots, then slowly incorporate the cheeses. Add the pinches of nutmeg and cayenne. Meanwhile, mix the mustard with the sherry. (If the fondue doesn’t appear thick enough as the cheese melts, dissolve the remaining flour in the sherry-mustard mix). Once the cheese has melted, finish with the sherry-mustard mix. Test for salt, and add sea salt if needed.

Notes:

For the beer, I use Weihenstephan’s Korbinian Doppelbock, which is suitably rich and complex. You could also try other malt-forward beers like Scotch ale or British barleywine. Weihenstephan’s Vitus or Schneider Weisse’s Aventinus could also be interesting options.

Sourdough bread goes particularly well with this fondue, as do vegetables such as mushrooms and parboiled cauliflower.

Grappa: perfect digestif after a rich fondue.

More Tempest posts to help ease you into winter:

Spreading Good Cheer with a Tankard of Mulled Beer

The Fonduementals of Beer and Cider: Recipes to Warm Your Weekend

Dining Down the Holiday Stretch: Choucroute à la Gueuze

Images by F.D. Hofer.

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

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What does it mean to “drink locally”?

The shadows are getting longer on this late afternoon in early autumn as I pull in from a long bike ride. I need a beer. Like most of us in North America these days, I’ll probably head down the road to the local brewery to quench my thirst or stop by a taproom that stocks a selection of beers brewed in the region.

***

Many of us have heard or even uttered variations of the following: Drinking beer brewed locally connects us with the place where we live. Drinking locally is a deliberate act that signals a rejection of mass-produced wares. Beer brewed by the sweat of the brow of the folks down the road is more authentic than the fizzy liquid that flows forth from large factories across the land. Beer brewed locally tastes better. And beer brewed locally might just taste of the place in which it was brewed.

But what does it actually mean when we say we “drink local”? This is a question I have entertained since the earliest days of A Tempest in a Tankard. I started thinking about it again after reading a recent article entitled “The Next Big Thing in Beer is Being a Small Taproom.” Of course, being a small taproom means selling most, if not all, of what you brew to patrons who live within a stein’s toss of the brewery. Local is in like it hasn’t been since the days before Prohibition.

As I begin to re-formulate my thoughts on locality, place, terroir, aura, and authenticity for a few new projects, I thought it might be worthwhile to isolate questions I have couched within longer Tempest articles and pose them here in relatively open-ended form. Chime in with your thoughts!

1. Do we feel more connected to locally-brewed beer than we do to beers brewed elsewhere?

2. What do we mean when we say “authentically local”? Who and what do we exclude in this place-marking gesture?

3. What does it mean to be “local”? Is it the brewery itself, rooted in its particular place, or is it the ingredients? Does the brewery down the street brew with “locally-sourced” ingredients, or does it brew with malt from Germany, the United Kingdom, or Belgium?

4. Does the use of internationally-sourced ingredients at the brewery on the corner render its beer less “local”?

5. What are the spatial constraints of the term local? Does it refer to ingredients produced within a hundred kilometers of the brewery, or –– if the brewery is, say, Belgian –– can the term also refer to hops produced in Bavaria’s Hallertau region but used in Brussels?

6. What if your “local” beer is brewed under contract in a different region or state? Who decides, in the end, what constitutes a locally-brewed beer?

7. What about the brewer who simply can’t brew a beer with “local” ingredients? Is the beer produced at a brewery amid the warehouses of a light industrial district any less “authentically local” than the beer that contains maple syrup tapped from trees on the brewer’s land?

8. In recent years some commentators have suggested that brewers and their innovations are a more decisive component of “terroir” than the soil in which the hops or grain are grown. Does this sentiment stretch the notion of terroir to its breaking point? Or is there something to it?

9. Beer was once stamped with a sense of place due to a number of factors beyond the control of local brewers. Nowadays, brewers in Austin can create helles Bier that tastes like those brewed in München. What happens to the uniqueness of terroir when skilled brewers separated by an ocean can make beer that tastes virtually identical?

10. Beers may be a reflection of place, but can we “taste place” in beer?

***

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please take a moment to address any of these questions in the comments. Cheers!

If you’re interested in how I have approached these questions, check out the following articles:

A Reflection of Place, But Dimly

Pinning Down Place

Romancing the Local

Returning for Another Sip of Terroir

Images by F.D. Hofer.

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

The Setting Sun: Five of Vienna’s Best Spots for a Late Summer Beer

A colleague of mine at the Wien Museum (Vienna’s city history museum) asked me over lunch today about some of my favourite places to have a beer in Vienna. It was a fitting question. He had recently participated in a learn-to-brew day at Brauwerk and has kindled an interest in beers beyond his favourite styles. It was also a timely question. Today was my last day at the Wien Museum. Two years in this fine city, and five days left.

As any regular reader of Tempest has probably noticed, I don’t normally do “best of” lists. But today I’ll make an exception. Maybe you, like me two years ago, have arrived in Vienna to work for one of Vienna’s many top-notch cultural institutions or international organizations. Perhaps you’re winding down a trip through Europe with a few days in Vienna. Maybe you’re a student who has arrived from abroad for a semester at one of Vienna’s many colleges and universities. Whatever the case may be, right about now you probably need a beer.

This is not a comprehensive guide to all that is new, hip, and happening on Vienna’s beer scene. Rather, this is a very personal tour of my favourite locales, places where I’ve taken old friends and made new ones.

Hawidere

Located in Vienna’s gritty 15th District (Rudolfsheim-Fünfhausen), Hawidere attracts a mixed crowd of beer enthusiasts and locals out for a drink. Hawidere pays tribute to an old Viennese salutation (“Hab’ die Ehre”) that means something along the lines of “I’m honoured to meet you.” The name of the pub may well be redolent of Alt Wien and the ambience evocative of a traditional Viennese tavern (Beisl), but the good people at Hawidere are very much attuned to the moment. A continually rotating selection of fourteen beers on tap and roughly seventy bottled varieties comprise the cutting-edge selection of beer from around Austria, Europe, and beyond. You’ll also find brews from “Collabs,” the owners’ own nomad label featuring (you guessed it) collaborations with breweries across Europe. And if you’re hungry? They have some of the heartiest burgers anywhere.

Kängaruh

In a city that has seen the likes of Brickworks and Mel’s Craft Beers and Diner pull in the craft beer crowd with admirable beer portfolios at (super) premium prices, it’s refreshing to see that the old-school Kängaruh still manages to keep a lid on things. But it’s not just the extremely fair prices that make Kängaruh so special. If Belgian beer is your thing, you won’t find a better range of styles and bottlings anywhere outside of Brussels. The candlelight ambience within and the small terrace outside invite you to dream of Belgium while sipping on a Cantillon, a Westy XII, or any other Belgian beer you haven’t heard of yet. A true gem of a place on the eastern edge of Vienna’s 6th District (Mariahilf).

1516 Brewing Company

Considering just how close this excellent brew pub is to where I worked for the past two years, it’s a shame I didn’t stop in more often. Lunches here were always a fine proposition: ample portions of North American-style pub food with an Austrian twist, and an ever-changing menu of creative beers to wash it all down. If you’re one of those who has an inexplicable allergic reaction to the German Reinheitsgebot (Beer Purity Laws) promulgated in 1516, fear not: you’ll be able to find your jasmine IPA here. But that doesn’t mean you won’t find some superb Central European-style beers brewed according to that very Reinheitsgebot to which 1516’s name refers. If you can’t make it for lunch, stop by in the evening. You won’t be alone.

Schweizerhaus

Few other al fresco drinking spots in Vienna combine shaded chestnut groves, roasted pork knuckles, conviviality, and freshly tapped Bohemian beer (Budweiser Budvar) the way the Schweizerhaus does. If it’s warm and sunny and you have time to go nowhere else in Vienna for a drink, go here.

*For more on the history of the Schweizerhaus and its Prater surroundings, check out my Exploring Vienna’s Beer Gardens

Medlbräu

Say you’ve just spent the day exploring the stately rooms and sprawling manicured gardens of Schloss Schönbrunn. You could do much worse than to quench your thirst at Medlbräu in nearby Penzing (Vienna’s 14th District). Medlbräu is one of the older “Hausbrauerein” (brew pubs) in Vienna, and they don’t venture far from the tried-and-true classics. For those of you missing full-flavoured lagers and maybe a decent Hefeweizen to top things off, this place is like an oasis in a town where it’s surprisingly hard to find a compelling Helles, Dunkles, or Märzen.

Five nights left as the sun sets on my two years in Vienna. Cheers to your first five days here!

Related Tempest posts:

Beer for a Day: Living the Good Life in Salzburg

Prelude to a Drink: Vienna

Beer Travel off the Beaten Track: Austria’s Innviertel

Exploring Vienna’s Beer Gardens

Vienna, City of Beer Gardens

All images by F.D. Hofer.

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

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Beer Flights: The Smart Way to Drink

5300-plus breweries in the United States and counting. Another 775 in Canada as of 2016 (and counting). A veritable explosion of new and innovative breweries in Europe’s strongholds of brewing tradition: Germany, Austria, the Czech Republic, the United Kingdom, and Belgium.

Judges at the 2016 edition of the Great American Beer Festival evaluated 96 general categories of beer covering 161 beer styles.

Never before has such a prodigious diversity of beers been available to those of us who like to drink them.

With all this variety, beer flights are more important now than ever before. I’m sure many would agree –– fortunately, flights are ubiquitous at North American craft-influenced establishments, and are on the rise in Europe. But occasionally I’m left scratching my head when hostility to flights bubbles to the surface.

Vinepair recently posted an article asking brewers to name a beer trend “that needs to die.” One response had to do with flights. Patrick Barnes of Islamorada Beer Company in Florida offered this response to the question of which beer trend he’d like to see go the way of the dodo bird:

“Beer flights. Beer is meant to be drunk by the pint, not by the shot. There are a lot of flavors and aromas that are lost in small tasting glasses, as well as switching back and forth between tasters wrecks your palate.”

Since the Vinepair article started making the rounds, more than a few friends, acquaintances, and members of Facebook beer groups have voiced support for doing away with beer flights. (Incidentally, this isn’t the first time that someone has expressed an antipathy toward flights. Back in early 2015, a barkeep in New York’s capitol region wrote an incredibly subtle think-piece entitled “Flights are dumb, and you’re dumb if you like them.”) Why this hostility to flights, perhaps one of the better ideas to come out of this phenomenon we call craft?

Before going any further, though I do have something against the typical shaker-type pint glass for reasons I’ve touched upon in my “Five Ways to Become a Better Drinker,” I have nothing against pint measures and have drunk my fair share. They have their time and place. Like in a beer garden, for example.

But to return to Barnes’s response: the assertion that beer is meant to be drunk by the pint is absurd. Why by the pint? Does every style of beer lend itself to being drunk by the pint? And why don’t we drink wine by the pint? After all, German late-harvest Rieslings have often have a lower alcohol percentage than many imperial stouts.

It’s similarly misguided to suggest that flavours and aromas are lost in small tasting glasses. A 4-ounce snifter that tapers toward the rim concentrates far more aromas than any 16-ounce pint glass of the shaker variety ever will. (I’ll go out on a limb here and assume that the vessel to which Barnes refers when he speaks of pints is the common shaker glass.)

Granted, switching back and forth between tasters can wreck your palate, especially if you have a high-IBU double IPA, an intensely hopped NEIPA, or a wild/sour in the flight. But let’s step back from the bar for a moment. Before the flight even gets off the ground, as it were, it’s the brewer’s or taproom manager’s responsibility to make sure his or her staff are familiar with the best ways to construct a flight so as to avoid palate fatigue. This could take the form of in-house training or subsidized Cicerone courses, or what have you. (Yes, I know that many breweries and taprooms already engage in this best of practices, but since some folks keep trashing flights … .)

Even the oldest brewery in the world is getting into the game

Now, one could adduce more potent arguments against flights along the following lines: Assembling a flight ties up a member of the bar staff who has to pull a number of 3- or 4-oz pours instead of one nice, hefty 16-oz pint. The bar staff then has to make sure that the drinker knows what each beer is. Though I do empathize with harried taproom staff, flights eminently address that wonderful issue of variety I mentioned at the outset. After all, the way I see it, a significant part of being a “craft” brewery or taproom involves education about beer and its myriad styles. Flights are the way to go.

An enlightening side-by-side tasting of gueuze and kriek: Boon, Tilquin, Cantillon, Girardin, etc.

  • Flights allow you to taste beers side by side. Depending on the flight that you or the bartender put together, you can taste a number of similar beers to see what makes a style tick, you can taste stouts next to porters to see what makes these styles subtly or not so subtly different, or you can run the gamut from a lager to a lambic. Say a brewery offers a range of IPAs –– something not entirely uncommon these days. Try them all next to each other in a flight. If you’re at a taproom, put together a flight of IPAs from different regions and taste them next to one another. Not only is this fun, it’s educational. Tasting beers side by side is much more of a revelation than drinking beers in succession.
  • For people just getting into craft beer –– or even for seasoned veterans –– flights provide an easy and enjoyable way for brewers or taproom staff to introduce drinkers to new styles, innovations, or experiments without the visitor needing to go “all-in” on a pint. (That smoked meat and maple syrup porter aged on juniper branches and blueberries sounded interesting in theory … )
  • Knocking back a few pints in a beer garden or in the pub on the way home from work is great if the beer clocks in at 4.8%-5% ABV. But when you’re talking American-style IPAs and numerous latter-day stouts, many of which clock in well north of 6.5% ABV, you’ll be feeling the hit sooner than later. Flights can make the next day that much more bearable.
  • Sure, anyone living in the vicinity of a particular brewery can head over from time to time to taste his or her way through the brewery’s offerings, pint by pint. But if I’m traveling through town and have only one shot at experiencing what a brewery has to offer, a flight means that I don’t have to get hammered in the process. I might eventually settle on a pint; offering a flight of beers gives me a chance to find that beer or beers.

So there you have it. Flights are smart, and you’re smart if you like them.

And sometimes only a pint will do. Cheers, everyone!

Related Tempest articles:

Five Ways to Become a Better Drinker in 2015

Epicurean Unbound: Five Ways to Expand Your Drinking Horizons

Three Vintages of Goose Island’s Sofie

All images by F.D. Hofer.

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

The Beer Gallery: Highlights from Belgium, Bavaria, and Bohemia

Cologne, Sunday, 11:30 in the morning. The server, called a Köbes in Cologne, brings me my second glass of Kölsch and makes another mark on my beer mat. I’m not the only one here. Around me sit a mix of regulars populating the area around the bar, elderly couples who have come to sip on a few beers after mass, a family stopping in for a light snack and a beer before their afternoon outing, and a handful of English-speaking beer enthusiasts at a nearby table who, like me, are here for the Kölsch. It’s a scene that plays itself out endlessly in the traditional taverns of Cologne and Düsseldorf.

Regensburg, Monday, 2:30 p.m. It’s almost too cold on this late spring day to sit out in a beer garden, but we’re rewarded with a magical view of Regensburg’s gothic cathedral and medieval town center on the opposite bank of the Danube. The Steinerne Brücke dates from the middle of the twelfth century, and was the only bridge across the Danube when it was built. Regensburg may not be Munich, but the beer’s just fine and it’s an ideal base from which to visit two of Bavaria’s more iconic breweries: Schneider Weisse in Kelheim and Kloster Weltenburg a half an hour from there by boat.

Kloster Weltenburg, Tuesday, 9:30 a.m. We made it to Kelheim in time for the first sailing along the Danube in the direction of the Donau Durchbruch, the stunning gorge that serves as a gateway to the equally marvelous Kloster Weltenburg. The Assam brothers designed the opulent church and monastery; Kloster Weltenburg brews a Doppelbock in their honour. It’s one of my favourite Doppelbocks, but it tastes even better underneath the chestnut trees of Kloster Weltenburg’s beer garden, rain be damned.

Goes great with Spargel

Prague, Wednesday, 6:00 p.m. From the terrace in the shadow of the Strahov Monastery the Malá Strana and Staré Město districts spread out beyond a stretch of urban orchards and vineyards. Once we’ve imbibed the view, we head off to rub shoulders with the early evening drinking crowd at the Pivnice u Černého Vola, one of many traditional Prague pubs. Fortunately, you’ll still find plenty of these gems amid the deluge of tourists and the bars that cater to them.

Prague: more than just pivo

Bruges, Thursday, 4:00 p.m. We walk past the place where I first encountered Belgian beer, way back on a misty late-autumn eveing in 1991. The beer looked like the pilseners and lagers I had just learned to appreciate in Germany, but something was just a little different. I downed it and ordered another. I drank this one a few seconds more slowly and noticed that the beer had a certain richness and residual sweetness to it. Not long into my third beer I noticed something else – a bit of an unexpected kick. This time around I discover a nice twist on this beer they call Tripel: Cuvée Soeur’is, an oak-aged triple kriek from Brouwerij de Leite served up in the dimly lit surroundings of ’t Brugs Biertje.

De Halve Maan brewery in the background

Bellegem, Friday, 8:30 a.m. After a night exploring the beer cafes of Brussels, I head out with an old friend to western Flanders. We were there for the Flemish red ale, and for a tour of Brouwerij Omer Vander Ghiste. Neither disappointed. And I made a new friend named Le Fort Tripel.

Foeder room, Omer Vander Ghiste

Munich, Saturday, mid-morning. The weather has finally turned the corner, and the Aumeister beer garden in the northern reaches of the Englische Garten is just the perfect place to be. It appears we’ve beaten the crowds this morning, but it won’t be long before we’re joined by three thousand like-minded folks on this balmy summer day.

Tea for two

***

This itinerary combines four different beer-related journeys upon which I’ve been lucky enough to embark over the past few months. Now that the “field research” is behind me (somebody’s gotta do it, right?), I’ll have time over the summer to put pen to paper and round out these sketches of life in Europe’s beer centers.

Here’s to hoping that you, too, will be able to dust off your travel gear and head out somewhere – anywhere! – in search of good beer. Prost!

Related Tempest articles:

The Colour of Fall Leaves: Tasting Notes on Märzen, Oktoberfestbier, and Vienna Lager

Let Us Now Praise Famous Lagers: Your Saturday Six-Pack (Vol.3)

Where the Wild Beers Are: Brussels and Flemish Brabant

All images by F.D. Hofer.

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

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How Paulaner’s Salvator Doppelbock Got Its Name

Paulaner may well have become one of the world’s leading brewers of Weissbier in recent decades, but its Salvator Doppelbock remains inseparable from the history of the brewery’s famous Salvatorkeller beer garden atop Munich’s Nockherberg.

The Süddeutsche Zeitung journalist Astrid Becker begins a recent article on Paulaner with an anecdote about a church bell. Markus Gottswinter, pastor of the Mariahilf church east of the Isar River, saves the bell for only the most special of occasions. And with good reason. When rung, the seven-tonne behemoth resounds with a force so thunderous that tiles fall from the roof of the church. The name of the bell: Salvator.

Cast in Erding in 1952, the bell was never intended for this church in the shadow of the Paulaner brewery. But the truck hauling it to its destination broke down in Nockherberg. The parishioners wasted little time in interpreting this fortuitous turn of events as a sign that the bell was meant for their church.

It’s also no surprise that the parishioners who inherited the bell called it Salvator. For here, in the vicinity of their church, the history of another behemoth named Salvator began: with the Paulaner order of Franciscan monks, who originally settled in 1629 in the Neudeck ob der Au monastery to the south of Mariahilfplatz.

The Paulaners inherited the right to brew in 1634 when the parents of one of their monks passed away. It just so happened that the parents came from a well-established brewing family. With their passing, the order acquired the Lerchl family’s brewing right (Braurecht), albeit with tight restrictions imposed by the city council. The Paulaners could brew beer in the Lerchlbräu brewery, but only for their own consumption.

Yet what the authorities decreed was a matter of indifference to the monks. They drank the beer they brewed, served it to the poor –– and sold it to the locals. Starting in 1651, the monks brewed a particularly strong beer each spring to honour the founder of their order, Franz von Paola (Francesco di Paola). Back then, the beer was euphemistically called “Sankt-Vaters-Öl” (oil of the sacred father) because the monks were allowed to consume plant oil during the Lenten fast. This salutary beverage found quite a following on account of its reputation for quality, and soon became the chief source of income for the order. So beloved was this beer that it engendered no small amount of consternation among the other brewers in the area. Their complaints kept the local magistrates busy, but to no avail. No amount of persistence could bring about a prohibition of the monks’ special form of hospitality –– perhaps because the magistrates, too, were convinced of the merits of the Paulaners’ strong beer.

It’s not entirely clear when the Paulaner monks began to brew Bock beer, a style that was all the rage in Munich well before the Paulaners came along. One detail is certain, though: the Paulaner interpretation was more formidable than the Bock that flowed forth from taps controlled by the secular authorities at the Hofbräuhaus. Not only that; the beer was also more substantial in a nutritional sense –– brewed strong enough, in fact, to carry the monks through the Lenten fast. This sweet, dark drink tapped every year on the occasion of Franz von Paola’s feast day went by several names: “Sankt-Vaters-Bier” (beer of the sacred father), “des heiligen Franz Öl,” (oil of the Holy Franz), or, simply, liquid bread.

Despite the prohibition of public sales, the good souls of Munich flocked to Nockherberg in droves every year on 2 April for a sip of that potent elixir. The beer-drinking public had spoken, and in 1660 the order’s brewing right was finally confirmed. In 1751, the Prince-Elector Max III Joseph legalized the sale of the beer for eight days in April. After all, he, too, was an enthusiast of this famed beer.The Paulaner Brewery experienced a dramatic shift when Bavaria became a kingdom in 1806. As a result of the secularization accompanying the Napoleonic Wars, the brewery was expropriated from the monks. Eventually, one Franz Xaver Zacherl acquired the brewery and all rights associated with it.

As we have seen, Paulaner’s strong beer had been known by many names over the centuries. Zacherl, however, recognized the need to sharpen the beer’s identity and worked tirelessly to turn it into a brand that beer connoisseurs recognize to this day. Inspired by the expression “Salve Pater Patriae,” he coined the term “Salvator” (saviour).

Given the popularity of the style, other breweries began calling their strong beers “Salvator.” Zacherl, one of the early combatants in the nascent field of trademark disputes, was not impressed with the flattery. He filed suit against his imitators, but passed away in 1849 before he could savour his success. In the end, the judges ruled in his favour: In a nod to tradition, the name Salvator was to remain a possession of the Paulaner Brauerei, but other brewers could use the suffix “-ator” in the branding of their Doppelbocks.

And with that begun over a century-and-a-half’s worth of Celebrators, Triumphators, Maximators, Liberators, even Alligators. The latter are particularly dangerous.

Related Tempest articles:

A Season for Strong Beer

From Horse Races to Beer Steins: Oktoberfest Since 1810

Where Did All the Märzen Go? Provisioning Oktoberfest Imbibers over the Centuries

Sources:

Astrid Becker, “Vater aller Starkbiere,” in Süddeutsche Zeitung (ed.), Mir san Bier: Braukunst und Biergärten in und um München, 2013.

Ursula Eymold (ed.), Bier.Macht.München: 500 Jahre Münchner Reinheitsgebot in Bayern, exhibition catalogue, Münchener Stadtmuseum, 2016.

Images:

Salvator-Ausschank auf dem Nockherberg, lithographed placard, 1951

Paulaner logo by Paulaner

Remaining images by F.D. Hofer

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

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A Season for Strong Beer

You have to admire a city where the rhythms of life revolve around excuses to tap a keg and raise a mug of good cheer.

Munich is one such city where the seasons are marked by festivities that involve a healthy amount of imbibing. Most of these beer festivals have their roots in Catholicism and are, more often than not, bound up with the arrival of spring, summer, autumn, and winter.

Salvator atop the Nockherberg

Not only is Oktoberfest famous the world over; residents of Munich survive the Lenten fast with hearty steins of “liquid bread,” and then ring in the threshold between spring and summer with Bockbier. Summer may not have its own beer –– plenty of helles Lager and the occasional Pilsner to go around, after all –– but it is the season for something quintessentially beer-related: the beer garden. Once the weather warms up, folks in Munich (and everyone else who happens to be in town) flock to shade of the stately chestnut trees to down liters of beer in the company of as many as 8000 like-minded connoisseurs of the leisurely life. We all know what transpires in Munich during September and early October. Then comes winter, and winter, too, demands a richer beer befitting the season.

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Since the weather still hasn’t turned beer garden in Central Europe, let’s dwell, for the moment, with those last drops of Doppelbock trickling from casks in Munich.

Doppelbock has a history that dates back a few hundred years, and is intimately bound up with the Paulaner monks and the beer garden atop the Nockherberg where both monastery and brewery once stood. Already in 1843, visitors to Munich took notice of this Starkbier (strong beer) that flowed in abundance during Lent and was popular enough to occasion a festival:

On particular feast days during the spring and summer, the citizens of Old Munich cultivated the habit of seeking out houses of God beyond the city walls to perform their devotions. The church of the Paulaner monastery in the Au district counted itself among those places. Here, the monks held an eight-day festival in honour of the founder of their order, the holy Father Franz von Paula. The so-called “Festival of the Holy Father” began, as a rule, on 2 April and is said to have radiated a particular charm among the male population as far back as the eighteenth century. One reason for this may well have been the “Holy Father Beer” brewed by the monks, which just so happened to be served during these festive days. The beer was also called “Oil of the Holy Father” (Heil Vater Öl), on account of the fact that the Paulaner monks were only permitted to nourish themselves with oil during the Lenten fast. Apparently this particularly strongly-brewed beer counted as such.

No less a literary luminary than Friedrich Schiller penned these observations about Munich and its manifest love of Starkbierzeit (the season of strong beer). But how did Nockherberg reach such a pinnacle? Or, put differently, why was it –– and why is it still –– that aficionados of Doppelbock make their way up the Nockherberg to the Salvatorkeller, as it’s known in the vernacular, that pinnacle of Starkbier where “the father of all strong beer” was first brewed?

~Stay tuned!~

Paulaner am Nockherberg

Related Tempest articles:

O’ zapft is! Oktoberfest 2016

From Horse Races to Beer Steins: Oktoberfest Since 1810

In the Cool Shade of the Beer Garden

Sources:

Süddeutsche Zeitung (ed.), Mir san Bier: Braukunst und Biergärten in und um München, 2013.

For the Schiller passage, see Ursula Eymold (ed.), Bier.Macht.München: 500 Jahre Münchner Reinheitsgebot in Bayern, exhibition catalogue, Münchener Stadtmuseum, 2016, p.312 (translation F.D. Hofer).

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

Beer for a Day: Living the Good Life in Salzburg

It’s been awhile. Blame Vienna. It’s not the first time I’ve done so over the course of the past eighteen months. Rather than sit here and tell you about all the cool stuff I’ve got in the works, I thought I’d dash off a quick post about my recent visit to Salzburg en route to the mountains around Zell am See. I’ll save Salzburg’s rich history for another day and head straight for the Wirtshäuser (taverns) and beer gardens.

Build up your appetite with a walk up the Kapuzinerberg

Salzburg isn’t exactly a beer pilgrimage site like virtually all of Belgium and Bavaria, but it’s worth a visit should you end up in Munich one of these years for Oktoberfest. For starters, it’s a gem of a baroque city. Then there’s all those tasty Mozartkugeln, a pistachio core surrounded by nougat surrounded by chocolate. Of course, there’s the whole Sound of Music industry, too. (Trivia: yours truly spent half a year in Salzburg in the mid-nineties working for a company that did Sound of Music tours.) Last but not least, the person for whom the Mozartkugel is named was born in Salzburg.

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If you’ve spent any time in Salzburg at all, chances are you’ve noticed the intricate wrought-iron signage. Some of these signs convey extremely useful information.

We got horses, we also got beer

Formerly Gabelbräu. Gösser will do in a pinch.

More signs of the good life in Salzburg

After walking up, down, and around the Kapuzinerberg, you’ve probably worked up a bit of an appetite. Zwettler’s is a cozy place not far from the cathedral square. The hearty Austrian cuisine is on point, as is their beer, especially their Kaiser Karl Weissbier (brewed at the Brauerei Schwendl in Bavaria).

In case you’re wondering, it’s called Gerösteter Knödel mit Ei — a Wirtshaus classic

Now that you’ve satisfied your hunger, it’s time to make the trek to the Augustiner Bräustübl in Mülln. No beer trip to Salzburg is complete without a trip to this beer hall and garden run by the monks. Here’s the drill: Choose between the 1-liter or half-liter steins, give your stein a good rinse, tell the cashier which beer you want (usually they just have a Märzen, but depending on the season you might be lucky enough to find a Bock beer), and then give your stein to the person tapping the beer from wooden casks.

Take your pick

Give it a rinse

Give it to the man with the cask

Then go find a seat in the beer hall

Once you’ve hoisted a few steins in the beer hall or the beer garden, you can head back in the direction of town via the scenic route over the Mönchsberg. This has two advantages: You’ll catch stunning views both of the fortress that dominates Salzburg’s skyline and of the Untersberg that looms up over it all. You’ll also effectively make room in your stomach for your next round of beer. Assuming you’ve managed to navigate the trails successfully, you’ll pass under the fortress just above the Stieglkeller. When the weather’s nice, nothing beats a mug of beer on the terrace of the Stieglkeller with Salzburg’s Altstadt (old town) spread out below. (Stiegl, incidentally, is Austria’s largest private brewery. Skip the Goldbräu and grab a Pils. Better yet, order anything that they have on tap from their Stiegl-Gut Wildshut experimental brewery.)

Festung Hohensalzburg

The Stieglkeller terrace. Not a bad place for a stein.

The night is young, as they say, so before heading out to Die Weisse, Austria’s oldest wheat beer brewery, take a stroll along the Salzach River back in the direction of the Augustiner for some unforgettable Austrian cuisine in one of Salzburg’s legendary Wirtshäuser (tavern). The Bärenwirt has been doing its thing since 1663, and the portions truly are bear-sized. Wash it all down with beer from the Augustiner.

They call this a Vorspeise (appetizer)! Geräuchertes Saiblingsfilet (char) mit Oberskren (horse radish in whipped cream)

If you haven’t succumbed to a food coma yet, walk off dinner en route to Die Weisse. There, you can tuck into some superb wheat beers, or you can kick up your heels in the attached night club. Me? I’ll just stick to beers this time around. Gotta be up to catch the early train to Zell am See.

Prost!

*Of note: Be sure to sample some beers from Salzburg’s Gusswerk, one of Austria’s pioneer craft beer breweries.

Related Tempest posts:

In the Cool Shade of the Beer Garden

Beer Travel off the Beaten Track: Austria’s Innviertel

Vienna, City of Beer Gardens

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.

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Brown Beers (Still) Get No Luvin’

Brown beer has an image problem.

Joe Tindall over at The Fatal Glass of Beer (host of this month’s “The Session: Beer Blogging Friday”) sums it up well: “The unglamorous brown middle ground is consistently neglected.”

I wrote about this very same topic a few years back, so rather than reinvent the wheel, I’m going to cite some of that article here. For that piece, I cobbled together a 6-pack of brown beers that are still worth your time, so check ’em out. This time around, I’m going to give you the view from Continental Europe.

Though decidedly brown in colour, Scottish ales don’t languish under the same stigma as their counterparts south of the border.

But first I have to admit that I haven’t had too many beers that announce themselves as “brown beer/ale” since I’ve been in Vienna. For the most part, they’re just not that widely available. Most new’ish European brewers stick to styles that have stood the test of crowd-rated time, so to speak. IPAs and pale ales abound among Euro craft brewers, as do stouts, porters, and the occasional sour or barrel-aged beer. Beers that have “brown beer/ale” on the label? Not so much. That’s not to say that there aren’t plenty of amber/copper/brown beers that you should check out in Europe or in the Euro aisle of your favourite bottle shop. There are. But these Bocks, Märzens, Dubbels, and Quads manage to avoid that never-land between Nacht und Nebel, night and dawn. (Ever heard of Aventinus getting dissed for being a brown beer? Me neither.)

So today I’m going to head out to my favourite bottle shop, BeerLovers, to see how brown beers are doing in Vienna’s vibrant craft beer community. While I’m doing that, here’s what I wrote a few years back:

Brown beers get no luvin’. And that’s a crying shame.

Maybe it’s our infatuation with IPAs and IBUs. Maybe it’s brown beer’s vaguely middle-of-the-road status: Brown ale has precious little in common with a lager, Pils, cream ale or Kölsch, and doesn’t quite match the intensity of most porters and stouts. Brown ale ranges in colour from dark amber to chestnut to copper-brown, sometimes even dark brown. But other beers that aren’t subject to the brown beer stigma share these characteristics as well, like some pale ales and old ales.

Some English bitters flirt with the outer edges of brown––no less brown than a Sam Smith Nut Brown, which is actually of the dark amber persuasion. Many barleywines exhibit varying hues of brown as well, and guess what? They don’t suffer from any image problems. And then there’s all those lighter-coloured and less intensely-hued porters. Doing just fine too. Brown beer loses out because it’s called Brown Beer. I mean, can you really call a beer “Back in Brown,” or “Fade to Brown,” or “All Cats at Night Are Brown”? No. “My Brown Cardigan” might be as good as it gets. If that fails, name the beer after your (brown) dog.

But is this a mere hue and cry over colour? It’s more than that, I think. The colour spectrum of brown beer shades over into a hybridity of aroma and flavour as well: not quite pale ale, not quite porter. We’re at a loss when confronted with a brown beer. Are brown beers malty or hoppy? Full-flavoured or a well-choreographed ballet of moderate levels of malt and hops? Sessionable? Dry or slightly sweet? All of the above? Brown beers may well be the quintessential “undecidable” beer style. Which is, perhaps, why we decide against it when the choices at our local bottle shop or taproom are so vast.

[…]

*The Newcastle Brown Ale website suggests a serving temperature of 38-40F (3-4C), but in my experience these beers do much better at cellar temperature. If you drink them cool or cold, you won’t get any of the subtle malt characteristics that only come into their own around 50F (10C) or higher.

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Now for those beers I rustled up at BeerLovers. Notably, Austria’s Bierol (rhymes with Tirol, where they’re from) suggests a serving temperature of 10C for its entry into the rather barren field of Continental European brown beer, so we’ll start our 2017 six-pack of brown beer here.

Going Hazelnuts (Bierol, Austria, 5.7%). As the name suggests, this beer has been finished with hazelnuts –– organic, no less. Going Hazelnuts exhibits none of the extract character that plagues so many browns ales featuring nuts. Toasty caramel, mocha, chocolate almonds, dried cherry, a hint of char, and earthy hop-spice round out the distinctive coffee/chocolate and roasted barley aromas, while creamy carbonation adds richness on the palate. Nut liqueur (Frangelico), and bitter chocolate set the stage for a mild floral-spicy hop note mid-palate that shades into licorice root and dark cherry near the off-dry finish. A classic brown ale that hits all the chocolate, coffee, and nut notes –– helped along by a well-integrated charge of hazelnuts.

Jackie Brown (Mikkeller, Denmark/Product of Belgium, 6%). The colour of milk chocolate, Mikkeller charts compelling new territory with a beer that uses American hops without hitting you over the head with them. Jackie Brown is also the kind of beer that highlights how much brown beer can have in common with barley wine. It starts off with malt aplenty: Ovaltine, toast, caramel, and black tea hinting at mugi-cha.* Earthy with some licorice, the aromas are also reminiscent of cherries and cinnamon-spiked cocoa. Give the beer some time to open up and you’ll be rewarded with another cascade of aromas and flavours: fir tree, caramelized orange zest, dates, Oloroso-like nut notes, a sassafras/root beer spiciness, and even some Japanese-style brown sugar (kuro-sato). Jackie Brown is no wall flower, with a clean bitterness that lends the beer a certain levity in the face of all that rich caramel. Intensely flavoured yet elegant, with a long, herbal-bitter finish accented by fruit and nuts. One Tankard

*Mugi-cha is a refreshing cold barley tea brewed up in Japan to combat the summer heat and humidity. It has a distinctive quality reminiscent of roasted barley, bran, and brown malt.

Imperial Brown Ale (Nøgne Ø, Norway, 7.5%). Nøgne Ø notes that what makes their IBA unique is their blend of English malts and predominantly American hops. In this case, claims of uniqueness bear themselves out. From the moment the beer hits the glass, its opalescent dark amber-bronze colour with orange hues clearly states that brown beers can look mighty fine. The “woodsiest” beer of the bunch, Nøgne Ø’s IBA exudes aromas of forest floor mixed with dark forest berries such as black berry and wild raspberry. Fir needles and caramelized orange zest meet rich brown sugar and toasty biscuit/cookie malt notes, and a dusting of baking spice adds depth. The beer’s a riot of flavours, but a contained one. American-style hops are clearly present in the high end of the mix, balanced by a hint of molasses and brooding toast-toffee-anise bass notes. A digestif-like bitterness contributes additional layers of complexity to the beguiling residual sweetness, while dried apricots linger in the aftertaste. Pleasantly warming alcohol makes this the perfect beer to cap a day in the snow. Cellar-worthy. Two Tankards

Mochaccino Messiah, Coffee Brown Ale (To Øl, Denmark, 7%). It seems that Scandanvians like their brown ales, nomenclature be damned. To Øl’s entry into the field makes use of flaked oats, lactose, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Mochaccino Messiah is slightly darker than milk chocolate, with a foam cap reminiscent of the crema atop an espresso. The aromatics are distinctly coffee-driven: roasted coffee beans with that green/jalapeno “bite” common to many coffee beers, and with an interesting top note that flirts with cassis. Hints of fir emerge from behind the coffee screen along with a suggestion of baking spice and vanilla. Carbonation is lively, uniting with the bitterness to create an uplifting peppery effervescence. Bittersweet chocolate makes a cameo appearance, along with cocoa and a hint of cinnamon/cardamom. As the beer warms, it takes on a wine-like character that gestures toward toasty-oak Cabernet Franc with raspberry-jalapeno-pepper. But in the end, it’s all about the coffee, perhaps too much so.

Northumberland Brown Ale (Austmann Bryggeri, Norway, 5.5%). Rounding out the Nordic entries in this 6-pack is Austmann’s tribute to dark mild ale. Inky dark chocolate brown in colour, Northumberland looks like a porter. Expect plenty of freshly ground dark-roast coffee along with fruity chocolate notes that fold in raspberry, boysenberry and plum-cherry yeast aromatics. Firmly bittered and slightly acrid, the beer offers up licorice root and dark-roasted coffee, with plenty of bitter chocolate, a dash of chocolate liqueur, raspberry, and hazelnuts. The effervescent carbonation borders on prickly, making for a bracingly taut beer –– the liquid analogue of dark berry compote over toast with your morning coffee on the side.

2015 Wildshuter Männerschokolade (Stiegl, Austria, 5.5%). Bookending our 6-pack of Continental brown ales is a fine beer from one of Austria’s regional breweries. Ales aren’t the first thing that come to mind if you’re familiar with this brewery whose majestic beer garden overlooks the old town of Salzburg. But Stiegl recognized that there was something to this whole craft beer thing, and started a line of 750-mL releases under their Stieglgut Wildshut label. The brewers make astute use of alpine peacock barley, chocolate wheat malt, and black oats to create this chestnut brown ale that delivers luscious malt aromas and textured flavours in spades. Ovaltine, mugi-cha, cocoa, dark chocolate, brown sugar, black cherry, roasted nuts, and salted caramel make up a malt palette that recalls Baltic porter at times. Dates, raisins, and figs contribute to the dried-fruit complexity, while a hint of alpine meadows from the Central European hops carries over onto the palate. Cola-sassafras and a subtle mid-palate pepper-herbaceousness add a playful bright note to the crème caramel-like malt richness. Despite all the chocolate, mocha, and dark cherry malt character, Männerschokolade finishes dry with just the slightest suggestion of chocolate cake-like sweetness. A smooth, flavourful, and extremely drinkable beer that won’t knock you to the floor after a few glasses. Two Tankards

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If you’re in Europe, grab a six-pack of these under-rated beers to sip over the weekend! If you’re in North America, ask your favourite bottle shop to check availability with its distributors. Enjoy!

Related Tempest Articles

A World of Stouts for Your Weekend

Brown Beers Get No Luvin’: Your Saturday Six-Pack (Vol.2)

Say No to Style Loyalty

The Lost Abbey’s 10 Commandments: A Warming Beer for Winter Evenings

Further Reading

Jamil Zainasheff and John J. Palmer, Brewing Classic Styles (Boulder: Brewers Publications, 2007).

Michael Jackson, The New World Guide to Beer (Philadelphia: Running Press, 1988).

BJCP Style Guidelines, 2008 and 2015 editions.

Images

With the exception of the Session Friday logo and the logos and labels from brewery and bottle shop websites (Mikkeller, Nøgne Ø, Stiegl, BeerLovers), images by F.D. Hofer.

© 2017 F.D. Hofer and A Tempest in a Tankard. All rights reserved.