The Session #23 – Last Year/This Year

It's the first Session for 2009, so host "Beerme" at Beer and Firkins has asked us, appropriately enough, to look back on The Year in Beer 2008 (what will we miss?) and also think about what might await us in '09. (Check out the roundup at B&F.)

So here's the partly-abbreviated-but-not-really tale of a fine beer experience I had in 2008 – one which I surely miss and will continue to long for in that misty-eyed, alco-romantic way.

I spent a good chunk of late spring/early summer in Europe, enjoying such places as Paris, southern France, Spain and London. As is often the case when I vacation, the trip consisted of me trying to beer-hunt as much as possible without driving my travelmates crazy.

Enjoying beer in strange lands is always an exhilarating experience, but perhaps never more so than when those lands are some of the world's great beer hotspots, where you can take in classic beer styles as fresh as can be and in the places where and among the people with whom they were meant to be consumed.

For that reason I consider myself extraordinarily lucky to have visited Belgium, Germany and the Czech Republic in the past (and let's not forget, to live in the United States right now), and to have spent time in London last year. Anyone moderately versed in beer styles and beer history knows why England is a special place for people like ourselves, and a visit to the pubs of London should almost be considered requisite for those who have the inclination and the means. For me, it was little short of a revelation.

I had drank cask-conditioned (American) beers in the past, and liked them. I had drank plenty of English ales in the past, and depending upon the style either liked them very much or felt indifferent at best. But English cask ales, in England? Hoo boy.

The first thing worth remarking is how plentiful hand-pulled real ale is in London. Any "authentic-looking" pub worth visiting (now here's a circular definition) has several cask ales on offer. Yes, some pubs carry only a major brand (Fuller's rules at The Hung Drawn and Quartered – that's just one of plenty of examples) but England's many free houses feature small, independent breweries that even a devoted Yankee beer snob is likely never to have heard of. Either way, who cares – it's delicious and it's authentic.

And how about the fact that many of these ales boast alcohol percentages in the low 3's. You may at first have to reset your thinking from a low alcohol = low flavor mindset. Give me a hand-pulled, 3.2-percent Dark Mild any day, thank you. Give me several, in fact. That is, after all, the idea.

The whole experience was enough to make this hitherto English-ale-agnostic homebrewer seriously consider going on a British brewing binge. Speaking of which, I'll wrap this up neatly by naming that as my beer item to look forward to in 2009. It's just a damn shame I don't have a beer engine...

On Beer in Spain

The interesting thing about Europe is, when it comes to beer, it can be pretty much hit or miss. The continent is, after all, where most of the world's great beer styles were conceived, and accordingly, Europe is home to some of the oldest, most well developed, and most appreciative beer cultures there are. Consider the contributions made by places like Belgium, Germany, Czech Republic, and England to the global beer scene, and to the diverse array of finely crafted brews to which that culture is dedicated. Oh, and the likes of Ireland, Scotland, and Austria are no slouches either in the beer department.

But while significant pockets of Beervana do indeed beckon the Europe-bound beer traveler, there is, unfortunately, as much — OK, more — European geography where beer remains mired in mediocrity, woefully unglorified, and eons, it would seem, from attaining the status it enjoys elsewhere on the continent.

In these places, major brewing consortia along with perhaps one or two large regional or national breweries dominate the scene. The offerings are typically as limited as they are homogeneous: standard macro-lagers, as few as one to a bar, with names like Heineken or Amstel. Or, if we're being "local," it might be Kronenbourg or Damm or whatever the national beer of country X happens to be.

There is some good news. Many mass-produced European lagers are in fact more flavorful and enjoyable than their American counterparts. Doubtless this is accomplished by not overwhelming the beer with adjuncts (corn or rice, often) as Budweiser and Miller do. I am no student of the history of European consumerism, but I would suspect it's true that while the U.S. was being hit with the wave of Wonder-Bread-and-instant-coffee homogeneity that started sweeping through just after the second half of the 20th century, and also coincided with the rise of the macro-lagers that still dominate America today, Europeans' tastes for local, artisanal, and quality products had largely remained intact.

But still, absent a great tradition of flavorful beers in the first place, what we find available today still largely caters to the tastes of the masses, which in places like Spain invariably means light, easy on the palate, and drinkable.

And so it was that we, shortly after our rickety old train had crossed the frontier between France and Spain, found some suds in the dining car to which the above description neatly applies. Mahou Cinco Estrellas was its name, a standard lager brewed in Madrid by Grupo Mahou-San Miguel, which is not to be confused with the San Miguel brewed in the Philippines by an entirely different company. Maybe the long train ride was getting to me, but this Mahou stuff was not terrible. Not great, but not terrible. I'd certainly take it over a Bud Light.

Oh but wait — let's not get too carried away lionizing European megabrews. The aforementioned S.A. Damm brewery of Barcelona, Spain, makes a product called Estrella Damm. It is exceedingly common in Barcelona and the capital, Madrid (Mahou Cinco Estrellas isn't too unheard of, either). But in this case, Estrella Damm might as well be Miller Lite. Flavorless by light lager standards, it is even more so by European standards. All the more pity that any given Spanish bar is ulikely offer much else to fall back on.

That is why the serious beer traveler will not risk visiting just any Spanish bar. As with other European towns (Paris, Amsterdam) that lack their own serious beer culture, the bigger Spanish burgs like Barcelona, Madrid, and Zaragoza will have a few hidden jewels for the devotee willing to do a little advance research. Also, as with other European cities in this category, the beer oases in question will just about always take the form of an Irish pub or a Belgian beer joint. This stands to reason — the pub is a universally known paradigm of beer-drinkery, and Belgian beers are known through the world (at least among those who care) as being among the finest.

Irish pubs will tend to abound more so than Belgian bars, as you might expect. And, also predictably, you're apt to find Guinness in just about any such pub or perhaps Murphy's Red as your local-swill alternative. Hey, something is better than nothing.

Seek, therefore, the Belgians. Barcelona has a couple — Belchica has a handful of taps plus a wide array of bottles, including even a case of Westvleteren that, though full, is sadly for display purposes only — as does Madrid. In Zaragoza, one of the town's most impressive (perhaps the most impressive; I did not have time to scout the competition) Belgian beer bars is to be found, albeit temporarily, at the World Expo 2008. You see, countries from around the world create their own exhibits for the expo, and Belgium's features an impressive bar that offers some of that country's finer brews (including a few Trappists and the wonderful yet all-too-elusive Poperings Hommel Bier) among an impressive draft and bottle list. The expo ends in mid-September, but luckily Belgium won't be taking all the Belgian beers out of Zaragoza with them — this as evidenced by the handy Belgian beer pubcrawl guide the Belgians created for the expo. According to the pamphlet (again, time did not permit personal inspections), there are roughly 20 spots in town that serve at least one Belgian beer. As a further reassurance, two of said bars are named "Beerland" and "The Temple of Beer." Not too shabby, Zaragoza.

More musings on Spanish beer to come...

The (Other) Bass Glass

I'm not certain that this glass constitutes a particular style of glassware, but it is unique. As one might expect, Bass has slapped its logo on no small number of drinking vessels over the years. (See, for example, the tulip pint.) So it is hard – impossible, perhaps, to say what constitutes the "official" Bass glass.

Still, this glass is the only one I've seen that incorporates Bass' famous triangle logo -- the oldest registered trademark in Britain – in the construction of the glass itself. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's the only glass I've seen to incorporate any beer's trademark in the physical design. It may be a little hard to tell from the picture, but the base of this glass is a thick, elegantly contoured triangle.

The rest of the glass is, admittedly, a little on the boring side. It is tall and slender, pleasant to look at and adorned prominently with the Bass name and logo, but structurally the glass doesn't offer much to the drinking experience. The walls are straight and flare outward at the top. Not the best arrangement for head and aromas.

Ah well. Any Bass drinker probably wouldn't mind giving this glass a go at least once. It's not every day you can drink out of one of the world's oldest trademarks.

The Tulip Pint

Not as prevalent in England as the nonic, the tulip is nevertheless a common shape in the imperial pint glass family. It's also, as you can see, popular among brewers looking to create special logo glassware.

The tulip glass -- so named because of its resemblance to the flower, as you might have guessed -- is easily identifiable by the way it flares above the center before gently tapering near the mouth. As such, it does a better job of capturing a beer's aromas than does a straight-sided glass or one that flares outward at the top. Plus, the tulip's graceful curves enhance the overall aesthetics of the well-poured pint resting inside.

In the U.K., a pint measures 568 mL or 19.2 ounces. This is known as the imperial pint, and imperial pint glasses, such as this Murphy's glass (right), are typically large enough to accommodate the prescribed volume of liquid plus sufficient head. In Britain, particularly, beer lovers take their drinking so seriously it is expressly illegal to short a bar patron on his pint of beer. Officially calibrated glassware and even calibrated pumps for draught beer are employed to keep unscrupulous tavern owners from ripping off thirsty Britons.

Certainly, not all tulip glasses need measure an imperial pint, and nor do they. Versions such as this Bass tulip (right) measure one standard U.S. pint (16 ounces). Such promotional glassware is doubtless produced with American bar owners, who don't want to introduce an extra pricing scheme, in mind.

In addition, it should be noted that in the case of this 16-ounce tulip, that measurement -- unlike in U.K. versions -- will go right up to the lip of the glass, meaning a pour with the proper head will in fact be less than one pint. Lest this shock you, consider that the standard tumbler pint glass is actually designed the same way. Ever wonder why a 12-ounce bottle of beer appears to nearly fill up a pint glass when poured with a couple fingers' head? Keep that in mind next time you think you've bought 16 ounces of beer down at the local taproom.

The tulip, by virtue of its heritage, is a natural choice for just about any English ale. American ales do well in the tulip also, and thanks to its slightly tapered mouth, it's not a terrible idea to use the tulip for some of your more aromatic beers, such as Pale Ale and IPA. Really, the tulip is versatile enough to accommodate a wide range of styles, including many lagers. Generally speaking, Barleywine, Eisbock and other high-octane beers should find their way into a more globular vessel, such as a snifter.

The Nonic

Give the English credit -- although they may often be accused of being plain and boring (and their session beers, with names like "Mild" and "Ordinary Bitter," don't always blow this perception out of the water), their standard drinking vessels do tend to show at least a little more creative flair that their straight-sided, chunky American counterpart.

OK, so the operative phrase here is "a little." Enter the nonic, the U.K.'s most popular style of glassware. It is distinguished by its obvious bulge near the top of the glass, which is either meant to improve the drinker's grip or prevent stacked glasses from sticking together -- or perhaps both. Your typical nonic, as found in the U.K., will check in at 568 mL or 19.2 ounces (an imperial pint, in other words), and will be diligently and consistently filled to its proper capacity, under penalty of law.

Not surprisingly, given its popularity across the pond, the nonic looks best when filled to the brim with an authentic English-style ale -- anything from Bitter to London Porter would be a natural choice. (Although, at least in this writer's opinion, Porters and Stouts look best in the nonic.) What matters most, however, is that whatever ale you chose to dispatch into the nonic, it had best be plentiful enough in supply to furnish an entire evening's worth of serious pub-style session drinking.