The Session #111: Round Up (Part 2)

I apologize thoroughly to the writers I left hanging by delaying this second part of the Session round-up. Like I said on Twitter, I have lots of excuses, but none of them are very good, so I’ll just say I’m sorry.

Anyway!

Quick recap: Inundated by politics and petty internet squabbles, beer had me feeling lower than lager yeast. I asked the internet if it was just me, or a larger trend. A bunch of people in the first round-up seemed to think it was just me, but what say the other bloggers?

Tom Bedell, beer and golf enthusiast extraordinaire, writes about his own early beer-life crisis and run in with the dread pirate Ralph Lauren, which lead to him taking off his beer writing hat for some time. A bit like me, he thought the sickness ran a little deeper, affecting his wont to write at all. The good news though, is that he never stopped drinking…er…”researching” beer, as the passion that was temporarily sucked out of his pen, never seemed to get sucked out of his glass. Unlike us whiny millennials, Tom’s got the luxury of perspective to help keep him grounded:

“I have a long view, after all, and remember when things were at a nadir. I’m far from jaded about the existing profusion of choice, although also unlikely to be bedazzled by the next new thing.”

He closes with some musing about being a specialist or generalist, something I think a lot of niche writers struggle with. It’s good to see Tom finding his stride though (he’s writing a book!), as it gives me hope that I’ll find mine. The last line of his post might be the best line of all the entries (no offense to the other wonderful writers), as it speaks to why beer matters, or should matter, or shouldn’t be a chore:

“I find beer more enjoyable placed in a wider context, where it engages, or blends in, with more aspects of one’s endeavors, interests and enthusiasms. I suspect if I ever tire of beer in that sense, then I’ll be tired of life.”

Friend of the program, Doug Smiley, came out of beer blogging retirement to answer my cry for existential help. He describes his own tendency to go all-in on a topic, until he’s had his fill, at which point he quits cold-turkey. That’s not how my brain functions, but I know other people a lot like Doug, and I respect ones ability to know exactly what you want for how long you want it, because the flip side is holding onto worthless stuff and feeling bad that you can’t let go of it. Doug describes the come-down from his beer binge, explaining how he used to keep up with blogs and news site until he realized that a vast majority of it was repetitious and shallow. I can’t disagree with that (seriously, no more articles about cans please please please). I do, however, disagree with the idea that it’s not the writers, but the topic that’s limited:

“And it’s not necessarily a case of the people writing about this stuff being bad writers it’s just that the topic is limited. Salsa bloggers would have the same issue. Maybe we should all take our cue from the Salsa blogosphere and ask ourselves if we really need daily coverage of a food stuff?”

I think this is a matter of lazy or unadventurous writers coupled with publications that won’t take a risk on any article that won’t generate clicks, more so than beer being limited. There are outlets producing wonderful, well researched and written beer stories, but those get lost in the sea of listicles and fluff. Tom Bedell’s quote above resonates with how broad beer can be, with the right context and the right writer. Oh god I just said can. It’s happening to me too.

Regardless, I appreciate Doug’s honesty and candid approach. I think he’s right that we’ve gotten a little carried away with romancing the hops, and that some (most?) people don’t need sociological or scientific analysis to drink and enjoy their beer.

The next entry comes from Draft Magazine, which is awesome in and of itself. Zach Fowle answered my question with a resounding “no, it’s not the industry, it’s you,” suggesting what I was feeling was a “natural stage in the life cycle of a beer geek.” The rest of his piece cleverly outlines the stages, and what one might experience at each stage, which is a great idea and something I really wish I had written. The four stages, Birth, Adolescence, The Crisis (me), and Maturity, are pretty damn apt, and you should really just pop on over to Draft to read the whole thing yourself.

My favorite line, which speaks to this topic directly, comes from The Crisis phase:

“I think you have to approach beer differently. You have to rekindle the love of beer by reevaluating what excites you about it, and generally that’s not driving across state lines to try a few sips of draft-only, no-growler whalez.”

My Montana buddy Alan offers his own mini re-cap of the Session to kick off his exploration of beer burnout. He’s not having a crisis, he says, but admits that he needed a break from writing about beer. I like the idea, as I’ve always found breaks useful, too – a day or two off from running rejuvenates, a day or two off learning a new piece of music somehow helps the melody sink further into your brain. In typical Oliver style, I had over analyzed my sagging enthusiasm, and probably gave it more credence than it deserved, but Alan set me right:

“It’s not so much a midlife crisis as a useful pause. Somewhere in converting from “fan-boy” to knowledgeable, objective observer, there are many choices to be made about how to continue writing about beer.”

Alan goes on to explain that his understanding of beer has changed dramatically since he first started his journey in the 1990s. Which makes sense, because the whole industry has changed, too. His new perspective of the importance of simple quality over hype has brought him back around to writing about beer, and he hopes his readers will respect that his time off will lead to better writing. He’s also looking for help nailing the Belgian character in his homebrew, which leads me to…

…the Belgiany and phenolic Chris Barnes of I Think About Beer! He describes his own issues with the culture that drag his optimism through the mud, mainly cynicism and entitlement (of which, there is way too much to go around in the beer community). I think a lot of my own disillusionment came from interactions with the type of people who would rather condescend than converse, so it’s nice to hear that I’m not the only rampant optimist annoyed by those hop garblers. Chris goes on to describe the niche he found as he settled into consistent writing, and how that niche presented him with some wonderful opportunities, personally and vocationally. He echoes a lot of what other people have said in his closing advice:

“To me, it’s less about each individual beer but what that beer led me to: friends, community, and passion.”

Dave, of AnnArborBeer.com, opens his post with Sam Calagione’s “99 percent asshole-free” quote (which I should also note Alan used, and disagreed with too), but suggests it might need updating:

“Craft beer’s exponentially increasing popularity has brought a host of new people into the fold, and when one takes a look at the larger beer community these days, one has reason to suspect that Calagione’s estimate may need to be adjusted downward.”

His take, which he worries borders on curmudgeon status (I don’t think it does), is a refreshingly honest and candid tirade about how silly a lot of beer trends are. His break down laments the sameness of a lot of “fad beers” and a community who routinely puts rarity and novelty over quality and heritage. Dave and I share at least one of these beliefs: beer is made for drinking, not storing or coveting or using to boost one’s ego:

“All those pictures of your Founders KBS bottles or Alchemist Heady Topper cans you post to Facebook groups? No one cares. It’s beer, not a status symbol.”

Dave’s piece seems to be touching on another common thread: a lot of beer burnout comes from dealing with the worst kinds of people in the community. He worries it’s him (as I did), but maybe, just maybe, it’s actually them. If so, overcoming boils down to having a thicken online skin or rising above the less savory people that will inevitably join the industry as it gets more popular. Either way, Dave, I don’t think you’re an old grouch, and even if you are, I’m starting to think curmudgeon is a synonym for wisdom, not bitterness.

The last entry in this Session comes from Derrick Peterman, of Ramblings of a Beer Runner. He opens with an admission that he’s been through an actual real life crisis, one he couldn’t even resolve with an expensive sports car. He segues into a discussion of the natural waxing and waning of enthusiasm for things you love, in his case, running. I run too, and can very much relate with the off and on love affair of destroying one’s knees while improving one’s heart. Derrick’s description of running (and how even with enhancements in shoes and tech, remains pure and simple) draws a whimsical parallel for my love of the basics of beer:

“the sport still retains it’s simplicity of putting one foot in front of the other and repeating this over and over again to propel yourself as fast as you can over some distance.”

Ultimately, despite any crises or slight down turns in energy, he finds talking to brewers and developing an understanding of the complicated reality of beer as a business drives him and keeps him motivated. I can get behind that idea.

So I understand why lots of people, possibly including our host Oliver, might find themselves less committed to beer than they used too.  And that’s OK.  But as for me, just like running, my relationship with beer is constantly changing, but has never been stronger.

I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to this iteration of the Session, and apologize again for taking so long to finish my recap. I plan to participate in Boak and Bailey’s 113th Session tomorrow, as the topic is equal parts investigatory and voyeuristic. You should join in too!

Beer Packaging: What Other Metals Cannot, Aluminum Can

A new brewery opens, or an old brewery rebrands. They announce a new line-up with a regionally appropriate IPA. The internet hums with marketing and social media buzz.

A press release goes out: they’re putting their beer in cans.

This, by itself, is unremarkable. As Tom Acitelli notes in his All About Beer article from 2013, Oshkosh Brewing (no affiliation to the clothing, I don’t think) released a red “craft” lager in cans in 1991. Oskar Blues has been putting its Colorado born beer into cans since 2002. Budwesier has probably the longest (still existing) pedigree for canning beer, as its first cans date back to 1936. In the time it took modern beer to “rediscover” the can, those original cans could have been recycled ~680 times. Canning isn’t exactly hot-n’-trendy in the harsh light of historical accuracy.

The Aluminum Association (yes, that’s a real thing) notes that over 500 breweries are now canning over 1700 products. People seem stuck on this move to pop tabs over bottle caps, perpetually repeating the same canned cliches: cans protect against light and oxygen exposure, are lighter and more portable, are cheaper and more sustainable, and don’t shatter into a million potential wounds when dropped onto a hard surface. These are all good things and I admit I sometimes prefer my beer in cans and hooray for options.

But this focus on how we’re using cans often ignores the fact that cans are incredible. From a scientific and engineering standpoint, at least.

Aluminum (a periodic element; #13 if we’re being specific [which we are]) is the most common metal found in the Earth’s crust (8.23%). That sounds like a geologists smorgasbord until you realize that it is never found in a “free” state, and always exists as a compound of some other junk. Those compounds are called “alums.” Not only do these alums not have to field donation calls from their alma mater twice a month, they also contain trivalent metal ions, which basically means they’ve got metal in ‘um, but the metal is naturally hard to get at.

For most of human history, aluminum did not exist. We had managed to discover many other metals that exist in a free state (gold, silver, copper), and were inventive enough to realize that by melting rocks, we could get at other, less obvious metals. We even got smart enough to start blending them together, which lead to the first alloys, like steel (iron and carbon). Say what you want about our ancestors, but you have to admit they were pretty igneous…sorry, ingenious…when it came to rocks.

Up until 1787, the world relied mostly on nickel and iron for all of its metallurgic needs. But some plucky scientists noticed an unknown substance that appeared in a lot of their samples, and theorized it was another metal that they had been so far unable to extract.

They were correct. Hiding in the middle of potassium and sulfate (or more colloquially, KAl(SO₄)₂·12H₂O) was a metal that would change the world, and eventually house your beer.

The unknown metal postulation wouldn’t be proven for another 38 years, when Hans Christian Oersted, a Danish chemist, managed to isolate aluminum in aluminum chloride. By 1845, a German named Friedrich Wöhler collected enough aluminum to determine its basic properties, and in turn, possible applications. Prior to his research, metal was considered strong but heavy. Aluminum proved strong too, but also incredibly light.

Like Hunahpu and Ann, aluminum could only be found in very small quantities. This made using it for things like cars and airplanes and beer cans notably difficult. Thankfully, by 1886, two enterprising chemists (Charles Martin Hall and Paul L. T. Héroult) discovered a way to extract aluminum from aluminium oxide (Al₂O₃). This chemical advancement, coupled with the discovery of Bauxite (an ore that contains copious amounts of Al₂O₃) lead to a rapid expansion in the availability of aluminum, just like Goose Island after the ABI purchase.

With wide availability came wide use. The engine in the Wright brother’s biplane was made from aluminum, and so were ship components and radar chaff used in World War 2. When Edison first started his electrical transmission network in 1882, aluminum was still rare. He opted to use copper instead, but given its affordability and light weight, aluminum is considered the most effective metal for electrical conduction in modern day applications.

In a somewhat ironic twist, the technology to produce lighter and stronger aluminum alloys (that would eventually be spun into modern beer cans) began during the years leading up to the American Prohibition. The Great Depression saw the creation of the Works Progress Administration, whose work lead to the refinement and production of aluminum for hydroelectric and other civil engineering projects.

With the repeal of Prohibition in 1933, breweries saw the opportunity to put their new metallic abundance to use, and the first canned beer (Krueger’s Finest Beer and Krueger’s Cream Ale) entered the market on January 24, 1935. These cans weighed nearly 4 ounces; doesn’t sound heavy, but today’s modern, super-thin aluminum cans weigh 14.9 grams. There are 28.35 grams in an ounce. You do the math.

They were heavy because early cans were not usually made from aluminum. Coors introduced a two-part aluminum can in 1959, but the first all-aluminum can was brought to market by Budwesier in 1965. Today, approximately 75% of all beverage cans are made of aluminum alloy. Unlike glass and plastics, they are infinitely recyclable, too, and will often be back on the shelf in as little as 60 days. About 180 billion cans are produced annually, and they remain the single most recycled product in the world.

All that history and science, just to get a beer into your hand. And that’s just what it took to get to the point where we could mass manufacture aluminum cans.

The element itself is incredible, too.

Since it doesn’t contain any ferrous compounds, it cannot rust. Instead, aluminum oxidizes, reverting back to aluminum oxide. Unlike rust that eats into and weakens the metal around it, this oxidation actually strengthens and forms a protective layer on the aluminum. Canning companies have to add a lining to cans (debates about the evils of BPA can be directed elsewhere), otherwise the oxygen in the beer would react with the aluminum in the can, and ruin all that lupuliny goodness.

The weight (or lack thereof) is nothing to scoff at, either. As I noted above, the average aluminum can weighs about 15 grams. With ~2.5 times the density of aluminum, a modern steel equivalent (same size and width) would weigh ~37.5 grams. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but 2.5 times the weight on thousands of BBLs of beer would increase logistics costs substantially, which would probably in turn raise how much you had to fork over the for the finished product. Kegs can also be made from aluminum which, while potentially less structurally sound than their stainless steel sisters, are much easier to lug around a cold room.

TL;DR: Aluminum is sort of amazing, you guys.

The next time you slip your fingernail under a tab, and listen to that relaxing exhalation of escaping carbonation, take a second to appreciate that the can you’re holding isn’t just a gimmick, or marketing tool, or some fad in beer. It’s more than just a vessel that sails you off into the weekend unknown. It’s more than just a footnote in a PR campaign.

It’s a time-honored example of human scientific ingenuity. I also hear they’re pretty good for shotgunning too, whatever that means.

This bears repeating

#Indie Beer – How the American Beer Scene and The Protestant Reformation Actually Have a lot in Common

When Martin Luther allegedly took nail to paper to secure his 95 theses to the door of Wittenberg’s All Saints Church in 1517, the Roman Catholic Church wasn’t exactly a paragon of morality. The domination of Catholicism loomed large over Europe, and Papal leadership wasn’t shy about abusing that power. Without a full, boring history lesson, by 1517, the church was about 40 years deep into that awkward teenage “Spanish Inquisition” phase, were big fans of oppressing peasantry with unfair monetary loans, and had a knack for selling positions of clerical and theological power to the highest bidder. They’d also found a way to milk even more money from the average church-goer by selling indulgences to anyone who’d sinned a little too much on their post-medieval weekend bender.

Luther and his peeps, pretty happy with the whole Jesus and Christianity thing, but also pretty upset with the rampant and generally unchecked usury, simony, and other bad words that end in -y, decided a lot needed to change. They printed their grievances Gutenburg style, and left them all over Germany for people to see. Other people had tried to reform the church earlier, but Luther’s proto-distribution of poorly xeroxed pamphlets kicked off what we now know as the Protestant Reformation. While Luther lead the charge, it’s important to remember that the people made up the army. It turns out pretty much everyone who wasn’t a ranking Catholic clergyman agreed that the Catholic Church had gotten a bit too big for its fancy pope-hat.

As usual, by now, I’m sure you’re asking what the hell this has to do with beer. Besides the fact that Germans were already brewing lager at this time and had official “beer laws” on the books (they weren’t allowed to brew in the summer), two fundamental concepts arose from Martin Luther’s protestations: sola scriptura and sola fide.

The two Latin phrases were the crux of reformation-age Lutheran rhetoric. Sola Scriptura (translated: “scripture alone”) noted that holy text (in this case, the Bible) was and should always be regarded as the source of all religious authority, basically giving a big middle finger to the Papacy for trying to make up their own religious meanings to benefit earthly gains. Sola fide (translated: “faith alone”) supported scriptura, suggesting that god’s opinion of you, and your ultimate metaphysical salvation, was a matter of how strong your faith was, not how much money you gave to the church. The two ideas formed the foundation of a branch of Christianity that was much more personal. A relationship with god where church was a spiritual catalyst, not a gatekeeper.

Fast forward almost exactly 500 years, and start to genuflect on bar stools instead of pews. Much like a church, a brewery is dependent on its congregation to survive. There’s a massive battle being fought to keep church goers going and beer drinkers drinking. One that centers around – you guessed it – money.

Without being hyperbolic, there are some legitimate similarities between the 16th century Catholic Church and AB-InBev. Both asserted domination over an aspect of life across a large demographic, both used their position of power to affect political and socioeconomic change, both played manipulative games riiiiight on the periphery of law, trying to control how their constituency feels, and ultimately, how they spend their money. AB-InBev purchasing other breweries is like a great schism; a huge move that makes people lose faith in the power and legitimacy of the organization.

Without too many mental backhand springs, Carlos Brito (CEO of Anheuser-Busch InBev) could be seen as the leader of a new Papal order; one more concerned with the fate of your liver, than the fate of your soul.

But a lot of people aren’t happy with that, for the same reason Martin Luther and his dawgs weren’t happy with how the Catholic Church was running things. They see the potential of a better future, a future where they have control, and don’t have their tastes dictated for them. A future where no central, shadowy agency holds ultimate power of choice. A future of dipsomatic freedom, good or bad. While not as important as say, the future of your immortal soul (although some people seem to treat it that way), beer matters on a fundamental enough level that people want to see it change, and wrestle the power back into the hands of those who proverbially “get it.”

One, if being whimsical, might argue that beer is a living, bubbling microcosm of American society at large, fermenting the desire to break the strangle-hold of the status quo, and usher in a better, tastier era.

It’s not even that far-fetched, considering. Look no further than the new idea of “Indie” beer. While “craft” started and lived most of its life as a marketing term, this new incarnation seems so much more personal, less about differentiating from a sales perspective, more about hardening the identity of a loose group of like-minded revolutionaries. What is the first thing a Christian denomination does when it makes enough internal changes to break away from the main church? It renames itself.

Even rock bands do it, when they can’t place their new style into the existing molds of what music should be.

Why not breweries?

Many have been trying to reform the beer world, but probably none have been as effective as the Brewer’s Association. The BA holds the reigns of the teeming network of smaller brewers – those modern-day Luthers ready and willing to post the 95 Tweets on the door of the @AnheuserBusch handle. But I think, by now, as good beer hits a softer, balding middle age, consumers are less enamored by yet another trade organization who claims to have their best interest at heart. I’m sure the BA means well, but beer people have trust issues, thanks to Big Beer. As a result, this reformation will be hammered into history by the consumers, one IPA or Imperial Stout at a time.

I mentioned sola scriptura and sola fide for a reason. Both sought to remedy problems created by the current ruling body, and both focused on bringing purist belief back to the people. Is that not, almost too conveniently, exactly what this “craft beer movement” has been about? A beerish interpretation of Sola scriptura could mean that true beer authority should be derived from all-grain, quality ingredient recipes, not what some brewery tells you is good. A modern take on sola fide might mean that ultimate beer enjoyment derives from a drinkers individual tastes, not the result of some hamfisted marketing campaign.

Whatever happens, I believe the ones purchasing beer hold the ultimate power. More so than the pagan-esque homebrewers who attempt to define their own rules, and definitely more so than the corporate group-thinkers who attempt to apply blanket rules. A reformation will happen, and I’m guessing sooner than later.

But remember: the clash between the Protestants and the Catholics didn’t end quietly and peacefully. It ended in one of the most devastating wars in human history. A massive amount of geopolitical and financial power is up for stakes, again. Seriously, billions upon billions of dollars. I’m not saying beer drinkers, the BA, and ABInBev will ever come to literal blows, but you heard it here first: the tension building now will not end with handshakes and smiles and everyone going home and having a pint.

 

Man Complaining About Beer Seemingly Oblivious To Living Conditions in Third World Countries

PORTLAND, OR – In a baffling display that can only be attributed to ignorance or plain old cruelty, local man Ryan Balmer spent last Saturday complaining about beer while several thousand children in the third world starved to death.

Seemingly unfazed by that fact that his beer cost several times more than what nearly half of humanity earns as a daily wage, Balmer raised his glass, squinted his nose, and made a disgusted face after taking his first sip. After several seconds of staring at a product that contains more clean water than is readily accessible to a large portion of human society, the self-described “beer enthusiast” peppered the tired, overworked bartender with oddly specific questions.

“The description says Galaxy hops, but they really tastes more like Citras, if we’re being honest,” Balmer quipped as he demanded a new drink, not in the least deterred that he was about to waste more calories than some people eat in a day. “It’s like, if you’re going to brew it with those hops, it better taste like those hops, right? Not like it’s hard.”

As he took a bite of the pizza he’d ordered as an afterthought accessory to his beverage (a meal someone might literally kill him for on the streets of Venezuela), Balmer compared the beer he was drinking to a dozen others, unaware that, in light of the reality that more boys were forced to become child soldiers that very afternoon, no one gave a shit. He then utilized more technology than is available to some small governments, smearing a greasy finger across his phone screen to check the beer in and give it 2 stars on Untappd.

After consuming enough beer to be labeled “a fire demon” by a tribal shaman, Balmer began ranting about the dangers of corporately made beer. “We can’t trust Anheuser-Busch, man. The consumer knows what’s up now. We need to boycott them and all the sellouts they bought,” he lamented, perfectly happy with the cognitive dissonance required to complain about a corporation whose profits exceed the GDP of some nations. “They want to destroy craft beer. It’s immoral and unethical and wrong. We can’t allow that bullshit,” Balmer continued, adding an apparent lack of understanding about economics and business succession to his already below average knowledge of the rest of the planet.

Sitting in a bar that not only had consistent electricity, but also significantly more structural integrity than many people’s homes, Balmer expanded upon the problems in the beer community. “There’s no bubble, man; craft beer is a cultural revolution,” he noted, oblivious to the actual, horribly violent political and social revolutions happening in several war-torn countries. “The world is changing, and beer is the catalyst. I tell you man, it’s happening right here and right now.” Balmer then burped and slammed his fist against his chest in a vain attempt to remedy his heartburn, a feeling and concept entirely foreign to the millions of people who often don’t get the required macronutrients to grow healthy bones.

As he waited for his Uber driver, a visibly intoxicated Balmer began to explain the brewing process to the clearly disaffected hostess, either completely culturally blind to, or just unwilling to admit the fact that the barley used to make his booze could feed entire towns in Africa and South America for months.

Sources confirm that upon arriving home, Balmer sat down in front of his TV, quickly changing the channel from a Christian Children’s Fund commercial before opening another beer.

Gerrymandering the Beer Aisle

In 1812, Federalist domination of the Massachusetts senate loomed. Governor Elbridge Gerry, part of the opposition Democratic Republicans, knew he had to do something to prevent his party from losing their controlling majority. While campaigning, gladhanding, and doing some actual political legwork might have secured the state, Gerry was clever, and probably the type of man who read the fine print very closely. Instead of actually trying to get enough votes to win as things existed in the status quo, Gerry signed a bill that redrew district lines, in such a way that his party benefited.

While the Federalists won some local positions, his unorthodox gamble paid off, and the senate stayed in Democratic Republican control. The odd, unnatural shape of the new district lines reminded writers at the Boston Gazette of a lizard or snake, and so the term “gerrymander” – a portmanteau of Gerry and salamander – was born.

More than 200 years later in the US, we’re still at the mercy of the strange rules of district redrawing, and as politicians have gotten more abstract with their interpretation of national law, we see some weirdly shaped and positioned districts (especially on a congressional level).

Here’s a gerrymandered district from my homestate of Maryland. The Washington Post’s Chris Ingraham calls these “crimes against geography.”

The point of gerrymandering is to create districts that ultimately serve the best interests of your party. This can work in different ways; lumping all like voters together so your party has majority and wins where they otherwise wouldn’t, or lumping all opposition voters together so they can only win a small area compared to your constituency’s larger area. There are also some practical reasons to redraw district lines, usually to group geographically disparate rural citizens together, or to include suburbs in an urban area that they might technically have stake in.

But typically, “gerrymander” has a negative connotation. It’s often done when a party’s rhetoric or message or um, jeux de vie, isn’t favoring well in the current political climate, but they still want to remain in power to shift the climate back in their direction.

It’s a little dubious. It’s a little scummy. It’s a willful bending of the rules to game the system in your favor.

Seems crazy; politicians can rewrite the rules however they want to their own benefit? Must be illegal, right?

Nope.

Despite two Supreme Court cases challenging it’s legality, gerrymandering is still a legit thing to do, so long as it doesn’t violate the Equal Protection Clause or the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Individual states can enforce their own local gerrymandering rules (Florida does, and several others have review committees), but it’s not Federally mandated.

For a long time, I’ve lamented Big Beer’s sales tactics. It’s difficult for me to reconcile my brewer-born appreciation for their ability to create so much of such a consistent product (I can’t even produce five gallons of lager consistently), with their arguably unscrupulous behavior once the beer has left the brewery and lives in the limbo of the three-tier system.

I used to almost keep the two separate in my mind, like I could magically appreciate the people and the process while simultaneous lament how the product is being sold. All these mental gymnastics because I didn’t really understand what Big Beer was doing.

I do now. Contrary to popular, evangelical belief, it’s not the result of some evil, conglomerate cabal hell bent on robbing the consumer of choice and plunging the world into a second darkness of flavor blandness. It’s not some cosmic conspiracy to corporatize humanity and leave us trudging about in a dystopian world where all the trees have been chopped down and our waking reality looks exactly like the inside of a Walmart.

It’s a lot more boring.

They’re gerrymandering.

Many in the industry liken “Big vs Craft” to some kind of war, with fronts and soldiers and fierce battles over territory based on some loose ideology of mutually (but differently) defined “freedom.” It’s not a terrible analogy, but does add a little more gravity to beer than I think it sometimes deserves.

This isn’t a war, per se, but rather modern political posturing and postulating. “Big vs Craft” is more like a campaign for the presidency of beer, a trading of legal and social blows to rise to the top and occupy the position of leader of the brewing free world (if we kindly ignore China and Snow, for now).

Look at the tactics. Buying a competition brewery? Redrawing the lines of your portfolio to overlap your competition, and include certain consumers to better your business. Offering incentive programs to distributors to only carry your brands? Redrawing the literal lines of what beers are on the shelves, to better position yourself to improve your company’s standing. It’s financial and economic gerrymandering, being done in the face of an opposition party that is winning by more traditional measures.

It’s important to remember, that as much as we don’t like it, it’s all perfectly legal. Unlike our favorite sports, business is a game with mutable rules; if you’re losing by a lot in the second half, you can turn around and win by basically playing an entirely different game, or the same game, with wildly different rules.

We should also note that it’s not exactly a one-sided affair, either: the Brewers Association’s long drawn-out and awkward attempts to define a whole sub-sector of the industry was political gerrymandering, too. The entire impetus behind modern American beer being trumpeted by the BA is local, independent, relatable. They’re attempting to draw their own district lines, partly to keep up with their opponents, partly because it actually works.

As with our current democracy, the citizen (or consumer) is not considered when these invisible lines are drawn. You, as a beer drinker, are a dollar that must be wrangled. Big Beer thinks that if they can’t win your dollar on taste, they’ll win it by buying a portion of your palate, and then by not giving you any other options. The BA wagers that they’ll win your dollar on taste anyway, but if they can’t, they’ll try to win it with emotional and humanistic appeals.

You’re being chopped up and divided without your express consent. You’re being marketed to, hard, fast, and relentlessly, from both sides. Gerrymandering is first and foremost about keeping and consolidating power, or, in this specific sense, market share. As much as you might want to believe they do, no one fighting over your dollar cares about you.

They care that you buy, and little else. I’m hoping consumers are finally starting to see the business side of beer for what it really is: a meticulous and calculated attempt to get you to purchase, just like every other business ever.

Perhaps it’s just me, but the luster of beer wears dull. The movement begrudgingly approaches doughy middle age, and consumers feel the pressure on their wallets and waistlines. Even smaller breweries feel the squeeze of like competition in the ever-growing sea of choice. Talk bubbles or market saturation if you must, but the zeal and sales cannot continue to climb forever.

As a fine patina sets in and the youthful exuberance fades, I have a sneaking suspicion that the game of beers will start to look a lot less like a righteous war or crusade, and a lot more like the classic Red vs Blue, mudslinging, carpetbagging mess that is our political system. Such is the nature of modern capitalism, and probably why, as they say on the internet, “we can’t have nice things.”

Nom de Bier – Great Lakes Edmund Fitzgerald Porter by HP Lovecraft

This is entry #2 in the series “Nom de Bier” – good beer reviewed by famous authors (as emulated by me). I do not claim to speak for these authors, nor am I an expert scholar in their particular style, so please feel free to correct/admonish as you see fit.

Beer Review – Great Lakes Edmund Fitzgerald Porter
Style: American Porter
ABV: 6.0%
IBU: 37

By: HP Lovecraft

They claim to have found me wet, alone, and gibbering nonsense on that lightless southern shore of the Superior. I could not find in my memory a name, nor a station, but my clothes betrayed my identity. It seems that against all odds, I was the lone survivor of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

In relaying the specifics of how I, and only I, got there, I can say little. The official investigation found the freighter had taken on water some seventeen miles from the Michigan shore, and there gone down in the fury of a southward storm. I remember it differently, but my attempts to explain are discounted as the ravings of a man whose mind was broken by stress and loss. The flashes of truth that do return to me in the deep midnight, are admittedly, things so fantastic and terrible they evade common belief.

My name was given back to me on November 29, 1975, after several weeks in a Detroit hospital. I had been John Bailey of Duluth, Minnesota, deckhand of that now great wreck, but the other details of my life seemed vague and otherworldly. A result of a severe knock to the head claimed my doctors, despite no clear wound or laceration to confirm their diagnosis. My records say I was born in 1949 to a Paula and Michael Bailey, just outside the tiny Massachusetts port of Innsmouth. The place feels right, but the age feels wrong, and the mirror shows me not a man of twenty-six, but one of a much, much older countenance.

I’ve been questioned by countless police and government officials, all trying to ascertain exactly what happened that night. What pieces of reality stitch back together coherently tell me our Captain, the affable but quiet Ernest McSorley, had control of the situation despite the severity of the storm. We’d joined with another freighter – the Arthur Anderson I’m told – and the two ships had been working in tandem to navigate and ride out the worst of the crests. The storm surged fiercely, of that there is no question, but not so fiercely I do not think, as to wrestle control away from our captain and sink the ship on those desolate shoals.

To placate the glimpses of madness that routinely overtake my psyche, or perhaps to assuage my guilt of being a lone remainder of the crew, I drink. I hear the slanders upon my intellect slung from those righteous locals, know their callous disregard for my situation, but pints of strong porter have been my only refuge. I find now why the sailors of old London so loved and relied on the brown ale; it fortifies like no other, physically, mentally, and spiritually. My constitution fares poorly with whiskey, and something about the lore and history of this brew calls to me through endless bubbles, muffled but undeniable.

In my sober hours, I have been reading about the ship before the storm. Most authorities seem obsessed with what happened on November 10, 1975. My concern is that the fate of the ship was decided well before that, when it took on its cargo, and me, in Duluth on November 7. But of this, for now, I can say nothing without risking another trip to the resident psychologist, who already questions the strength of my mind.

As typical, we’d been hauling taconite ore from the Minnesota quarries. Normal fare, massive tonnage of quartz and iron, all to fuel the precambrian fossil fuel monstrosity that held sway over the lake-tied cities. Occasionally, our manifest would include sundry other materials from locations generally undisclosed. Questions were rarely asked as ore was ore, boring, heavy rock valued for its mineral content and little more.

One entry on the manifest from November 7 caught my attention and sent me down this path of incredulity and insanity. A single load of wooden crates, otherwise nondescript and banal, had been marked as coming from “Northern Canada/Greenland” making it an anomaly among the other loads of clearly domestic rocks. I’m sure our head of logistics thought nothing of it, and our Captain, so close to his retirement, most likely wanted to be underway as soon as possible.

The information in the ledgers, the wooden crates, their mysterious contents, seemed familiar, and personal. My head reeled from memories lashing out of my unconscious. I felt faint, and sought out drink, hoping to silence my mind for at least one more night.

I awoke sometime later, head pounding and stomach lurching. But when I could not find my feet, I found it was not intoxication, but that the floor was moving beneath me. Undulating with sudden jerks that knocked me back onto a sparsely covered bunk. The wind yowled against the bulkhead and all at once I heard men cry out while thunder broke the black sky. The men on deck shouted that we’d struck something, been run aground by the storm’s power. But I did not look over the rails. My mind pull me down, into the imposing dark of the ship’s hold.

There, in the otherwise pitch black, the wooden crates hummed and hissed, putting off a pale blue glow that just barely made their outline visible. The rocking of the ship had dislodged them from their fastenings, and one had fallen from high to the steel deck below. Using a flashlight from near the doorway, I threw some light over the cargo, but had to grab a railing to stable myself when I saw the now exposed, spilled contents.

A dark ooze seeped from shattered glass bottles, pooling out in all directions unnaturally, defying the flow of any liquid I’d ever seen. I moved closer to inspect and noticed that it seemed warm and pulsating, characteristic of something alive. I passed the beam over the largest pool and looked deep into the shiny viscous mess; it sparkled a dizzying show, millions upon millions of dots of light tearing through space at dazzling speeds, the cosmos contained in a fluid window through which I viewed impossible infinity.

The humming and hissing intensified. Something deep and forgotten in my body pulled at me, commanded my mind and muscles, and told me, in a tongue I’d never heard by somehow understood, to drink. I cupped the horrid stuff between my hands, letting it slip and drip through my fingers, before putting it to my mouth and swallowing voraciously.

I staggered back onto deck to hear the men screaming to abandon the freighter. The sounds from below now sang across the night sky, and in the eye of the great storm, countless stars, more than man could count, pierced any remaining clouds. Below, the liquid had seeped out from a crack in the hull, floating on the water like an oil slick, pulsating harder and more visibly. There was a great rumbling from below and the water churned into a froth, the stars above becoming so bright that the night could have been day.

A huge, misshapen mass rose from the waves. It smashed down across the center of the ship, snapping it cleanly in two. I heard screams for half a second then…quiet. The ship gurgled as it filled with water, while all around me the sinister ooze formed a perfect mirror to the star-stained space above.

That’s the last I remember. The drink has brought me back to that night, dulled my mental protections enough to let that reality of that night come out. The memory was more vivid than a dream, but less attached than waking reality. I dare not tell anyone what I think to be the truth as I know how they’d respond, and what they’d probably do with me.

Every sip I take reminds me of that sip I took. I cannot stay. For some reason I’m pulled from this life to another. I’m headed north and do not plan to return.

Grammarian’s note: Syntactically, Lovecraft’s style was dense and overwrought, with heavy use of adverbs and adjectives. He wrote in the early 1900s, so the high rhetoric of his writing wasn’t totally unusual, even if it seems so in retrospect to modern readers. I tried to mimic his sentence patterns too, as he’d often go from a simple right-branching sentence right into a packed left-branching sentence with numerous adverbial clauses. Thematically, he wrote about dark, cosmic horrors that had lived eons before humankind but still existed as shadows of history and lore in certain parts of the world. He loved to use obtuse foreshadowing where the narrator established himself as unreliable due to personal madness, typically caused by their connection to some ancient, brooding evil. He also had a bit of a gruesome obsession with the ocean, and what secrets it could possibly contain.

The Cult of Craft

Bryan’s conversation about “Craft Beer Evangelists” hit a nerve.

Mainly because, for the past few years, I was a member of a cult. A group of single-minded missionaries, of fanboy zealots, of plaid-clad revolutionaries, riding out from California on their own modern crusade.

I didn’t even really know I was a member, but I still played my part. I parroted the virtues of our leaders to anyone who would listen (and many who were only pretending to listen), meanwhile demonizing the unforgivable sins of our “enemies.” To me it all made sense, it made me feel good, and gave me a sense of identity. The group felt like home, a warm and cozy fireside gathering where the other people in the room just “got” me.

I didn’t question or challenge the narrative. I was perpetuation manifest. I was a member of the Cult of Craft Beer.

Ha! Beer as a cult! Sounds ridiculous, right? Perhaps Oliver has been dipping into the rum stash too much, and came out the other side a wee bit hyperbolic?

Perhaps. But perhaps not.

Let’s look at some of the defining characteristics of cult-like behavior (my emphasis added):

• The group displays excessively zealous and unquestioning commitment to its belief system, ideology
• Questioning, doubt, and dissent are discouraged or even punished
• The leadership dictates, sometimes in great detail, how members should think, act, and feel
• The group is elitist, claiming a special, exalted status for itself, its leader(s) and members
• The group has a polarized us-versus-them mentality, which may cause conflict with the wider society
• The group is preoccupied with bringing in new members
• The group is preoccupied with making money
• Members are encouraged or required to live and/or socialize only with other group members
• The most loyal members feel there can be no life outside the context of the group

Sound familiar?  Trade organizations setting definitions so we know what to drink? People on social media treating honest criticism as inflammatory nonsense? These behaviors rear their heads often, as new people enter the fold, or diehards do their best to keep the group-think thriving. The “Us-versus-Them” mentality is particularly strong, and has a become a defining aspect of “craft,” even though the “devious” Big Beer Companies still produce and sell 80%+ of all beer in the country.

The cult is alive and Tweeting. Don’t believe me? Here’s a recent conversation I got into with @BrewStuds:

@OliverJGray @beerbecue7 a good chunk of the country is still fighting to have the same freedoms that we enjoy in the more reformed states

— Brew Studs ♥ Beer (@BrewStuds) October 29, 2015

Rhetorically, this is dangerous territory. It puts beer in the same category as emancipation from slavery, civil rights, women’s suffrage. It sounds like we are fighting for some righteous cause, like we’ll go to war if we must for our “rights” (even if those rights only apply to what fermented drinks we can buy). It’s absurd when viewed from the outside, but totally reasonable to someone on the inside.

I challenged BrewStuds and said their thinking was potentially militaristic. Their response: “Militaristic? Passionate maybe.” This argument comes up a lot in conversations about beer, the idea that passion is justification for pretty much any behavior, and the real reason for brewing beer. Not money or economics or science, just “passion.” It tends to trump anything else; in the eyes of the cult, there’s no way craft brewers are anything but open and altruistic, because of their “passion” means they’re making great beer for us to enjoy with no ulteriors whatsoever.

This psychological magnetism to beer isn’t really a surprise, though. It was going to be something, and beer’s timing was impeccable.

With the economy still sluggish and a large chunk of Millennials out of work or underpaid, America is ripe for cultural makeover. Much like Tyler Durden’s “Project Mayhem” in  Fight Club, those joining the craft movement do so of their own free will after meeting others who’ve joined the proverbial fold, seeking some kind of freedom from the status quo, something they can wrap their identity around to feel like they’re part of something bigger than themselves. Beer might seem an odd vehicle for cultural readjustment, but history plus availability plus the clever story of authenticity woven by small brewers has made it a perfect catalyst for social chemical reaction. Plus, humanity has always had a penchant for intoxication.

The first rule about beer club is that you ALWAYS talk about beer club.

Now that I’ve managed to step aside (either through disillusionment), I can see just how powerful the pull is. Many Americans (especially young Americans) are lacking financial and vocational independence, and it makes sense that they’d seek identity through some cultural movement. It makes sense that they’d come together to form a group, and beer, breweries, and bars offer an ideal set of circumstances (regionalism, nationalism, egalitarianism) on which to build a like-minded community.

But all perceived sense aside, a one-sided narrative, especially one fueled by a business-minded trade organization, is not an ideal way to live one’s life. Cults, typically, are not good things. They promote polar thinking and mindless subservience, even if the original goal was something much, much more humanistic and kind.

But cults are also not often an intentional creation, they just happen when one’s message reaches enough people who agree with it.

So is craft a cult? By literal definition, definitely a solid maybe.

Note: I want to make it very clear that I am not against the Brewer’s Association, no more than I’m against ABInBev. I’m a writer, trying to stay impartial. I actually support the BA and what they’ve done for over all US beer. But it’s important to look at all sides, as objectively as possible, without letting your personal prejudice (either way!) color the debate.

The Session #104 – Blog to Write

(For the 104th Session, Alan McLeod asks us to justify why we should keep writing about beer.)

I’ve missed The Session. Both figuratively and literally.

Directly after discovering Jay and Stan’s blogging braintrust, I didn’t miss a single iteration of the Session. I’d been diligent in following the topics, planning something ahead of time, and being ready for each month like an over-prepared college freshman. I even hosted once, much to the dismay of other bloggers, I’m sure. I miss writing Session entries because they’re fun and thought provoking and, well, easy, in the grand scheme of writing.

But I’ve also missed the deadline to post eight times in a row now (the last Session I did was #95). I know such a long hiatus might make it seem like I don’t have faith in the cause or support the idea, but realistically, it’s more about the timing of significant life events over the past year, and their direct overlap with the first Friday of each month. There are several never-to-be-finished drafts in this here WordPress database, half-hollow husks meant to be Session posts that have been left dangling from the dressform, a mess of patchwork fabric and loose threads.

I don’t want to see the Session die. I understand that I’m part of the problem by not actively participating, but I still think the idea to bring different perspectives together on a single topic has a lot of worth in a community that’s full of young writers still trying to find their voices. It’s also a great prompt for newer bloggers to jump in on without feeling sheepish: a place where everyone is welcome to say whatever they want about beer with (for the most part) little chance of repercussion.

That exists nowhere else that I know of. Other attempts to bring the community together like the Thursday night #beerchat on Twitter don’t really count, for me, as Twitter is too ephemeral and curt to really hash out any meaningful ideas.

I’ve written about why I blog before. That hasn’t changed. I keep writing here because it’s my space. No editors, no deadlines, no rules or stipulations. I’m a writer who writes way more than makes sense to consistently pitch to other publications, and in a style that most publications don’t want, anyway. Here, I’m free to do whatever, sculpt any sentences I can see in the formless clay, play with grammar and be obtuse, because no one is paying me, and the expectations are basically non-existent. For a prolific writer, a blog is creative freedom manifest. A linguistic jungle-gym. An all-you-can-eat buffet of syntactic gluttony.

A blog – if taken seriously and properly maintained – is an incredible catalyst to education. When I started in 2009, I knew comparatively…let’s see…nothing about beer. I thought I knew about brewing and styles and history, but as I began reading and studying more to write posts, I realized how startlingly little I knew. It’s given me an avenue to learn a tremendous amount about the ingredients, the processes, the people, the industry. You’re free to explore and research any topic you want, fumble through your own opinions about complex topics, engage in (and hopefully kick off) conversations that help us grow as drinkers, consumers, citizens, people. If your blogging means more to you than just banging out 150 word nonsense posts during lunch or reposting old articles/generic news pieces written by other people, you’re going to learn, whether you intend to or not.

That’s a good thing, and a reason to blog, if anyone ever needed one.

But outside of personal, artistic justification, niche blogs (and other writing) about niche topics remain important even if the format waffles, because they make up the voice of the consumer-side of the community. In every sub-culture some will rise to the top to speak and inform and possibly evangelize for the people within. Bloggers are those speakers. People who try to evolve into something beyond being that guy at the bar who erroneously explains the difference between ale and lager to his cavalcade of half-toasted co-workers. They take a chance to thrust a shovel below the surface only scratched by others, and put in the work to bring the fertile material below up to the surface for others to see.

That’s the goal. I think. At least. It’s not always perfect, and lots of blogs and bloggers – even those of stout convictions and pounding passions – never do manage more than rote regurgitation. It’s easy to fall into a trap of writing what is easy, repeating what you hear daily, and going with the flow so entirely that you’re lost in the current.

But hey, even the worst are trying. Attempting something bigger and with more reach than rambling to their close friends or boring strangers at parties. They’re adding to a narrative that will one day be looked back upon as historical; not perhaps world-changing historical, but certainly historical as related to the legacy of alcohol in post-industrial Homo sapein culture. And as much as you might want to scoff at the idea of “beer as a piece of history,” we’re already pulling from a mutli-millennium backlog of brewing and beer lore that was deemed important enough to be chronicled as part of human history by our ancestors. Looked at in that light, we’re just scholars recording history as it happens, using the internet as our immortal cuneiform.

And that’s just it, I think. Beer bloggers just so happen to write about beer, but it’s the actual writing that should take precedence. You can tell when a blogger isn’t really a writer, trust me on that one. Passion about a topic does not automatically equate to good or interesting writing, and readers can tell when you’re writing because you think you should not because you want to.

We run these blogs to have our voices heard, opinions aired. I’d submit that most people who write about beer (myself included) only do so because we’ve seen some fundamental truth about human nature either in the science of the kettle, or the behavior behind the bartop. I think all writers write to discover some meaning; beer bloggers (and writers) just use a medium that’s a tad more esoteric than usual.

If the current incarnation of the Session has crossed the finish line of its final marathon, that’s sort of sad, but so be it. I’d implore those who wants to write to keep writing even without  it. In addition to being the main curriculum of your own not-for-profit mini-university, writing is therapeutic and cathartic, and a hell of a better way to spend your time than many other things that pass as “entertainment” these days.

But write with responsibility. Do your best to carefully sift out the nuggets of golden narrative that come washing down the sluice, and do your best to avoid showing off the rocks you found that you think are gold. If you’re going to be a voice of your sub-culture, be a good one. Add to the narrative with humor or wit or education; don’t let misinformation, rumor-mongering, and petty drama take over. We have enough of that elsewhere in the world.

Blog to write. Write to learn. Learn to write. Write to write. About beer or otherwise.

 

So you want to be a Beer Writer? – Malt 101

Hey, I see you there, backing away from that conversation about malt because one person started talking about amylase activity in mash.

Get back in there slugger! I got you covered with this overview of what malt is, how it’s made, and why it’s important.

This primer will cover the basics (yes, I left quite a bit out) for those who want to write (or speak) with a little more confidence. If you’re looking for a deep dive into delicious piles of malt, check out John Mallet’s book from Brewer’s Publications. I heard the guy who edited it is pretty cool.

Malt as a beer ingredient

While consumers may name hops as the most recognizable ingredient in beer (water is always so sadly overlooked), malt does a ton of selfless work in the brewhouse. Loose kernels of malted grain are cracked in a mill then added to the mashtun, where they steep at a specific temperature to encourage enzyme activity, ultimately creating the sweet primordial soup from which all beerish life will eventually emerge: wort.

A beer’s recipe will normally include a combination of base malts and specialty malts.

Base malts are generally pale with high diastatic power (also known as degrees Litner), meaning in layman’s terms that they have the potential to produce more sugar, more easily. They provide the food for the yeast (often called fermentables), and a beer made entirely of a single base malt would be a shade of yellow or gold with a singular complexity.

Specialty malts are added at various points during the mash (depending on the recipe), and contribute to the color, aroma, and flavor profile of the beer. Contrasting the base malts, they tend to contain very few fermentable sugars, and are used primarily for their other gustatory and olfactory qualities.

The length of the sugars extracted by the enzymes in mash dictate much of how the yeast will ferment the beer, too. It may not be as sexy as those sticky pods of lupulin, but malt is incredibly important to brewing (and enjoying) beer.

Malt as a verb

Although “malt” in the brewing industry often manifests as a noun (“what kind of malt did the brewer use in this beer?), the verb form – “to malt” – is more important to understanding the ingredient.

Cereal grains grow tall, and when they are mature, produce seeds. These seeds are like any other; out in the wild, they’d fall to the ground, get covered in dirt and moisture, and begin to grow when the next season came rolling in on Spring sun.

Simple enough.

But taken out of the natural cycle, cereal grains cannot make beer until they are malted, or more specifically, soaked, germinated, and dried. Maltsters (the people who make malt, shockingly enough) harness the seed’s biological imperative, and trick it into growing. They place the seeds into a bed of water and let them begin to grow roots and breathe. The goal is to allow the seed to change – or modify – sufficiently that it will break down its own internal sugars and release them into the hot waters of the mash to make wort.

When the seed is fully modified (or close to) they halt the growing and modification process by blowing hot air through the grain. After the tiny roots are removed (a process call deculming), the malt is kilned, both to prevent spoilage and create desired flavors through Maillard reactions. All of a beer’s color is derived from its malt; the darker the roast, the darker the beer, from the delicate daffodil of lager (pale bale malt) to the midnight dark of stout (roasted barley).

It’s imperative the grain be malted well before it reaches the brewery; without the malting process the seeds would be dry, rock hard, and lacking the necessary sugars to provide a feast for the yeast. Apparently some attempts at non-malt beer have been tried by the Japanese, but 99% of the time, when we’re talking beer as history and culture knows it, we’re talking malted grains.

Malt as a noun

“Malt” as a standalone makes for a poor noun. It’s far too abstract, as many different grains like rye, wheat, sorghum, oat, rice, and corn can be malted.

While yes, malted barley makes up the vast majority of all malt used in beer making, it’s important to quantify which type of malt you’re referring to, which is why you’ll often see references to “malt barley” in beer writing. Malted barley itself can be expanded out into a huge list of varieties and levels of roast, and many beer recipes use multiple types of malted barley to achieve certain flavors and colors (two-row, six-row, Munich, Carapils, Crystal, patent black, etc). Other beers mix types of malted grains – a rye IPA for example might use both malted barley and malted rye.

“Grain” is equally lacking as a noun. Industry jargon discusses the grain bill of a beer (or the list of malts that went into the mashtun) but the word itself refers to unmalted seeds. Grain exists in the fields; it’s an agricultural term. “Grist” – as in grist bill – reads similar; it implies ground grain (like that used to make bread flour), but makes no reference to whether or not it has been malted. Neither are fundamentally incorrect and both are used widely, but it’s always good to remember exactly what each means.

Malt as an adjective/adverb

In Chapter 2 of his book, Mallet says that he thinks Munich malt is the closet match to quintessential “malt flavor” and I tend to agree. It compares best to malt as it appears outside of beer: malted milkshakes and malted chocolate balls. But other varieties of barley malt taste very different; dark roasted specialty malts, like Special B for example, can have notes of raisins and dates, while some other pale base malts taste like Pillsbury dinner rolls or KFC biscuits. All that to say that while there is a basic malt flavor, varieties of malts can taste very, very different from each other.

“Malt” works perfectly as a traditional adjective: malted barley. Use it with impunity.

It doesn’t work at all as a blanket adverb: “malty.”

“Malty” is lazy. And boring. And uninspired.

It’s equivalent to boiling The Alchemist’s Heady Topper or Ballast Point’s Sculpin down to “hoppy.” A single adjective doesn’t do justice to the complexity and variety our tongue and noses are capable of experiencing. Saying a beer is “malty” is like saying that your steak tastes like meat or your wine tastes like grapes; of course it does, it’s quite literally made of that thing. Every single beer in the world (barring maybe that weird aforementioned Japanese stuff) will in some capacity taste malty.

Use bready or biscuity instead. Or toasted or roasted or burnt. Hundreds of other, more specific adjectives can describe what you’re tasting, so don’t  cop out and go with “malty.” Your future readers thank you.

I understand a lot of people use “malty” as a way to grade the level of noticeable malt flavor when compared to others beers and styles, but it’s still an unimaginative smear of language being used in the place of proper, descriptive prose. If something tastes more malty than something else, say exactly that, but then follow it up with concrete examples of what you’re actually tasting.

Malt is both simple and complex, both obviously present and hiding in the background. Take the time to get to know how malt works in your favorite beers, and you’ll discover a new appreciation for the naturalistic side of beer, and how amazing it is that maltsters have basically bridled and domesticated the Kreb’s cycle. It may not be glamorous, but it’s still beautiful in its own, agronomic way, and deserves to be treated with respect lest it, and your writing about it, be infested with weevils.

TL;DR – to use the term “malt” or “malted” is to imply that a grain underwent a specific process that has been used to make beer for centuries. It’s a verb first, a noun second, an adjective third, and an adverb never.

One million pounds of barley malt drying at the Budwesier malting plant in Idaho Falls, ID.

Nom de Bier – Samuel Smith Yorkshire Stingo by William Shakespeare

This is entry #1 in the series “Nom de Bier” – good beer reviewed by famous authors (as emulated by me). I do not claim to speak for these authors, nor am I an expert scholar in their particular style, so please feel free to correct/admonish as you see fit.

Beer Review – Samuel Smith Yorkshire Stingo (barrel aged)
Style: English Strong Ale
ABV: 8.0%
IBU: 30-35

By: William Shakespeare

Sonnet CLV

From bottom where Eros did spring his Sting,
Through much bubbly affair rose sweet head, O;
But focus nay on bubbles should the tale sing,
Instead in oaken planks dark fruits do grow.
A Smith named Sam, a hero born into
Malten cavalcades proceeding to tun;
Man and Nature together set to brew,
And what yeast embark may ne’er be undone.
An odd thing though this, partly tongues note sour –
By work of raisins and spry, teeming wood –
It dances reliquary, somber, dour;
As if mourning a time long passed, lost good.
A tribute, nay, an homage aged old,
Captured in glass, for you to pour, to hold.

Sonnet CLVI

That god not settled with simple ale bliss
Sought more beyond what tradition limits,
As sailors once set eyes on ambergris,
So too did Smith on the cooper’s habit.
And O! How the amber flowed from slick steel,
Down and round bent staves to beer bellies bound,
And here it stayed, a year, flavor made real:
The hold of a ship, full of beer, run ‘ground.
That year much did swirl for yeast finds sleep rare,
And what once was beer in tree’s brace did find
Notes, smells unfettered now but palate fair,
And bitter music played in time with rind.
If one sought brown or pale or stout sweet woe
For neither, nor, and none, this strong ale show.

Sonnet CLVII

Elements conjured forth through Water pure
A tincture; Fire’s bane and Earth’s lament.
On Air life gulped sweet life shy of demure,
And found in liquid our Spirit’s repent.
Ask one now, she, ‘should imbibe or abstain?’
‘All depends’ answer they, ‘what dost thou seek?’
From life from this place, melodic refrain?
Or days left unfulfilled, the same, so weak?
If the latter, fly now, Smith wants you not;
Much rather he’d have a soul gilded bold.
So into your life cast Gambler’s lot
A chance you should take, on true Yorkshire gold.
But also weigh Eros, mission love born,
And weigh too, ones headache come morrow, come morn.

Grammarian’s note: I went with sonnets over a play for brevity’s sake, and because I prefer rhymed iambic pentameter to blank verse. I started with CLV (155) as Shakespeare’s final sonnet was CLIV (154). The structure for a sonnet is 12 rhyming quatrains (ABAB CDCD EFEF) with a single rhyming (GG) couplet as the closing. For more information, check out the basics of his style: http://www.shakespeare-online.com/faq/writingstyle.html