Alan over at A Good Beer Blog ran with an observation made at Relentless Thirst, and it’s got me thinking. Is craft beer in danger of becoming another badge of urban chic? Is there still an elitism among indie brewery afficianados that serves as a barrier to entry for the mainstream, or something against which people disdainfully rebel?

Reading interviews of good craft brewers, it’s pretty evident that snobbery and elitism run contrary to their ethos. There’s a huge difference in exhibiting a passion for the craft and implying that the people who ‘get it’ are somehow more hip, stylish and edgy. When Greg Koch of Stone Brewing says ‘We don’t make product, we make beer,’ he’s not saying that to imply that people who drink mainstream beer are zymurgical rubes lacking the cred to enjoy indie brew. He’s saying that, as brewers, the guys at Stone produce something that they love, first and foremost. I know of no brewer that doesn’t want to share that passion with as many open-minded, thirsty people as possible.

Personally, it would be a surprise if craft beer became the libation of the hipster. It’s expensive and there’s nothing ironic about it. That’s not to say that hipsters don’t drink craft beer, but they do so for the same reason as the rest of us: it’s fucking delicious.

It isn’t hipness that still stigmatizes indie beer, it’s gentrification. Lots of people don’t want to think to hard about a mundane liquid that refreshes you and gets you drunk; they have their brand and are more than satisfied. Among people who haven’t been turned on to the new brewing, craft beer is often viewed as  the MacBook of beverages, precious and stylish but unecessary. It’s an interesting skirmish in our modern culture wars: Some craft beer snobs think the bumpkins are too unsophisticated to appreciate their precious brew, and some mainstream beer loyalists think craft beer lovers are gullible fools so wrapped up in the image that they’re easily parted from their money.

Indie brewing is going to become ubiquitous. The local brew is going to be a choice increasingly made by people on any side of the culture divide. It’s the original brewing. It’s the real American brewing. It promotes local loyalty and unites across income and class lines.

And really, what’s so hip about that?

-Mark

We’re at the time of year where pumpkin ales become ubiquitous, arriving with great pomp and fanfare in supermarkets and taking up valuable pub taplines. In a month or so, much of this stock will wind up on  clearance or as a pint specials as retailers try desperately to rid themselves of the pervasive brew.

Why? because pumpkin ale sucks.

I really like pumpkin pie. That custardy texture, the flaky crust, the earthy flavor accented by cinnamon, clove and the spices that evoke Autumn. It’s a wonderful thing. But why must brewers take my pumpkin pie fantasy and drown it in beer?

With a pumpkin ale, the first thing that happens is any trace of pumpkin flavor vanishes. The big orange gourd simply does not stand up to the brewing process. Next, many brewers go absolutely apeshit with the spices, suffocating the beer’s inherent flavor and aroma with clove and cinnamon to the point where the result could just as likely come from the Yankee Candle Company as from a craft brewery. Even in cases where things are more restrained and refined, as is the case with Brooklyn’s Post Road Pumpkin Ale, the same spice combination that makes for a delicious Thanksgiving dessert  creates a cloying, unsubtle, palate-confusing beer with no quenching or refreshing properties.

I’m gonna have a pumpkin ale. One, and that’s it for the entire autumn. I think a lot of people do that. I’ve never seen anyone drink more than two at a sitting. And hence the backstock.

Unfortunately the same beer now retailing for $9 a sixpack will taste just as disappointing when it’s marked down to $3.99

-Mark

Oktoberfest marks the high point of Fall  

By Mark Tichenor and Bruce Lish.

We are realists. We see the folly of squandering the few remaining warm weekends mowing lawns, scooping gutters and sealing driveways. It makes much more sense to spend them under a ginormous tent, listening to oompah bands and swilling beer.

That’s right, Oktoberfest is back, and the world’s biggest party will radiate outward from Munich, Germany, to thousands of cities and towns around the world.

Once again, the brewers’ pavilions of the Theriesenwiese will host throngs of people from Germany and around the world, arms of tourist and local alike linked in swaying celebration of, well, if not exactly culture, then at least the stolid German opinion of how a festival should go down.

The Munich Oktoberfest is the largest public festival in the world, and nowhere on earth is there a more unabashed celebration of beer. Each year over 6 million people converge on the Oktoberfest grounds over the course of the 16-day run (the actual population of Munich is around 1,300,000). They crowd into aircraft hangar-size tents, most of which are sponsored by one of the city’s ‘big 6’ breweries, sit at long, skinny tables, eat fatty lumps of meat, down sausages by the gullet load, and drink ludicrous quantities of special, Oktoberfest bier.

The maple syrup-colored Festbier, also called Märzen because of its traditional March brew date, satisfies the palate with its toasty, substantial body and sweet malt character. An elevated alcohol content, around 6% in most examples, also satisfies the soul, and makes necessary a special ‘dry-out’ tent at the Munich Oktoberfest into which the judgment-impaired can be dragged to sleep it off.

Those attending the Irondequoit Oktoberfest, held at Camp Eastman on the weekends of September 18-20 and again from September 25-27, may not get to try Festbier from all the Munich breweries, but Spaten’s fine example will be on draft, and those who try it will taste beer in its former role as ‘liquid bread.’

In a good Oktoberfest beer, malt does so much more than just provide the fermentable sugars for the yeast to convert into alcohol; it’s the essence of the beer’s flavor. With each sip, you can taste the grains robust, complex character. It’s almost like chomping down on a slice of hearty dark peasant bread.

The grain notes, however, get tempered by a light molasses-like sweetness, and the brewing process for Festbier ensures a thick, satisfying body that’s simultaneously quenching and nourishing. Keep in mind that Oktoberfest is the spiritual cousin of Bock and Doppelbock, which were originally brewed to provide monks with nutrition during the fasting period, and apparently to take their minds off of the fact that they weren’t getting anything to eat.

Hopes are used in the brewing, of course, but not in the same way as in, say, an American IPA. The German Hallertau, Tettnang and Spalter hops lack the bitterness of the Pacific Northwest varieties, and they’re utilized differently in the brewing process. So where the hops in an aggressive American style give a bitter bite, in Oktoberfest beer they take on more of a preservative role, with a far subtler flavor impact.

Preservation is important, since Oktoberfest is a lager, and its yeast requires a greater maturation time than that of ales. Historically, the Bavarians knew Oktoberfest would be coming up every September, so they’d brew in March, letting the beer mature over the summer in cool Alpine caves.

No doubt due to its exposure as a feel-good party drink, Festbier captures the imaginations of American craft brewers too. Brooklyn, Sam Adams, Harpoon, and Victory all recreate that original Munich body and flavor with relative fidelity.  Locally, Custom Brewcrafters is releasing a reformulated Oktoberfest that adheres closely to the old Bavarian traditions recipes and ingredients.

Oktoberfest beer reminds us that, like most of the finer things in life, context is vital. A beer that might be just OK out of a bottle on your porch can serve as the catalyst for a fantastic evening when shared, with friends, in a pavilion while a bunch of guys in leather shorts blast away on their brass instruments. 

On that note, we really should be getting back to our yardwork. Prosit!

For me, Oktoberfest is like Christmas. It’s the ultimate celebration of good beer. And we’re having it tomorrow at Beer School.

Join Tom and myself as we taste delicious, malty, hearty Oktoberfest beers from Munich and beyond. Come to Monty’s Korner in Rochester (fly there if you have to. C’mon, you’ve got the airline miles) at 7:30pm. $5 gets you a delightful amount of beer.

-Mark

 You would never be able to tell how beer-crazed the Danes are by looking at their exports. Carlsberg Lager, fizzy and yellow, with an advertising slogan as wishy-washy as the beer itself (”probably the best beer in the world”), is pretty much indistinguishable from Heineken. And Tuborg Lager, owned and produced by Carlsberg, is pretty much indistinguishable from Carlsberg.

Until recently, that was it for the tap lineup in Copenhagen’s pubs. Carlsberg’s voracious competitive practices resulted in the acquisition or virtual elimination of independent Danish breweries. These days, however, the big dog and  the myriad startup breweries seem to have found a mutually beneficial coexistence.

American megabrewers try repeatedly to tap into the skyrocketing craft beer market, but their efforts rarely end in success. Their lowest-common-denominator focus group mentality results in a mediocre product (I’m looking at you, Shock Top) that no longer fools an educated consumer base. They could take a lesson from Carlsberg on how to get it right.

Carlsberg’s Jacobsen line is true craft beer. Named after brewery founder I.C. Jacobsen, these beers demonstrate what can happen when some of the most highly skilled and technical brewers in the world are allowed to cut loose. They absolutely nail styles like brown ale and Czech pilsner, while producing interesting style hybrids (a Saaz Blonde that combines Czech  characteristics with Belgian golden ale).

These beers are proudly poured in the Carlsberg Visitor’s Center’s own tasting room. A big shout out from us to tasting room employees Morten and Andreas for a thorough dscription and a great time.

Independent breweries continue to spring up in  Carlsberg’s shadow, and it’s obvious that many brewers’ influences lie well beyond the Danish borders. Copenhagen’s Norrebrø Bryghus is perhaps the most famous stateside. They do an American IPA that would make you swear you were drinking in Portland, were it not for the hundreds of bicycles whipping by your sidewalk table.

Another standout, experienced in a charming cafe on a shady Copenhagen street, is Ørbaek Bryggeri. They do a ‘Genius Irish Stout’ which melds the bright robustness of a Guinness with the sweeter finish of a Beamish to create a thoroughly enjoyable, unmistakably Irish pint. I’ve been told that their brewmaster is from Ireland, but since all the material I can find on them is in Danish, it’s difficult to back that claim up.

When in Copenhagen on one of their three sunny days, it’s always a treat to sit in the open courtyard of the Copenhagen Brewpub and sip a Cole Porter. One of my favorite spots in town since 2006, the big, beautifully maintained brewpub features English and American/English hybrid styles with flair and fidelity. And much like the Tivoli Gardens location of the Apollo Bryggeri down the street, they exhibit a Scandinavian penchant for brewing with elderflowers.

Denmark is home to hundreds of breweries now, and I barely scratched the surface during my brief visit. And the Danes not only speak passionately about their beer,  but they’re willing to fork over the obscene amounts of money necessary to acquire it in their heavily-taxed homeland.

Fortunately, I was able to secure attractive financing rates on the bottles I consumed.

-Mark

More travel tales tomorrow, but today I wanted to give a shout out to beerlens.com, an international collaboration between two photographers, one in the USA and one in Wales, who share a passion for beer, and the places and situations in which it is enjoyed. Join Kim and Rob as the seek to capture the visual essence of the greatest beverage in the world.

-Mark

These things always start with Sam Adams.

That’s because these things always start in an airport, in which, once past the security checkpoint and reshod, there is nothing to do but sit at the airport bar. Gazing out over the perpetually deserted Rochester airport tarmac and sipping an expensive Boston Lager,  I mentally reviewed the itinerary. jetBlue to JFK, Icelandair to Keflavik, three days in Iceland. On to Copenhagen, where I would explore the Danish beer scene. Then off to Prague before returning to the Danish capital and seeing an old friend off into the brutal vise-grip of matrimony.

Two weeks. Three nations. A buttload of great beer.

It’s five and a half hours from NYC to Reykjavik, and I would’ve begun my exploration of Icelandic beer on the plane, but lifting hand to mouth was a trial since I was flying Icelandair, an airline whose economy cabin is cramped to a level that’s just embarrasing for a nation’s flag carrier. Gazing down into the eyes of the nice gentleman who reclined his seat into my lap, I decided to save my thirst for Reykjavik’s legendary runtur. 

Our 7am arrival offered a chance to see the aftermath of that traditional weekend pub crawl and, well, it can’t be considered an after-hours party if the bars don’t actually close. Wandering the deserted streets, the sun already high in the semiarctic sky, our feet crunched over a carpet of broken bottles and glasses that covered the sidewalk, even as crews with neat little vacuum tractors labored to clear the city center of all the jagged-edged mementos of the previous night.

Iceland’s relationship with alcohol is weirder than even that of the United States. Alcohol was legal, but beer was actually banned until 1989. Freakin’ bizzare, and hardly the foundation for a good brewing culture.

Until World War Two, Icelanders were poor farmers and fisherman cast away on what’s basically an active volcano range with pitifully little in the way of natural resources. This bred a pious, hard people with little free time away from the daily struggle for survival. Like most hard labor communities, work ethic was prized above all else, and even today it’s not really common for Icelanders to tie one on during the week.

On Friday though, Reykjavikers go absolutely apeshit.

The whole town eats a nice dinner and starts hitting the hard stuff at home, pregaming for the party to come. They don’t hit the bars until around midnight, and when they do they drink until they’re just about dead, or at least impaired enough to think eating a greasy mystery meat sandwich from the street food stand at the end of Bankstraeti is a good idea. Until midnight though, Reykjavik’s pubs contain nothing but tourists.

Yo, Bill Bryson, shut up and talk about the beer.

Sorry. On the whole, Icelandic beer is lame. Gull is terrible, watery and corny, very much like the fine brews produced in Canada. Polar is slightly better. The real gem of the bunch is Thule (pronounced “tur-le”), presented to me by the standoffish but cute bartendress at The Celtic Cross, on Laugavegur, as her favorite Icelandic beer. It’s a richly-bodied, complex lager with an agressive hop bite, tasting kind of like the saaz hops used in Czech pilsners (but that’s just a guess on my part). Thule doesn’t quite measure up on the world stage of great lager beers, but in comparison with the other Icelandic stuff, it’s very nice. Were this beer available in the USA I would order it from time to time.

The best drinking Establishment Reykjavik has to offer is Dillon, a vaguely dive-bar, vaguely rock bar place with a kickass patio and the comfortable feel of an old shoe. It’s also a comparatively friendly oasis in a city of extreme personal distance and reservation. Our bartendrix was cute, feisty and talkative, and we quickly fell in with a visiting Belgian soldier, an almost stereotypical New Yorker, and his Icelandic wife and friends. Located right on Laugavegur, the town’s main drag, it’s a great place to kick back with some Stones and a cold bottle or seven of Thule. Oh, and it’s where I got panhandled at by what must be Iceland’s only homeless guy (so far).

Iceland’s lack of brewing tradition, sparse population that only drinks in quantity two nights out of the week, high cost of doing business and recent economic collapse will likely relegate the country to the status of beer backwater for a long time. Fortunately the natural beauty of the landscape, which is unlike any other place on Earth, make the country a must-visit place. It continues to fascinate me and I will return. Even with no choice but to cram myself into an Icelandair cattle-class seat to get there.

-Mark