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

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

Well I’m back, and getting ready to write. I really got to explore the Danish craft beer scene, and came away surprised at how closely it mirrored that of the US beer scene, how on-board and pivotal Denmark’s biggest mainstream brewer is, and how enthusiastically craft beer was received by the Danish people in a country where even the cheap stuff goes for close to $10 a pop. Look for the big, photographically rich update later today or tomorrow.

-Mark

This is a guest post from my buddy Marty, who made these observations during his repeated trips to France. It’s a good read, and asks some pointed questions about how, even with two beer-crazy neighbors, France’s brew culture is relatively underdeveloped. -Mark

Work related trips to France have forced me to ponder a serious topic regarding beer.  That question is:  Why is the beer selection in France sub-par?  One might ask where I would get the time to look at the beer selection in France during a work trip.  I will answer that.  At every opportunity the French working force goes on strike.  The reasons are often unknown.  This allowed me the opportunity to go for runs in the afternoon and take a look at the beer selection in the evening.
Let me start by saying that I do appreciate sitting outside at a French café drinking a cold beverage.  The weather was perfect and the atmosphere was interesting.  I would also like to state that the beer available on tap is good but the selection from bar to bar is poor.  The same could be argued about a typical bar in the United States but you often find at least one or two random beers on tap if you feel the need to explore.
The typical selection at the bars and café’s we entered were:  Kronnenburg, Kronnenburg 1664 (tastes the same but is .20 cent Euro more expensive), Guinness, Stella Artois, and Leffe Blond.  I am not saying that any one of these beers is bad but this is pretty much all you get.  This forced me to ask the question:  Why?
I know that French wine from Burgundy and Bordeaux are some of the best in the world.  I have tried some and it is excellent, I guess.  I do not mind red wine but I am far from a connoisseur.   I am probably not even a beer connoisseur but I think I have a little more credibility in this arena.  The simple answer to why the beer selection is limited would be that the French have all this great red wine to drink.  Ladies and gentlemen, I say neigh.  Why would I then see everyone sitting outside with 10-12 ounce glasses of beer?  Everywhere.  Just about everywhere I went people were drinking beer or this disgusting liquor called Ricard.  These poor souls are left with such a limited selection.
Let us talk geography for a moment.  If I am not mistaken a country called Belgium is directly north of France.  I did not even have to Google that.  Why in God’s name would they not have more Belgian beers available at bars in France?  It is beyond me.  There are bars in America dedicated to Belgian beer.  Take the Public House in Boston for example.   Mark, I’m sure you could name 10 more of the top of your head.
The French do watch sports at the bar.  Mainly soccer and rugby.  The sort of have that part right.  But I am truly baffled why the beer selection is identical from bar to bar.  Again, it isn’t bad beer it is just extremely limited.

This dispatch is coming from a cool cafe called ‘The Wired Monk’ on the corner of Hollis and Morris in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Check the place out if you’re ever up here

I’d like to tell you we took the Alexander Keith’s brewery tour because of some journalistic ideal, presenting both sides of the story and all that. But the truth is this is our third day in Halifax and there really isn’t all that much to do.

Keith’s has always been a target of mine because their flagship brand, Keith’s IPA, is a lie. The beer is not an IPA. I doubt it’s even an ale. KIPA tastes remarkably like every other mass-produced Canadian lager, with zero floral notes in the aroma and a complete absence of hop bitterness. It’s even the same color as Labatt Blue (a beer which has the temerity to call itself a ‘Pilsner,’ but that’s a rant for another day.

But here we are in Halifax, and there’s a big stone brewery with a tour that promises samples- of something- at the end. So once more into the kettle we go.

The problem with brewery tours is they’re just a bunch of tanks and kettles. The product of these inert, hulking vessels might be marvelous but to non-brewers, the process of arriving at beer is rather mundane and make for a substandard tourist attraction. Keith’s attempts to jazz things up by dressing their tour guides in 1820’s garb and ‘taking you back in time.’ So myself and about 20 other substandard tourists were greeted by a buxom wench from a time generations before our own, generations before cell phones, digital cameras, or acting lessons. After marvelling at our magic electric boxes and clothes from the future, she led us into a quaint 1820s dining room with a quaint LCD screen mounted on the wall, which treated us to a video presentation about Keith’s beer, and mostly about Mr. Alexander Keith himself.

Here’s what I learned about Mr. Alexander Keith through this video:

• He was scottish
• He trained with English Brewmasters
• He came to Nova Scotia at 22
• He was the greatest brewer ever
• His beer was the best beer ever
• No one was as good as Alexander Keith at anything
• He was a combination of John F. Kennedy, Bill Gates, and Mother Teresa all rolled into one
• His semen cured multiple sclerosis
• He died for your sins
• Without the existence of Alexander Keith, Canada would have broken off from the North American continent and fallen under the sea a hundred years ago

After this move had imparted upon me a through dislike of Alex Keith, we got to ‘tour’ a small scale Keith’s brewhouse, which was impressive. Some of the prettiest copper kettles, tuns, and fermentation tanks served as background for another character actor’s explanation of the brewing process, a fascinating discussion of elementary chemistry that riveted our group for at least two minutes. When the guide sensed attention drifting, it was off to the ‘cooper’s shop,’ where he told us that beer used to be put in wooden barrels.

Finally, it was time for the sampling. The weirdest, most awkward beer sampling I’ve yet experienced. Our group was ushered to the door of a replica 19th century pub, where we met two more character actors. Inside we were each given a choice to try the ‘IPA,’ the brand new ‘Traditional Lager,’ or the Keith’s Red. After the first pour, we were directed to sit against the wall while the actors entertained us with traditional 19th-century pub entertainment

Now to me, traditional pub entertainment is drinking more beer. Instead, we were treated to a couple lame, non-bawdy jokes about sea captains, a brief little song, then a long and unecessary rendition of ‘Scarborough Fair’ (all seventeen verses), to which we were encouraged to sing along. There we were, a room full of cynical Americans and rotund Albertan holidaygoers trying to sample their beer while self-consciously attempting to join in on what I always thought was a Simon and Garfunkel song. It was…freakin’ weird.

Anyway, once they had distracted us from trying all three beers (we were poured a second sample) the tour ended with an uncerimonious dumping-off into the gift shop.

I guess the experience was enjoyable. The obvious enthusiasm of the character actors made up for the fact that dressing up a brewery is like putting perfume on a pig. And while Keith’s IPA still sucks, the brand-spankin’ new ‘Traditional Lager’ is a pretty good American lager that I’d order again.

Fortunately, while in Rochester, I won’t have to.

Have you heard of the thermocline layer? It’s like a border within a lake or ocean that separates the warmer surface water from the colder temperatures of the depths. Much like the thermocline layer, the US/Canadian border separates craft beer into very distinct, and unfortunately isolated regions.Here in this Halifax cafe (sweating my ass off, incidentally; this city is built on a huge hill,with my hotel at the bottom),  a tapline  beckons that’s loaded with beers I’ve never or only fleetingly heard of. Propeller. Garrison. Granite. I feel like a neophyte, with the same noob’s apprehension at the unfamiliar names, but also the same rediscovered joy of discovery.Likewise, the brewery staff and bartenders have little acquaintance with the breweries I consider giants in the American craft beer scene. Victory. Sierra Nevada. Shipyard. From a beer perspective, it’s a bit like stepping into a parallel universe.This beer border, governmentally constructed and maintained, will probably always be a tough nut to crack. It’s a shame, because people on each side miss out a vibrant and exciting brewing scene. But it’s also a good thing. Because there’s always something new to discover.-Mark

I’m posting this from an overly precious Victorian-themed bed and breakfast in Wolfville, Nova Scotia, the first place we’ve stayed in a few days that actually features an internet connection. Some things you just take for granted until you’re in a remote corner of Canada.

Anyway, I’m delighted to report that even though wifi is nonexistent, there’s no shortage of craft beer up here. Our first destination, Portland, Maine, is kind of a brewing epicenter. It’s home to both Shipyard and Allagash, as well as smaller indie breweries like the Sebago brewing Company and Gritty MacDuff’s. Now, along the scallop and lobster-infested western coast of Nova Scotia, I’m discovering there’s more to the province’s beer scene than Alexander Keith’s, although the Halifax-based company casts a mighty shadow indeed.

Upon my return to Rochester, you, dear Beercraft reader, will be subject to the type of rambling travelogue you’ve come to expect from us. Until then, know that even though posting is sporadic I’m out there for you guys, tasting away. Man, this is a tough job.

-Mark

I feel sorry for our print readers. The poor bastards spend all day trying to hunt down a copy of the elusve Freetie Magazine, only to find that, for the second time in a row, the beercraft column has been bumped for lack of space. Fear not, loyal reader. We’ll still be pumping out our unique and slightly unsavory concoction of great beer, mediocre wit, and poor social skills for many issues to come. This is nothing more than a bottleneck.

Anyway, I’m writing this from the Extended Stay America in Portland, Maine, where I will spend the next two days acquiring an intimate, hopefully biblical, knowledge of the city’s beer scene. Expect news, comment, and increasingly blurry images to follow.

-Mark

You know us. We’re on a never-ending quest to bring you, the reader, closer to the world of great beer. And we can’t always accomplish this by sitting on our lazy butts at home. With this in mind, I’ll be driving up to Nova Scotia next week for a ten-day oddyssey of natural beauty, craft beer, and perhaps the occasional moose.

Nova Scotia is the home turf of Alexander Keiths, a large and much-praised Canadian brewer, but I’m going anyway. My commitment is to bring you insight, interviews, and the type of mediocre photography you’ve come to expect from Beercraft.  So stay tuned as we go on the road yet again.

-Mark

It’s amazing what some people will do for fun. Some run marathons, some get shot with stingy little paintballs, some even suspend themselves from sharp hooks pushed through the bleeding flesh of their own backs.Bruce and I dispense beer at beer festivals.

This weekend found us in the teeming metropolis of Hunter, New York, for Tap NY, the state’s premier beer festival, and due to its proximity to the Tri-State area, one of the most attended. Dozens of breweries from all over New York, New Jersey and Canada offered up their finest for the sampling pleasure of the masses.

For the first day, the masses didn’t seem overly interested in the finest. Maybe the most alcoholically strong, but subtle flavor and aroma characteristics did not seem to be a top priority for many. One poor kid (I’m guessing he was about 21 by the way he couldn’t stand up) managed to get himself literally covered in a complex, hoppy yet smokey carmel-tinged Ithaca Ten, which dripped sadly off the brim of his baseball cap onto the back of his right shoulder as a big brown stain spread across his Abercrombie logo. Even with the younger crowd though, drink-addled outbursts seemed to be kept to a minimum. I saw no violence, no vomit. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

Give me your huddled masses waiting to be drunk

No, seriously, it’s a tribute to the festival organizers and the Hunter Mountain staff that things went so smoothly. This is a long-standing and well-run festival, and every effort is made to accommodate the brewers. Festival Co-Founder Nat Collins stood on his head to make sure that every exhibitor had a problem-free festival. The guy did laps the whole time; it looked exhausting.

 Festival co-founder Nat Collins

We basically poured nonstop for four hours, running out of the Rohrbach Bluebeary ale on the first day, and growing concerned that we didn’t bring enough beer to last the entirety of the two-day event. You can only fit four kegs in the back of a Honda Element.

The night was spent dodging creepy twin toddlers in the hallway at an anachronistic borscht-belt era resort called the Villa Vosilla, and drinking the neighboring O’Neil’s Pub, which had the common decency to feature one of our favorite beers, Roosterfish Nut Brown Ale, on draft. This went over particularly well considering we were drinking with Jordan Sunseri, one of the Roosterfish brewers.

The outside breweries prep for Sunday

As is the norm at these festivals, the Sunday crowd was thinner in number, older, and generally more interested in the beer.

The day kicked of with the chick from the Ale Street News booth apologizing profusely for how she acted while partying the previous night, which must have been terrible because we never laid eyes on her. But being magnanimous, I offered my forgiveness with a stern admonishment not to let it happen again.

We cruised through the Sunday crowd with relative ease, with plenty of sampling opportunities for the two of us. My favorites: Sixpoint Gorilla Warfare, Southampton Secret Ale, and Chelsea Cream Stout. We also met a bunch of cool brewing guys from Sixpoint, Keegan and others. This is the part I like best about working beer festivals: making new friends, talking beer and coming away a bit envious that I don’t work among the big tanks myself.

Lake Placid Maibock: a malty standout 

After the last gasp of foam spurted from our final keg, we packed up and hauled ass through the backest of central New York State roads, to the Thruway and over to Rochester’s Tap and Mallet, where we shared a couple pints with Rochester radio dj Dem Jones. A great end to a great festival.

Jeff from Ithaca Brewing with his prize, apparently some subs. 

Congratulations to all the breweries that won prizes. And a special shout-out to Jeff and the guys from the Ithaca Brewing Company who won Best New York State Craft Brewery. We’ll see you at Hunter Mountain next year.

-Mark