It’s a beer fact guaranteed to make British drinkers boggle in disbelief: one of the biggest selling beer styles among black working-class South African men is milk stout
While milk stout has seen a tiny renaissance in the UK, with craft beer brewers producing examples of the style, it is still mostly thought of, if it is though of at all, as the beer drunk by little old ladies sitting in the saloon bar on their own. The last person in Britain to be known for drinking milk stout was Ena Sharples, sour-faced harridan of the soap opera Coronation Street, who disappeared from television screens almost 40 years ago.
In South Africa, however, milk stout has a totally different image: Castle Milk Stout, originally a South African Breweries brand and now, since it acquired SAB, owned by AB InBev, is a long-time favourite of black workers, and is now being marketed at the country’s black middle class as the beer to drink to show you haven’t lost touch with your roots. (Great ad, that – possibly one of the best beer ads ever.)
Stout and porter had been popular in South Africa from the earliest days of British colonisation, but by the start of the 20th century lager was starting to take over. However, variants on stout were appearing in South Africa, such as oatmeal stout, which was made by several firms, including South African Breweries, which advertised its Castle oatmeal stout in 1916 as providing “health and strength for tired people,” and Chandler’s Crown brewery in Ophirton, Johannesburg, which was still advising customers in 1932 to “Drink Chandler’s Oatmeal Stout and keep colds away!” There was also the peculiar-sounding and short-lived Marrow Stout (bone marrow or vegetable marrow, it is not clear which) brewed by the Thoma (sic) brewery in Johannesburg (founded in 1892 by a German, August Thoma, in Braamfontein, Johannesburg and taken over by Ohlsson’s Cape Breweries in 1902), which was first advertised in the Rand Daily Mail in 1909 but does not appear again after 1910.
However, just as “marrow stout” was disappearing, a new style of stout appeared that would turn South Africa into one of the biggest stout-drinking countries in the world. Sweet stout had been growing increasingly popular, but as the beer aged it lost its sweetness. The idea of brewing stout with a dose of unfermentable lactose sugar, derived from milk, to keep it staying sweet, had been first patented by William Melhuish, a food chemist from Poole, Dorset, in 1908, and the first “milk stout” was brewed by the English brewer Mackeson’s of Hythe, in Kent, in 1909. Mackeson licensed other brewers to make their own milk stouts, and the Castle brewery launched its version in August 1912 with a full-page advertisement in the Rand Daily Mail. Castle Milk Stout became one of the company’s biggest selling beers, particularly after a ban on black South Africans drinking “European” beers, imposed in 1928, was lifted in 1962.
The appeal of the six per cent abv drink to black South Africans, according to the South African advertising guru Happy Ntshingila, was that the traditional sorghum beer which was all they were legally allowed to drink during those years has always been regarded as a food as well as an alcoholic drink, and the “milk” part of milk stout gave it the same image. By the 1990s milk stout in South Africa was primarily a drink of blue-collar Nguni men – members of the Zulu, Xhosa, Ndebele and other South African peoples. The beer was frequently sold in quart bottles, for sharing, the way a calabash of sorghum beer would be shared, and was described as “the most physically masculine brand in the SAB stable.” It was about as far from the image that milk stout drinkers had in the beer’s country of origin – elderly ladies sipping a half-pint in the pub on their own—as it was possible to travel.
The large market for milk stout in South Africa did not go unnoticed in Chiswell Street, the London headquarters of Whitbread, the company that had acquired Mackeson in 1929. However, when the British brewer launched the Mackeson brand in South Africa in 1967, it was as Mackeson Porter, not Mackeson Milk Stout. This, the first launch of a beer under the name “porter” by a British brewer since, probably, the 19th century, was most likely because South African Breweries had a local trade mark monopoly on the use of the expression “milk stout”: there had been other milk stouts in South Africa besides the one from Castle, including Ohlsson’s Lion “melk stout”, as it was branded in Afrikaans, which was still being sold in 1952, but SAB had acquired Ohlsson’s in 1954. (In the UK the term “milk stout” had been voluntarily abandoned by brewers for fear that legislation would be introduced to ban it anyway.) Mackeson Porter was on sale in South Africa until 1972 before disappearing, unable, without the world “milk stout” on the label, to make any impact on a market that had not seen a beer called “porter” for generations.
Early in the 1990s, after the government of South Africa unbanned the African National Congress, and with black Africans increasingly drinking lager rather than milk stout, South African Breweries gave the advertising brief for Castle Milk Stout to the country’s first all-black ad agency, HerdBuoys. A series of advertisements that successfully combined images of black urban success with rural tradition—and milk stout drinking—sent sales soaring again, to 100,000 hectolitres (84,000 US barrels) a year. By 2003, Castle Milk Stout was the fourth biggest liquor brand in South Africa, and the second biggest stout brand in the world. Its production still included roast malt added in the mash tun, unlike Guinness, which had long gone over to using an extract of roasted barley, added post-mash, and other tweaks peculiar to making Castle Milk Stout, including adding caramel alongside the lactose, crash-cooling the fermentation to encourage the yeast to produce stop the yeast mopping up diacetyl, which increases the “butterscotch” flavours in the beer, and a lager-like maturation at -2ºC.
By 2011 Castle Milk Stout was available in a nitrogenated draft version, though it is still most often found in 75cl bottles and in cans. However, in the winter of 2014 SAB introduced “ultra-smooth” milk stout in a nitrogenated can, and also a limited-edition “chocolate-infused” 4.5 per cent abv version of Castle Milk Stout, which came back as a regular variant the following year, again available in 75cl bottles. This, together with “repositioning” the brand as a “premium” product, and whites picking up on the brand as the growth of craft beer made them more aware of “unusual” beer styles, helped push sales up 14 per cent year-on-year. It has still been maintaining its “traditional” image in South Africa, however, with promotions that included printing tribal clan names, and clan praise songs, on the cans. The brand has also moved abroad, capturing market share from Guinness in Nigeria, where stout makes up 14 per cent of the beer market, and also being brewed in Tanzania, Ghana, Uganda and even South Korea.
That’s another one crossed off the bucket list … standing in a “live” floor maltings, watching the chemical magic that is barley enzymes turning starch into sugar in many millions of little seeds, all spread in a carpet four inches deep and probably 60 yards long and 15 yards wide. I grew up in Hertfordshire, where long, narrow maltings buildings can be found in most towns: there was one next door to my school, which had been acquired as overspill classrooms, so I can say I absorbed some of my education where malt was once made. I’ve been in plenty of disused floor maltings over the decades, in the UK and abroad, and I’ve seen a Saladin drum maltings in action, but never, until last Friday, a working floor maltings where malt is made in a way basically unchanged from the way it was made a thousand and more years ago.,
What I wasn’t expecting on the joint Brewery History Society/Guild of Beer Writers trip to Crisp’s maltings in Great Ryburgh in Norfolk was to be allowed inside the kiln, where the malt, once it has germinated enough, is dried off. These pyramidal structures, often topped with cowls that turn with the prevailing wind, are again familiar to anyone who has ever visited Ware in Hertfordshire, once the greatest malting town in the country, or Burton upon Trent, where multitudes of breweries had their own maltings. They are – or at least the one we were taken into – surprisingly spacious inside. Less surprisingly, it’s hot: but not that hot. To make properly dried pale malt takes about two and a quarter days of gentle heat. Too hot, to try to speed life up, and the malt will be too dark.
Next up, though, was a wonderful piece of 21st century malting kit just installed at Great Ryburgh, the Speciality Malt Plant, the only one of its kind in the UK, and so new its products are not even on sale yet: two 20-feet-high towers wrapped in spiral tubes that take raw malt and then toast, roast, stew or bake it to produce the complete range of coloured malts, from amber through brown and chocolate to black. The towers will also make crystal malts and other speciality malts, continuously, at a rate of 1.5 tonnes an hour, with the kind of control over the colour of the final product impossible using batch production methods.
Each tower has two off-balance electric motors attached that vibrate the assembly, shaking the grains of malt up the spiral tubes. In the tubes the grains are blasted with heat as they rise, making them darker and more toasty/roasty, with the changes in flavour – coffee, chocolate, burnt raisins, even liquorice – that come with browning the malt. (Malt trivia: so-called “chocolate” malt doesn’t have chocolatey flavours, but coffee-like ones: the name comes from the colour. Chocolatey flavours are more likely to be found in brown malt, one step backwards down the level of roasting.) As the first grain comes out the other end, after 50 minutes or so, its colour can be checked against spec, and the heat adjusted as needed for the rest of the run. Water can be injected into the first tower, which will mean green malt can be stewed on its way through and then converted into crystal malt. The system was originally designed by a Frenchman to dry wood pellets for burning in power stations, but is now used for everything from drying almonds and other nuts to roasting coffee.
It all starts in a field, of course: and on the way back to Norwich our mixed group of hacks and historians took a side trip to the Maris Otter mother field, at a secret side “somewhere in Norfolk”. This is where seed is grown up in the first year of a four-stage process to produce the grain that is sold to farmers who grow the barley that is turned into malt that craft brewers around the world love because of the way it handles in the mash tun and because of the way the beers it produces develop in the cask. But why does it need a mother field? Because all organisms, if not watched, will fail to breed true, and in a few generations, with 36 seeds per head of barley, bouf! No more pure-bred Maris Otter, with all the genetic characteristics so many brewers love.
So the “mother field” seed actually comes from a one-hectare plot that has been rigorously vetted to ensure everything harvested from it is pukka pure seed of exactly the sort released by the Plant Breeding Institute in Maris Lane, Trumpington, near Cambridge, back in 1965, and the plants in the mother field will be vetted again: at least one mutation is found every year, and the offending barley plant pulled up out of the soil, taken round the back of a hedge and shot in the head. (More malt trivia: among the other varieties of barley released by the Plant Breeding Institute in the 1960s was one called Maris Baldric, which appeared on the agricultural stage in 1961: alas, it was a cunning plan that lacked longevity, and Maris Baldric eventually disappeared. A baldric, to save you looking it up, is a sword belt, the sort that goes over one shoulder and diagonally across under the other arm.)
All this trouble is necessary to get the required certificates that allow the seed to be sold to farmers. Maris Otter’s popularity among specialist brewers means that it has lasted as a commercial variety almost 55 years, though it came close to disappearing at one point, and its low yields in the field mean farmers have to be paid a premium to grow it. Still, there are plenty who will proclaim that Maris Otter grown in Norfolk soil, comparatively poor glacial till over chalk, and nurtured by Norfolk’s dry, sea-influenced climate, is a tough upbringing that results in the best malting barley in the world.
And they’ve been malting barley in East Anglia for more than two thousand years, probably. Under King Cunobelin, the Catuvellauni minted coins in Camulodunum, modern Colchester, that showed what was pretty clearly an ear of barley on one side. If the Iceni, their neighbours to the north in modern Norfolk, were not also growing barley, and turning it into malt, that would be surprising. We know the Angles, who took over in the 5th century AD from the Iceni, or what remained of the Iceni after 400 years of Roman occupation, certainly malted, because a malthouse has been excavated in the last few years dating from the Anglo-Saxon period, around 800 AD, near the north-west Norfolk village of Sedgeford, 12 miles north of King’s Lynn. After learning about modern malting in the morning, the BHS/BGBW learnt about ancient malting in the afternoon, in a session with archaeologist Neil Faulkner, who has been uncovering the oldest known malthouse in Britain.
I think most archaeologists would accept that archaeology has, with a few very honourable exceptions, not been very good until quite recently when dealing with the evidence left behind by ancient malting and maltsters. Many archaeologists working on digs didn’t understand how malting worked, they didn’t understand the processes – steeping, couching, spreading on the malting floor, drying – and what structures were required to house and facilitate those processes, which meant they couldn’t work out what they were finding in the ground actually meant. In particular they were operating under the misapprehension that the kilns used to dry the malt were outside in the open, and they didn’t grasp that the malt to be dried would be on a floor above the kiln, lying, probably, on a haircloth, in a two-storey structure.
Now, under prodding from those few archaeologists with actual experience of malting and brewing, such as Merryn Dineley, the archaeological mainstream is getting a lot better at seeing holes in the ground and working out what those holes mean in terms of ancient malting buildings. This has been helped at Sedgeford by the nature of the site: the maltings sat in a gully, and when it was abandoned it was swiftly covered with hill wash. That meant it was buried deeply enough for modern ploughing not to strip much of the archaeology away, as normally happens, meaning that the holes that represented where the clay-lined steeping tank was, where the kiln once was, where the posts that held up the building where the malt was dried were, are better preserved. So is other evidence such as the flat floor of baked clay that would have been used for germinating the barley after steeping and couching, burnt grains of malt, where the drying got out of hand and the toasting went too far, and burnt daub (as in wattle-and-daub), where the drying got really out of hand and burnt the whole building down: fire has always been a risk in maltings, and it looks as if, during the life of the Sedgeford maltings, it may have burnt down and been rebuilt two or three times.
What there isn’t is evidence for is brewing: what happened to the malt made at this maltings, which was a substantial operation, remains unknown. Three hundred years later, at the time of the Norman conquest, long after the 9th century maltings had vanished under the soil, two manors at Sedgewick were in the hands of Ægelmar, or Aylmer, Bishop of Elmham, 20 miles to the east, which was then where the diocese covering East Anglia was based. Within 30 years or so of the conquest the see was transferred, via Thetford, to Norwich, and in the 12th century, those two manors at Sedgeford were in the hands of Norwich Cathedral Priory, with malt from a later maltings at Sedgeford going to make ale for the monks at the priory. Was the ninth-century maltings, now being explored by archaeologists some 1,200 years on, built by the church? Probably, Neil Faulkner thinks …
To go with the talk on Anglo-Saxon maltings (just Angles on their own, strictly, of course, the Saxons, or East Saxons at least, being down south of the Stour) we had some reconstructed Anglo-Saxon ale, brewed with malted barley, wheat, oats and rye, flavoured with bog myrtle, sage, nettle tops, ale hoof and liquorice root and fermented with a Belgian yeast. I’ve no problem with the mixed grain bill, since brewing with oats, barley and wheat together was certainly happening in the medieval period, but all those herbs together, I suspect, was at least three and probably four too many: possibly even five too many. There are hints that brewers in Norwich at the end of the Middle Ages were using bog myrtle: I’d have just stuck to that, it grows locally and it was widely used in pre-hop brewing. And maybe a Norwegian farmhouse yeast …
But that wasn’t the only fun at the seminar. We got to taste “malt tea” made from various types and grades of malt, courtesy of Crisp’s, which is a far better was of assessing and appreciating malt flavours than chewing the grains: crush the malt, pour water at 60ºC over it, let stand, serve. The Maris Otter tea was lovely, real depth of flavour, and the teas made from different grades of crystal and dark malts highly instructive. Crystal 150 still had a lot of biscuit evident, but with a bit of toffee too. Crystal 400 had tar, treacle and burnt raisins: this is the stuff for your hefty stout. Brown malt had the chocolate flavours, but the tea with 40 per cent black malt was the revelation: smoke, coffee, liquorice, masses of character. It would, I suggested, make a fabulous ice-cream ingredient.
We also had a talk from Chris Ridout of the John Innes Centre, the man who reintroduced Chevallier*, once one of the most popular malting barleys in the world in the 19th century. Dr Ridout revealed that the next heritage barley variety to be released will be Plumage-Archer, which I find terrifically exciting. Plumage-Archer itself is actually almost a century younger than Chevallier, first seeing daylight in 1905 courtesy of the Warminster maltster and barley breeder Edwin Sloper Beaven, but as the name implies, it is a cross of two (much) older varieties, both of them “landrace” types. Plumage comes from Sweden, where it was known as plumage-korn from at least the 1760s, while the birthplace of Archer is lost in the early mists of a summer’s day many centuries back: Beaven, who literally wrote the book on barley (Barley by ES Beaven, Duckworth, London, 1947), said he had “never been able to ascertain [its] origin,” (it was known in some places as “Archer’s”, which suggests a possible association with someone called Archer) but it was “probably the old common English narrow-eared barley of the country” – meaning if you want a barley type similar to the sort that 18th century and earlier brewers used, then one with Archer in its parentage is an excellent choice. I greatly look forward to tasting recreation brews made with Plumage-Archer: truly, this is a wonderful time to be a beer drinker.
Many thanks to the BHS, the BGBW’s Susanna Forbes and Ros Shiel and Frances Brace of Red Flame for organising the event, Crisp Malt and Greene King for helping to support it, and the Georgian Townhouse in Norwich for being the hosts.
*Malting trivia three: I had a chat with Dr Ridout after his talk, in which the spelling of Chevallier came up: the family name of the man who developed the strain was Chevallier, but the habit seems to have grown up in the 19th century to call the barley Chevalier, apparently to differential man and plant, and ES Beaven, writing in the 1940s, deliberately and carefully wrote about Chevalier barley and the Reverend John Chevallier of Suffolk, who introduced it to an eager world. When the John Innes Institute reintroduced the variety seven or so years ago, they had to choose which spelling to adopt when registering it, and decided to go with two Ls, on the grounds that, as Dr Ridout said, that was the way the Reverend John spelt his name. So, strictly, from a style guide POV, if you’re talking about the family, Chevallier; if you’re talking about the barley variety in a 19th or 20th century context, Chevalier is permissible, because that’s the version farmers and maltsters themselves regularly used; if you’re talking about the revived 21st century version, Chevallier. Although frankly …
Millions of words, and dozens of books, have been written about Guinness, the beer, the brewery, and the family, and a perhaps surprising amount of inaccurate mythology (and sometimes pure nonsense) has crept into the story. Here is a short list of some of the “facts” that writers, some of them supposedly authoritative sources, most frequently get wrong about Guinness, which you’ll find repeated all over the interwebs, whenever someone lazily repeats something someone else never bothered checking:
“Arthur Guinness was born in 1725.”
Almost certainly not. His memorial in Oughterard graveyard, Kildare, states that he was “aged 78 years” when he died on January 23 1803. This means that he must have been born some time between the last week in January 1724 and the first three weeks, two days of 1725, making it around 15 to 1 on that he was, in fact, born in 1724.
“Arthur’s father, Richard Guinness, brewed beer for Arthur Price, the Archbishop of Cashel … One of Richard Guinness’s duties was to supervise the brewing of beer for the workers on the Archbishop’s estate.”
There is no evidence at all – AT ALL – that Richard Guinness, or Arthur Guinness, ever brewed for Price, at any time. There was no brewing for “the estate workers” because the home that Price built in the village, Celbridge House (now Oakley Park) did not actually have an estate attached, only a few acres. In any case, if any household brewing took place, it would have been done by lower-grade servants, not someone who was being referred to in the 1740s as “Richard Guinness, gent”.
Richard Guinness worked for Arthur Price from at least 1722, when Price was Dean of Kildare (having been Vicar of Celbridge since 1704), and already on his way up the ecclesiastical career ladder to an eventual archbishop’s mitre. However, Richard’s role was as household agent, receiver, factotum and steward to Price, based in Celbridge.
The “Richard Guinness brewed for Archbishop Price” myth is sometimes supported with invented “facts” – here’s the Oxford Companion to Beer making stuff up: “In 1722 Arthur Price purchased the small, local Kildrought Brewery and placed Richard Guinness in charge of production.”
An ounce of fact has been spun into a pound of fiction by people not thinking hard enough. Come on: what would a high-flying Protestant cleric be doing getting involved in anything as low-life as a commercial brewery? The facts: In 1722 Arthur Price bought a house, stables, garden and maltings in Celbridge that had previously been occupied by a brewer, James Carbery. The house was bought, apparently, as a home for Price’s employee Richard Guinness and Richard’s family. Carbery, meanwhile, stayed on in the brewery and inn next door, which is still in operation as a drinking place today. (“Kildrought”, incidentally, is the older form of Celbridge, from the Irtish Cill Droichid, “Church by the bridge.”
Edward Bourke in The Guinness Story claims on no known evidence that it was Richard Guinness who “leased James Carbery’s Brewery in Celbridge in 1722. (The location is now the Mucky Duck pub).” Three errors here the “Mucky Duck” site is the house that stood in front of James Carbery’s maltings, not the brewery, and it was this house that was Arthur Guinness’s first home: there is no evidence of brewing there, and it wasn’t leased by Richard Guinness, but bought by Arthur Price. (Celbridge pubs seem to have an unfortunate habit of changing their names: the Mucky Duck currently [March 2019] appears to be called simply the Duck, while James Carbery’s former brewery and pub became Breen’s Hotel, then King’s, then Norris’s, and is currently the Village Inn: on the wall of the Village Inn is a plaque that misspells Carbery’s surname.)
Sometimes the story develops into total fantasy. Here’s the idiocy that Stephen Mansfield, author of The Search for God and Guinness: A Biography of the Beer that Changed the World, came up with: “The archbishop’s estate was known for the dark beer that was brewed there, the pride of Dr Price and the envy of his guests. Many a guest tried to question the reverend’s trusted agent to find out how he produced such a fine-tasting drink. Naturally, Richard, proud of his celebrated dark stout, would never say. Some said that Richard Guinness once accidentally roasted his barley too long and that the caramelized result was stronger and better than any other brew.”
Laughable. Barley roasted too long will never “caramelize,” of course, which requires the presence of sugar, and roasting certainly won’t make beer stronger: the opposite, indeed, since the roasting destroys starch that could become sugar that could become alcohol..
There’s worse, amazingly. Sometimes the story becomes garbled into total nonsense, like this, which is copied verbatim from, of all places, the Northern Ireland Tourist Guide hub: “The original Guinness recipe is said to have been created by a Welshman known as Arthur Price. Arthur brought the recipe to Ireland and hired Richard Guinness as a servant. The recipe would be passed on to Guinness who would, of course, create the drink we all know and love.”
Another bizarre and distorted version of Richard Guinness’s early career appeared in a book called Here and There Memories by the sporting writer John Joseph Dunne, published in 1898. Dunne, whose other books include How and Where to Fish in Ireland: A Hand-guide for Anglers, was presumably spun the yarn while dipping his rod in the Liffey, which flows past Celbridge. According to Dunne, “the first Guinness was an ostler at the Bear and Ragged Staff, a little inn at Celbridge,” whose talent as a brewer (no, I don’t know what an ostler, whose place was in the stables, was doing in the brewhouse either) was spotted by a brewer called Sweetman from Dublin, who “brought him into his employ.” Multiple problems here: no evidence of an inn at Celbridge called the Bear and Ragged Staff (though there WAS a Bear Inn in the village in the mid-1800s); no evidence that Richard Guinness was ever an ostler, which would not, in any case, fit with his later career as man of business for the Reverend Dr Price, something that implies much more education than an ostler is likely to have had; no evidence tbat Guinness every worked for the Sweetmans; and the Sweetmans were a dynasty of Catholic brewers, thus unlikely, anyway, to be hiring the Protestant Guinness.
However, Dunne’s story appealed enough to be repeated in at least one Irish paper, the marvellously mastheaded Nenagh News and Tipperary Vindicator (where do Irish traffic cops live? Nenagh, nenagh, nenagh …) and has subsequently polluted history, so that you can now find claims that Richard was actually the proprietor of a Celbridge inn called the Bear and Ragged Staff. In fact, the year Dr Price died, 1752, Richard married a widow called Elizabeth Clare, who had been leasing the White Hart inn in Celbridge since 1749, an inn that had been mentioned by an English traveller in 1732 in terms that suggested it was the main inn in the village.For inexplicable reasons a number of websites give Richard’s second wife’s surname as Clere: the marriage records clearly show it to be Clare, and when her son Benjamin married Richard’s daughter Elizabeth, the surname again was given as Clare. (When the White Hart disappeared does not seem to be known: it has been claimed that it was being run by a man called Thomas Coleman in the 1890s, but Coleman’s inn remains unnamed in all the mentions I have been able to find.)
Richard Guinness – and Arthur – most likely learned to brew after Richard’s marriage to Elizabeth Clare, and the Guinnesses’ new involvement with the White Hart, which happened when Arthur was 28. Three years after that, in 1755, Arthur acquired a proper brewery, in Leixlip, just two and a half miles away for an Irish crow, though rather further by Irish roads. Another persistent myth involves the £100 each that Richard Guinness and his son Arthur were left in Archbishop Price’s will when the prelate died in 1752. The Oxford Companion to Beer fantasising again, claims, that “Price … specified that[the £100] should be used to expand the brewery.” Of course, there is nothing in Price’s will to support this nonsense.
Plenty more people assert, again without evidence, and without thinking if the claim makes sense, that: “Arthur Guinness inherited £100 from his godfather Archbishop Price in 1752, and used the money to set up a brewery in Leixlip.”
Ignoring the three-year gap between Arthur being left money by the archbishop and the acquisition of the Leixlip brewery, £100 in the mid-18th century is the equivalent today of only £14,000 today, not enough to start a business on. It is clear that, rather than Arthur relying on the archbishop’s bequest to start his career, Richard Guinness was able to save enough in the three decades he worked for Price, and then the three years he spent running the White Hart with his new wife, to help fund his eldest son’s move into commercial brewing, which would have needed much more than £100.
Occasionally the mythologists ignore the Leixlip brewery and try to claim Arthur used his £100 inheritance to purchase the lease at St James’s Gate. The date that Arthur acuired his first brewery is often incorrectly claimed as 1756. To be fair, a major study of Arthur’s earliest years, Lynch and Vaisey’s Guinness’s Brewery in the Irish Economy 1759-1876, gets this wrong, mixing up the brewery acquisition with a later land purchase in Leixlip by Arthur. The Leixlip brewery was taken on in 1755: Arthur was named as “of Leixlip, Co Kildare, brewer” in September that year, and in 1773 he was described as a brewer of 18 years’ standing. The date of 1756 applies to more property in Leixlip that Arthur began leasing that year from an American, “George Bryan of Philadelphia in the province of Pennsylvania.”
Sometimes it takes 20 years and more before the significance of something you read become apparent.
In January 1997, What’s Brewing, the Campaign for Real Ale’s monthly newspaper for members, ran a piece by Michael Jackson on a trip he made to what was then the Pripps brewery in Bromma, just outside Stockholm (closed by Carlsberg just six years later). Most of the article was concerned with Carnegie porter, which is still going, though now made at what is its fourth home, the Carlsberg plant in Falkenberg, on Sweden’s west coast. (Which is, somewhat ironically, only about 60 miles from where the beer was born, in 1817, when an entrepreneur from Hamburg called Abraham Lorent opened a porter brewery in Gothenburg which was acquired by a young Scot called David Carnegie in 1836). But at the very end of the article, after discussing a sampling session of vintages of Carnegie porter dating back more than 20 years, Jackson mentioned another beer his hosts at Bromma had given him to try:
” a brew called Pryssing (‘Prussian’), taking its name from the days when Sweden ruled parts of Germany. It had an oily, brown colour, a very syrupy consistency, a slightly medicinal finish, and an alcohol content of 20 per cent. I believe this potency was achieved by fortification, though Hans would not confirm that. The product, available only to guests at the brewery, was an attempt to re-create a beer allegedly served by teaspoon to King Gustav Vasa, in the 1520s to cure his toothache.”
I read that in 1997, and it whizzed way over the top of my head. Then earlier this year I came across “Pryssing” again, in the Sound Toll Registers, the accounts of the toll which the king of Denmark levied for some 360 years on the shipping through the Sound, the strait between Sweden and Denmark. where it is defined as “strong ale from Danzig”. Those records show Pryssing was being exported on ships travelling through the sound from at least 1597 to at least 1843, originally to places such as Amsterdam, and from at least 1677 to destinations in the British Isles, including London, Newcastle, Aberdeen, Dundee, Hull, and even Dublin.
I had totally forgotten about that Michael Jackson article, and not being able to find “Pryssing” in a dictionary, I asked a Danish friend, Bjarke Bundgaard of Carlsberg, if he knew what it meant. Turns out Pryssing is actually the old Danish/Swedish/Norwegian name for Prussia, which in the modern languages is Preussen, the same as it is in German. Ping! On comes a lightbulb. The old English name for Prussia was Spruce – Chaucer called the country “Sprewse”, and it was still being called “Spruce-land or Prussia” as late as 1697. The “Spruce beer”, beer from Prussia, that appears in an English poem in 1500 and was on sale in London in 1664 is clearly the same drink as Pryssing. (The “spruce tree”, first mentioned in 1670 by John Evelyn, was so called because it was the fir from Spruce.)
Now, I wrote about Spruce beer from Danzig here, and described how it was eventually, from about 1800, copied by brewers in England, mostly in the North, under the name “black beer”. The last manufacturer of black beer, which despite a stonking 8.2 per cent abv, paid no excise duty, because it was regarded as a “tonic”, being rammed with Vitamin C, was a firm from Leeds called JE Mather & Sons. Michael Jackson, who grew up in Leeds, certainly knew of Mather’s Black Beer, and probably drank it, in the combination with lemonade called a “Sheffield stout”: he talked about it in an article in the Independent newspaper in 1992.
However, there was nothing for him to connect the black beer he knew from Leeds with the “oily, brown syrupy” Pryssing he was offered in Sweden. It was only when I came across his article from 1997 again a short while ago while digging around for information about Carnegie porter and the mention of this strange beer King Gustav Vasa drank to cure his toothache that I made the connection myself, and another lightbulb turned on. How wonderful it would be to beam back to Bromma 21 years ago and tell Michael that what he was drinking was the ancestor of the black beer he knew from his Yorkshire childhood. Alas, Michael disappeared from this world in 2007, six years before Mather’s Black Beer disappeared as well, after a change in the law meant it lost its duty-free privilege.
The Polish historian Piotr Rowicki has written about Spruce beer/Pryssing, known in Polish as “Piwo Jopejskie”, a name that Rowicki says comes from the “double-sided” wooden scoop, or “jopy”, used to measure the malt and hops that went into the beer, which used twice as much ingredients as standard Danzig beer. (“Piwo Jopejskie” became “Joppenbier” in German, confusingly, since there is another, very different historic beer called Joppenbier from the Netherlands.) The secrets of Piwo Jopejskie, he confirms, were in the prolonged boiling of the wort – ten hours, instead of the normal three – and the fermentation for up to nine weeks in open tubs in “mouldy sheds or cellars”, so that the mould fell from the walls into the tubs and helped ferment the beer, after which it sent a year in barrels to mature. The result was a beer with about 14 per cent alcohol, “dark colour, tar-like texture, reminiscent of thick syrup.”
And now Piwo Jopejskie is being brewed again, by Browar Olimp, a contract brewing operation based in Torun, a town some 80 miles south of Danzig, and sold in 100ml bottles. To my knowledge this has not made it to the UK yet, but if anyone knows better, do let me know, and I will be raising a glass to Michael Jackson, Mather’s Black Beer and the Pripps brewery in Bromma.
“He shall charge you, and discharge you, with the motion of a pewterer’s hammer, come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer’s bucket.”
Sir John Falstaff, Henry IV part 2, Act III, Scene 3, by William Shakespeare
Better brains that yours or mine have failed to identify what Falstaff meant by “brewer’s bucket”. It’s to do with carrying liquids, certainly, but unrelated to pails. And actually, you’ve probably seen illustrations of a brewer’s bucket, thought it would not have been called that in the captions. What is more, you’ve probably used the word “bucket” in the sense intended by Shakespeare, though I doubt you or anyone who heard you realised that.
The passage mentioning the brewer’s bucket occurs in a scene where Falstaff and his gang are raising levies among the Gloucestershire peasantry for the king’s army to fight against the rebellious Earl of Northumberland. The two likeliest-looking recruits, big sturdy men called Peter Bullcalf and Ralph Mouldy, bribe Bardolph, Falstaff’s deputy, with 40 shillings each and are allowed to sneak away home (Bardolph, of course, tells Sir John he was only given £3 to let them go) and Falstaff insists the three weeds he has left, Simon Shadow, Thomas Wart and Francis Feeble, will make cracking soldiers.
Shadow, he says, is so thin the enemy gunners will not be able to hit him, Feeble will be suitably speedy in any necessary retreat, while Wart will “charge and discharge” (terms used by gunners – see page 39 of The Art of Gunnery by Nathanial Nye, published 1637) using the quick movements of a pewtersmith planishing the surface of whatever piece he is making, and “come off and on” (which look like swordfighting terms, as in “come on guard”) swifter than – well, what, exactly?
Of all the different styles of books about beer, the old-fashioned anecdotal ramble, as exemplified by John Bickerdyke’s classic Curiosities of Ale and Beer from 1889, or Richard Boston’s Beer and Skittles from the 1970s, seems to be the rarest. I’m delighted, therefore, to be able to add to the genre with Strange Tales of Ale, a collection of 28 stories involving beer, brewing, breweries or pubs in some way.
Regular readers of this blog will have come across many – though not all – of the stories in Strange Tales of Ale here over the years, as the book is a bit of a “best of Zythophile” collected between hard covers. There’s the Great London Beer Flood of 1814, of course; the story of Spitfires ferrying beer to the D-Day troops in their fuel tanks; why England’s aristocrats brewed beer that was meant to be laid down and only drunk after 21 years; the mystery of the yard of ale; the true origins of the Red Lion as a pub name (with a picture of the attractive Art Deco innsign from the Red Lion, Fulwell, my local); the most notorious brewer in history; what to order in a Victorian public house; the history of the ploughman’s lunch; what Pliny the Elder really said about hops; how the Dove in Hammersmith got its tiny public bar; pea beer; the British National Dinner, and others that are among my personal favourites from the 300-plus posts, totalling more than 600,000 words, that I’ve stuck up here over the past eight years. There are a couple you might not have read even if you have been a Zythophile follower since 2007, on Dutch Schultz, the beer baron of Brooklyn (here’s a beer trivia question for you – which New York brewer, born in Leeds, was played on film by Bob Hoskins?) and on “the brewery that salami-sliced itself to death”.
If you’re looking for some beery holiday reading for yourself, or a birthday or Christmas present for someone you know likes beer, and reading, can I recommend STOA? Indeed, I’d hope you don’t even have to like beer to enjoy the book: the tales are in themselves engrossing, from the link between beer and bridal gowns to how the Jerusalem Tavern near Smithfield became the Trigger’s Broom of pubs to potboys in literature and art.
Strange Tales of Ale is published by Amberley Publishing, and costs £12.99 hardback, £7.80 as an ebook (unlike Amber Gold and Black, my last book, from a different publisher, I get rather less of a royalty on the ebook version of STOA than on the Finnish forest version, so I’m happier for you to go traditional …) You can support small businesses and buy it from my good friend Paul at Beer Inn Print here or if you don’t mind tax-dodging conglomerates you can put more money in my pockets by buying it though my Amazon Associates page here. (Or, if you’re in North America, A rare picture of The Dove, Hammersmith – then still the Doves – when the landlord was Samuel Richardson Gamble, the name on the (birdless) signboard, some time between at least 1874 and January 1881, the month the licence was handed over to Henry Thomas Saunders. The window to what became the smallest public bar in Britain is on the right of the door. If you look at a modern picture of the pub, you can see the bracket for the innsign is still the same piece of wrought iron, albeit with a bit missing …
I have a new book out, A Craft Beer Road Trip Around Britain, with snapshots of 40 of Britain’s top small breweries from Scotland to the South West. Don’t rush to try to buy it from Amazon/your favourite independent bookseller, however, because it’s only available via Beer 52, the craft beer club people, who are giving it away to people who sign up to their “case of beer a month” service. Putting it together was quite fun, but hard work: getting craft beer brewers to co-operate in supplying information about themselves and their beers turns out to be like trying to herd cats, and my deepest sympathy goes to anyone who has had to put together one of those 666 beers to try before you’re dragged off to Hell-style compilations.
Still, at the end I found I had ended up with a big enough stack of information about a sample of craft brewers in Britain to pull out some interesting, if ultimately probably dubious, statistics. If we take the 40 brewers I interviewed for the book as typical (and I’m sure we can’t), we can draw the following conclusions about the British craft brewing industry:
Eight per cent of British craft brewers have a PhD
Probably the dodgiest stat of the lot; but it’s a fact that at least three of the 40 brewers in the book, James Davies of Alechemy in Livingston, Scotland (PhD, yeast genetics), Gaz Matthews of Mad Hatter in Liverpool (PhD, criminology) and Stuart Lascelles of East London Brewing Company (PhD, chemistry) are entitled to call themselves “Doctor”.
35 per cent of British craft brewers wear black T-shirts/polo shirts with their brewery’s logo on them
If the uniform of the 19th century brewer was a white apron and a red stockinette cap, as sported by Mr Bung in the Victorian Happy Families card game, and the uniform of the 20th century brewer was a white labcoat with pens in the top pocket, worn over a dark suit, then the uniform of the 21st century brewer is a black T-shirt, jeans and industrial boots – possibly, if the woman from Health and Safety is visiting, coupled with a hi-vis jacket and goggles.
48 per cent of British craft brewers sport a beard
The least surprising stat: while the craft brewers of Britain don’t normally go for the “big enough to hide several small birds and a couple of squirrels” face-bushes preferred by their American rivals, the bearded brewer has become almost a cliché, and almost half the brewers in the book had clearly not recently passed a razor over their chins.
Loved and disliked in equal parts, and enjoying an unexpected renaissance in hipstery parts, despite being more than 70 years old, the dimpled beer mug is undoubtedly an icon of England.
It was invented in 1938 at the Ravenhead glassworks in St Helens, Lancashire by an in-house designer whose name is now forgotten, and given the factory identity “P404”. Although the dimple has its enemies, who dislike its weight and its thickness, it soon became extremely popular, and at a rough guess some 500 million have been manufactured since it was born.
The dimple had much competition: even in 1938, many pubs still served beer in the pottery mugs that George Orwell praised in his “Moon Under Water” essay about his ideal pub, from the Evening Standard in 1946. Orwell declared that “in my opinion beer tastes better out of china,” but “china mugs went out about 30 years ago [that is, during the First World War], because most people like their drink to be transparent.” However, two documentary films made just before Orwell’s essay, The Story of English Inns, from 1944, and Down at the Local, from 1945, both show pint china mugs were still being used alongside glass ones, at least in country pubs. Orwell talked about the pottery beer mug as being strawberry-pink in colour, but they came in other shades (baby blue and a dark biscuit-beige, for example), all with white interiors and white handles, and also with transfer-print designs. The majority of pottery beer mugs, however, appear, in fact, to have been of the kind known as mochaware, invented around the end of the 18th century, which have tree or fern-like patterns on the sides, made by a drop of acid dropped onto the glaze of the mug while it was still wet. Most mochaware pint beer mugs seem to have been blue, or beige-and-blue, with black and white bands. Many were made by TG Green of Church Gresley, South Derbyshire, while the plain coloured mugs were the speciality of Pountneys of Bristol. TG Green stopped producing mochaware at the outbreak of war in 1939, when it was apparently the last company still making mochaware beermugs. It tried to revive the tradition in 1981, without success. The company closed in 2007.
Pewter mugs were pretty much obsolete by the middle of the 20th century, though Orwell claimed that “stout … goes better in a pewter pot”, and they were described as “old-fashioned” even in 1900, when it was said to have been replaced by the glass mug, “a thick, almost unbreakable article”. The problem, for publicans, was that their pewter pots kept being stolen, and they cost around ten times as much as china beer mugs. The better class of premises kept silver-plated pewter beermugs and, to guard against theft, carved the name and address of the pub into the base. Glass was also cheaper – and, it was claimed, the working man at the end of the 19th century liked to have his mild beer served in a glass so that he could see it was bright, and not hazy or cloudy.
Fortunately for the beer mug collector, after the Weights and Measures Act of 1878, drinking vessels used on licensed premises for draught beer or cider purporting to be a specific size – half-pint, pint or quart – had to bear an Official Stamp Number, either acid etched or sand-blasted through a stencil, a system that lasted, with tweaks, until 2007, and each district – county council, county borough and the like – had its own numbers, so that, for example, 19 was Derbyshire and 490 Bristol. They also carried the mark of the crown, and the initials of the reigning monarch of the time, something that had first been required by the Act “for ascertaining the Measures for retailing Ale and Beer” that had become law under William III in 1700. (That Act covered vessels “made of wood, earth, glass, horn, leather, pewter or of some other good and wholesome metal”, suggesting the variety of drinking vessels you could expect in a Stuart inn or alehouse, and it also only mentions quarts and pints, suggesting the half-pint was illegal – or at least extremely rare.) It is thus possible to tell roughly when an older beer mug was made, and roughly where, too. In 2007, when the CE, or “Conformitée Européenne” mark replaced the old system (leading to the Daily Mail to declare: “EU stealing the crown of the great British pint”), it became easier to tell when a glass was made, but no simpler to find out where and by whom. Alongside the CE on the glass will be an “M” and the last two digits of the year of manufacture, plus the identification number of the “notified body” that verified that the container was an accurate measure. To identify the notified body you have to go to the Nando website – nothing to do with peri-peri chicken, this stands for New Approach Notified and Designated Organisations.
There are plenty enough well-known quotes about beer. Some of the best-known, unfortunately, are made up. However, it’s still possible to come across great, genuine yet little-known snippets. Here are 20 of my favourite beer quotes in need of wider broadcasting:
“If [beer] is … the people’s beverage – and nobody, I take it, will deny that it is just that – its history must of necessity go hand in hand, so to speak, with the history of that people, with the history of its entire civilisation.” John P Arnold, Origin and History of Beer and Brewing, 1911
If I ever worry that the history of beer is a little trivial, I re-read this passage from the American-German beer writer John Arnold and feel that, yes, I’m recording part of the story of my people, my civilisation. OK, people?
“See that ye keep a noble house for beef and beer, that thereof may be praise given to God and to your honour.” Advice given to Leonard, titular sixth Lord Dacre, in 1570
Leonard Dacre was one of the leaders of the Northern Rebellion, a revolt designed to put Mary, Queen of Scots on the throne of England. But he managed to lose the battle of Gelt Bridge in Cumberland in 1570 despite outnumbering the Elizabethan forces two to one with his private force of 3,000 armed men, raised from the local tenantry. He subsequently fled to Flanders via Scotland, dying three years later. Part of the motive behind his taking part in the rebellion seems to have been his failure to claim the title of Baron Dacre of Gilsland after the death of his nephew, the fifth Lord Dacre. In the manoeuvrings before the rebellion took off, Leonard was sent a letter by one of his dependants, Richard Atkinson, telling him how to maintain the loyalty of the Dacre tenants in Cumberland, which included the excellent advice above about beef and beer.
I had my first all-Brettanomyces beer earlier this month: Evil Twin’s Femme Fatale, which was on keg at the Cask in Clerkenwell, and is apparently meant to be a “Brett IPA”. It was … “interesting”, but perhaps only if you believe it’s interesting to drink something that tastes like essence of sweaty old leather sandals.
All-Brett beers have been popular for several years now in the US, of course. But the point about Brett, I think, is that, rather like hops, it’s meant to be used as a “spice” in beer, not the only audible ingredient. An all-Brett beer is an orchestra where the timpani is so amplified, you can’t hear anything else. If you want to use Brett – and it’s been an influence in brewing for many centuries, albeit a mostly unrecognised one – then it needs to be used judicially, particularly as its effects, the aromas and flavours it gives to beer, vary considerably depending on just how great a role Brettanomyces yeasts have been given. A subtle suggestion of something funky can be fine in a strong, complex ale. Being battered about the nostrils with all the aromas of a rugby team changing-room after a tough match on a hot day – not so much.
(Incidentally, the next person who writes that Brett gives a “horseblanket” aroma to beers will be poked with red-hot branding irons: I doubt more than one in five hundred beer drinkers knows what a horse blanket smells like, and I bet very, very few beer writers who steal that description from Michael Jackson have ever sniffed a horse blanket either.)
My wrestle with Femme Fatale (which I left sitting on the bar after less than a third of a pint) was a good limbering-up, however, for a beer Ed Wray of the Old Dairy brewery in Kent sent me more than a year ago, his “homage” to Colne Spring Ale. CSA is another legendary beer, vanished many years ago yet still talked about. It was made by Benskin’s of Watford, the biggest brewery Hertfordshire produced; named after the River Colne, which flows through Watford on its way to the Thames; and famous for being one of the strongest beers in Britain until it finally vanished in 1970. Continue reading Rule Brettannia→