I had a small Twitter spat yesterday with Duration Brewing after
they said they were installing a coolship and foeders at their brewery in
Norfolk. A wave of grumpy old mannishness washed across me, and I tweeted that
we don’t have coolships and foeders in Britain, we have coolers and vats. Why
use a foreign word when we have English words that mean the same thing?
Indeed, “coolship” is not even a “proper” foreign word, but a calque, or literal translation, of Kühlschiff or koelschip – in fact a classic example of what is called a paronymous calque, an incorrect “literal” translation, where a word in language A that appears similar to a word in language B is wrongly used to translate that similar word. Schiff in German means “ship”, yes, but also “vessel”, in the sense of “container” (as in “cooking vessel”, and “fermentation vessel”). So Kühlschiff and its Dutch equivalent, koelschip, should be literally translated as “cool-vessel”, not “coolship”.
However, we already have an excellent translation for Kühlschiff into English: “cooler”. What a German brewer calls a Kühlschiff, and a Dutch or Flemish brewer a koelschip, a British brewer calls a cooler. I have stood next to the koelschip at the top of the Halve Maan brewery in Bruges, and next to the cooler at the top of the Hook Norton brewery in the Cotswolds, and they are identical vessels. (Well, except that the Belgian one is as gloriously shiny as a very large new penny and the English one was dull, dirty and covered in turquoise-blue streaks, but apart from that …) A cooler in a brewery is exactly the same as een koelschip in een brouwerij or ein Kühlschiff in einer Brauerei.
As for “foeder”, let me quote from the Dutch Wikipedia entry
on that fine Belgian brewery, Rodenbach:
“Het aanvankelijk bovengistende bier rijpt in grote eikenhouten vaten (‘foeders’) en krijgt daar door gewenste infectie met de melkzuurbacterie een licht zurige smaak.”*
You don’t, I think, need to actually speak Dutch to understand that it’s saying THE NORMAL DUTCH WORD FOR THE SPECIALIST BREWERY TERM “FOEDERS” IS VATS. Sorry, got a bit shouty there. So even in Dutch, the words foeder and vat are synonyms. And since we already have the word vat in English, we don’t need to import the word foeder.
Duration Brewing (and as the brother of another Norfolk brewer I would like to wish them every good success in their new venture – I hope to try their beer soon) tried to defend themselves by insisting: “Vat means long-term storage, foeder means primary or long-term fermentation, which is what we plan to do. Cooler means cool your wort, much like both Germans and Brits did and still do, not a koelschip for inoculation like Belgian brewing.” Multiple problems there: while SOME Belgian brewers now use their koelschepen for wild yeast inoculation, ALL Belgian brewers once, at least, used their koelschepen for what they were designed to do, as coolers, for cooling their wort. And as we’ve seen, in its home language foeder is another, and more obscure word for “vat”. In addition we’ve talked about “fermentation vats” in English since at least the 18th century: English brewers built hundreds, probably thousands of vats for the long-term maturation of beer, mostly porter, during which maturation that beer underwent a slow secondary fermentation. So “vat” has been used in English for centuries as the word for a vessel in which beer undergoes a long-term fermentation. So has “tun – and another synonym for foeder in Dutch is ton, in English “tun”: the online Nederlanse Encyclopedie defines foeder as
Ton met een grote inhoud (200 tot 300 hectoliter) bestemd voor het opvoeden van de wijn.
Which translates as “Tun with a large capacity (200 to 300 hectolitres)
intended for maturing wine.”
Dutch also had the word foederzaal – zaal is a cognate of the English word “saloon”, so in the spirit of paronymous calquing that gave us “coolship” for koelschiff, we perhaps ought to translate that as “foeder saloon”. The definition of foederzaal in Dutch, according to the online Nederlanse Encyclopedie, is
een (grote) ruimte, speciaal ingericht om met meerdere foeders (houten lagertanks) te herbergen.
Which means “a (large) room, specially equipped to accommodate several vats (wooden lager tanks).” So clearly another synonym for foeder in Dutch is houten lagertank, “wooden lager tank”.
There are occasions when importing a new word into the English language is necessary because it perfectly covers a concept that English hasn’t previously had to have a word for, but now needs. The Norwegian dialect word kveik, for example, has speedily joined the English language brewers’ dictionary, because there isn’t a simple English equivalent for “Norwegian farmhouse yeast strains”. John “Beer Nut” Duffy suggests that coolship is a useful word because it means “vessel used to inoculate wort with wild yeast strains”, and is therefore performing a function that the word “cooler” doesn’t cover. I’m semi-demi swayed by that argument, but koelschip, from which “coolship” was calqued, doesn’t mean “vessel used to inoculate wort with wild yeast strains”, it means “cooler”. It’s just that some Belgian brewers used their coolers to inoculate their worts with wild yeast strains. So if the Belgians don’t need a separate word to distinguish between “cooler” and “vessel used to inoculate wort with wild yeast strains”, why do English-speakers? If the Belgians use the same word to describe something that can be used for two different functions, why can’t we?
(There’s an argument, incidentally, that no one has used against me, so I’ll use it myself: American brewers come from a tradition heavily influenced in the past by German brewing customs and practices – indeed, the major brewing organisations in the US conducted much of their business in German in the 19th century – and undoubtedly those many German brewers in the US translated Kühlschiff as “coolship”, so why should they not do the same now? That’s a good argument if you’re in the US. I’m not.)
As for foeder, the Dutch call foeders vaten (or tonnen, tuns), a foeder doesn’t perform any function that a vat (or tun) doesn’t and hasn’t: English will survive very happily calling a vat a vat. The giant vessel full of maturing porter that collapsed at the Meux brewery in 1814, killing eight people in the Great London Beer Flood, wasn’t a foeder, it was a vat. It’s not the Giant Foeder of Heidelberg (which actually, in Dutch, is called De Grote Heidelberg Tun [sic]…) As Ed Wray commented in the Twitter spat, it would be very odd to call the vessel at Greene King in Bury St Edmonds that is used to mature 5X a foeder. You may think me a curmudgeonly old Canute: I prefer to regard myself as a fighter against the unnecessary and pretentious expansion of technical vocabularies. We don’t need to call a vat a foeder, particularly when the Dutch themselves are happy to call a foeder a vat.
(Etymological aside: the German for vat is Faß, and as Fuß in German became “foot” in English, so Faß in German should have become “fat”. In Old English the word was “fat”, but it was replaced by “vat” in Modern English. Etymological dictionaries will tell you “vat” is from the West Country English dialectical voicing of “f” as “v”. It seems to me, however, much more likely that the replacement of Old English “fat” by “vat” is down to immigrant beer brewers from the Low Countries, who brought us not only hops but words such as firkin and gyle. In Dutch, Fuß became voet and Faß became vat. That Dutch vat then, I suggest, replaced its Old English equivalent, “fat”, when Flemings and other Lowlanders began working in English breweries from the 15th century onwards. So “vat” in English is already a Dutch word …)
Final note: why does “gyle” appear in the headline
at the top? For several hundred years the Anglo-Irish word for “adding
some fresh still-fermenting wort to your beer to give it extra
carbonation” was “gyling”. As that practice died out, in the
1960s in Ireland, long before in Britain, so the word – originally Dutch, as it
happens, and doubtless imported because we didn’t have an equivalent word in
English – disappeared. When the practice reappeared, it came in via the US
under the name “krausening”, from a German word meaning, roughly,
“fizzy”. I’d like to see brewers in these islands (nod to Irish
sensibilities in difficult times there) reject “krausening” for
*But if you don’t speak Dutch and can’t work it out, it says: “The initially fermented beer matures in large oak vats (‘foeders’) and gets a slightly sour taste due to the desired infection with the lactic acid bacterium.”
Rule number one in the history writing biz is: don’t just
copy-and-paste stuff off the internet (or from anywhere else), because the
chances are high that what you have copied is wrong, and some fecker (me, in
this case) will come along and hold you up to ridicule and abuse.
I’m talking about you, today, Carlsberg, for some egregious copying-and-pasting with no original research at all on your corporate website, which claims, vis-à-vis the Lion brewery in Sri Lanka, a fair slice of which is owned by the Danes, that
“The Ceylon Brewery was the first brewery in Sri Lanka. It was established in 1881 by Sir Samuel Backer as a cottage industry, catering for the British colonial tea plantations in the hill country retreat of Nuwara Eliya. With its cool climate and natural spring water, Nuwara Eilya was the ideal location for a brewery. It acquired limited liability company status in 1911.”
Let us deconstruct this nonsense. The man they are talking about as the alleged founder of the Ceylon Brewery was actually Samuel Baker, not Backer. He started a small brewery at the hill station of Nuwara Eliya, high in the mountains of what was then Ceylon, around 1849/50, which closed a few years later. It was not built to cater for tea plantations, because there were none in Ceylon at that time: the first tea field on the island was only planted in 1867. Baker’s brewery was nothing to do with the brewery that opened 26 years after he left Nuwara Eliya. That brewery did not rely on spring water, but a stream that flowed down through the brewery site from the Lover’s Leap waterfall nearby. The brewery founded in 1881, which was, of course, the second on the island, after Baker’s, became a limited company in 1910.
Mind, even at five errors in four sentences, that’s not the worst pile of nonsense on the internet about what is now the Lion Brewery, famous today for an award-winning strong stout that is one of the last links with British colonial brewing in Southern Asia. The Lion Brewery’s own website is full of rubbish (and bizarre random capitalisation) as well:
“It is in 1860 that our story Begins. British Planter Sir Samuel Baker decided to establish a home brewery in the cool climes of Nuwara Eliya, although it was in 1881 that the facet of commercial brewing is evidenced, managed by Messrs Bremer and Pa Bavary. Ownership changed in 1884 to Murrey Brewery Company Rawalpindi, who later sold out to Ceylon Brewery, helmed by the pragmatic J B Hampson and later G W Lindsay White, who founded The Ceylon Brewery Limited in 1911.”
At least that doesn’t claim that Baker actually founded the concern that became the Ceylon Brewery Ltd, but there are still some very odd errors there. Baker had left Ceylon for Britain in 1855 (and he wasn’t knighted until 1866), so our story doesn’t begin in 1860 at all. “Pa Bavary” is a bizarre mangling: this was actually a young Belgian brewer and chemist called Auguste de Bavay. The brewery he started with a Nuwara Eliya planter named Mountsteven Bremer in 1881 suffered from a serious lack of capital, and collapsed early in 1884, and it was subsequently bought by the Murree Brewery Company (not Murrey) of Ghora Gali, 30 miles from Rawalpindi. (De Bavay left Ceylon in March 1884 to take up a position as brewer with T & A Aitken’s Victoria Parade brewery in Melbourne, Australia. He went on to have an extremely successful career as a brewer, chemist and yeast scientist, building on the work of Emil Christian Hansen at the Carlsberg brewery in Copenhagen to develop the first pure yeast used commercially in Australia, and joined Foster’s brewery in Melbourne as chief brewer in 1894, later acting as a consultant for, among others, the Swan Brewery in Perth and the Cascade brewery in Tasmania. He also had success in areas as diverse as bacteriology, metallurgy and paper making.)
The Murree Brewery Company ran the brewery in Nuwara Eliya for
nine years, before pulling out, and the concern was acquired around April 1893 by
a consortium led by the former transport agent for the business, an Irishman
called George William Lindsay White, who was managing director of the Ceylon
Brewery for nearly 30 years until a year or so before his death aged 77 in 1922.
Under Lindsay White the Ceylon Brewery became a limited company in 1910. I have
no idea how “the pragmatic J B Hampson” got
into the story so early: John Bagshawe Hampson was a child, at best, when
Lindsay White died. He was a student brewer at Samuel Smith’s in Tadcaster in
1939, and had moved to the Ceylon Brewery by 1950 when the first of his three
children was born and christened in Nuwara Eliya. Hampson was manager at the
brewery until 1963, when he returned to England to work for Porter-Lancastrian.
So that’s six errors by the Lion brewery, five new and one repeated.
I used to slag off Wikipedia for its multiple errors, but the general level of accuracy has improved greatly over the past ten or 12 years. However, the entry on the Lion Brewery repeats most of the inaccuracies on the Carlsberg and Lion websites and adds some extra, just for you:
“The Ceylon Brewery was the first brewery established in Sri Lanka. It was established in 1849 by Sir Samuel Baker (1821–93) as a cottage industry, catering for the British colonial tea plantations in the hill country retreat of Nuwara Eliya. Nuwara Eliya was the ideal location for a brewery, with its cool climate and natural spring water. It wasn’t however until 1881 that it began brewing on a commercial basis, with the Ceylon Brewery Company, managed by Messrs Bremer and Pa Bavary. In 1884 the brewery was taken over by the Mohan Meakin Brewery of India, who later sold out to Ceylon Brewery, operated by John Bagshawe Hampson. In 1911 the brewery was acquired by G.W. Lindsay White and received limited liability company status, as the Ceylon Brewery Limited.”
That’s ten errors, including the Murree Brewery Company inaccurately and anachronistically being called “Mohan Meakin”: not only did the name Mohan Meakin not exist until the 1960s, but the Murree Brewery Company was always (and remains) a separate concern from the constituents of what became Mohan Meakin. Anyone digging into the history of brewing in India ought to know that. I also struggle to understand how anyone could look at “Pa Bavary” and not think: “Hang on, that can’t be right.” This is really not at all difficult to research: the British Library can give you web access to scanned, OCR’d copies of the Ceylon Observer, where you can speedily find the facts about De Bavay, Bremer, the Murree Brewery Company and the rest. Some trifling online detectiving, and gaps in the narrative, such as De Bavay’s and Bremer’s first names, can be filled in. It took me a morning.
Of course, the appearance of “Pa Bavary” in the
Wikipedia entry means this invented individual now pops up in a host of
different places. “Rewrite the Wikipedia entry!” you cry – thanks,
but I don’t have the time right now to mess with Wikipedia’s templates, only to
have some clown revert it later because it’s “original research”. I
am also reluctant to help Wikipedia while it maintains its indefensible stance
that it knows better than the Manners family how to spell the title of the
Marquis of Granby: while “Marquess” is the spelling preferred by many
families in Britain who use that title, the Manners family is one of those that
uses the spelling “Marquis” in the courtesy title of the Duke of
Rutland’s eldest son. Wikipedia, however, has decreed that its style for the
title is “Marquess”, and in the face of all the evidence insists on
calling the man who gave his name to so many pubs the “Marquess of
Granby”. It’s rich when a pub sign is more accurate than an on-line
I was thinking of ignoring the “what does sessionable
mean” debate, even through I was dragged into it by my ear by having my
research quoted. Then I saw a tweet yesterday from someone talking about “a sessionable 5.5 per cent smoked oatmeal stout”,
and the world swam and dissolved before me as I plunged screaming and twisting
into a hellish, tormented pit of dark despair.
Let me make this as clear as I can. This is an egregious and
unforgivable total failure to understand what the expression “sessionable”
means, is meant to mean, and was coined for. A 5.5 per cent alcohol beer is
not, and cannot be, “sessionable”. A smoked oatmeal stout, while I am
sure it can be lovely, is not and cannot be “sessionable”. Nobody
ever spent all evening drinking four or five, or six, pints of smoked oatmeal
The rant you are now reading springs less from that particular beer review than a piece this week by the British beer writer Lily Waite on the American website Vinepair headlined “It’s Impossible to Define ‘Sessionable’ in Craft Beer”. I don’t think Lily wrote the headline, which looks to go further than her article does, but her piece, which references my research back in 2011 into the origins of the term “session beer”, raises a number of potential difficulties around a definition of the term “sessionable”, not least the existence now of beers called “session barley wine” with eight per cent alcohol and 75 IBUs, and “session double IPA“, again at eight per cent abv.
I try not to
be prescriptivist about language, but for me “sessionable” is a very
useful word with, actually, yes, a precise meaning, and if people are going to
start being stupid with it by releasing something called a “session barley
wine” or “session double IPA”, even as a “joke”, then
we are in great danger of destroying an important descriptor, and losing an easy
way of summing up one of the fundamentals of British pub culture.
It’s entirely possible to define “sessionable”, but only if
you understand what the expression was coined to describe, which many American
beer drinkers – and brewers – apparently do not. A large part of the problem is that the word springs from a very British
practice, the “session”, and Americans don’t really understand what
the “session” is about. Britons and Americans are fooled into
thinking that, because they speak the same language (more or less) and drink
the same sorts of beers (more or less) in places that are called
“bars” (even if the British “bar” is actually a room in a
pub, rather than the descriptor for the whole establishment), then their out-of-home
drinking cultures are entirely similar and compatible. They’re not. “Sessionable”
means “beer capable of sustaining a session”, and “session”
means “extended period of three or four hours drinking pints and engaging
in conversation with friends”. That is why the fundamental definition of a
session beer has to be that it has a comparatively low gravity and is comparatively
unobtrusive. Americans, in my experience, do not generally spend entire
evenings in one bar drinking pints. (See also the bizarrely tiny glasses used
at American beer festivals.)
Another problem is that
people are confusing “sessionable” with “drinkable”. The
two are very much not the same. An eight per cent barley wine may well be
“drinkable”, in the sense of that great beer-reviewer’s cliché,
“dangerously drinkable”, that is, it slides away down the throat very
easily. But “sessionable” means “you can drink several and still
walk out the door without bumping into the frame.” An eight per cent
barley wine is therefore NOT “sessionable”.
Lily Waite’s piece is specifically looking at “sessionability” in the context of terms such as “session IPA”, and the craft appropriation of a term than applies much more to mainstream, non-craft beer drinking in the UK, and beers such as Carling, Fosters and the like. She interviewed some people with – ahh – interesting takes on sessionability, including James Rylance who helped create the now highly popular Neck Oil, Beavertown Brewery’s “session IPA”, which comes in at 4.3 per cent abv, and “masses of hop additions during the whirlpool and a huge dose of dry hops” (I quote from the brewery’s website). I’ve never tried a session on Neck Oil, but while 4.3 per cent is just on the edge of sessionability, I’m not sure about “”masses of hop additions”, even ignoring ” a huge dose of dry hops”. The classic British session beers are milds and light bitters, which generally have low hop rates. High hop rates are, I suggest, the antithesis of sessionability: too many hops, and you really can’t drink more than a couple of pints without hop overload.
James Rylance told Lily Waite that sessionability was less
about abv than “balance”, and insisted: “I think ‘sessionable’ is a
beer that can be drunk repeatedly, multiple times, in its correct volume.
There’s a lot of Belgian beers that are super sessionable, like Saison Dupont
at 6-point-something percent — that’s sessionable, but I’m just not drinking a
pint of it.” No, sorry, couldn’t disagree more. You’re confusing
“sessionable” with “drinkable”. You might be able to drink
several small Duponts, I’m sure, lovely beer, and one is certainly not enough, but
a true session beer has to be gulped in pints, not sipped. And probably I drink
too fast, but after a four-hour session, I wouldn’t even be able to find the
bar if I were drinking something that was 6.5 per cent. So no, Saison Dupont is
NOT “sessionable” either.
I can’t agree, either, with another of Lily Waite’s interviewees, Chris Hannaway of the London-based alcohol-free beer venture Infinite Session (see what he did there?), which launched last year with a 0.5 per cent pale ale brewed at Sambrooks in Battersea. ” “A ‘session’ is no longer about everyone ordering the same 4 to 5 per cent lager rounds for everyone in the group,” he says – but it never was. It was about people drinking 3.2 per cent to 4.3 per cent milds, bitters or lagers, depending on what they wanted, and drinking them all night long.
So: what’s the definition of “sessionable” and does it apply to craft beer? Sessionable means a beer you can drink over an extended period without getting too drunk and without growing tired of it and wanting something else. And yes, clearly that can apply as much to craft beer as it does to macro, mass-market beer. (Indeed, personally I find mass-market beers entirely unsessionable because they bore me after half a pint. Dull is not sessionable either.) A sessionable craft beer is going to be one that is not too strong, and not too challenging in terms of massive hop flavours or other flavour attributes such as roastiness, sourness or whatever. There – not impossible at all.
I apologise for greeting the new edition of Camra’s Good Beer Guide, with a spittle-flecked rant. A little. But not much. Because SIX YEARS after I pointed out that the “British beer styles” section of “the UK’s best-selling beer and pub guide” was choked with errors, the 2020 edition of the guide, just out, is STILL printing paragraph upon paragraph of nonsense about practically everything, from IPA to porter, and barley wine to mild.
It is also seriously misleading by what it omits to say: failing to point out, for example, that today’s American-style IPAs, with their emphasis on fresh, fruity, flowery hop flavours using modern varieties of hops, are radically different beers from the aged IPAs of the 19th century, or the debased IPAs of the mid-20th century; and that modern interpretations of porter and stout, frequently adding a wide range of ingredients from coffee to vanilla to blackberries to peanut butter, are again very different from the versions that sustained the street porters of London in the time of the Georges.
Inside sources tell me that suggestions for changes to the “British Beer Styles” section for the 2020 edition were made, but were ignored. That’s shameful, frankly: of the many thousands who buy the guide, all those who knew little to nothing about beer styles will now be utterly misled into believing nonsense, while all those who DO know about beer styles will be deeply under-impressed by an obvious lack of knowledge in a book that purports to be the country’s leading pub guide, published by an organisation that purports to be the country’s leading organisation for beer drinkers.
It’s not as if all the information on beer styles that the GBG gets wrong isn’t out there in easily discoverable forms: there are now a considerable number of books, blogs, magazine articles and so on giving the true facts about how the beer styles we know today developed. And yet the 2020 GBG still prints utter nonsense such as “a true pale ale should be different to bitter,” and “From the early years of the 20th century, bitter began to overtake pale ale in popularity, and as a result pale ale became mainly a bottled product.” I wrote an article 15 years ago – FIFTEEN YEARS AGO – for What’s Brewing, the Camra monthly newspaper, detailing the history of bitter, and pointing out that bitter and pale ale were and always have been synonyms for the same drink, and that brewers have never differentiated between them. To claim that there is any difference, and that at some time ” bitter began to overtake pale ale in popularity”, is total made-up spherules. Here’s something I wrote 12 YEARS AGO about why saying otherwise is historically totally wrong.
Since the guide screws up “pale ale” so badly, unsurprisingly it gets the section on bitter wrong as well. It starts off talking about “running beers”, but running beers only began appearing at the end of the 19th century, and the first bitter beers appeared 40 or more years earlier, a cut-price, lower gravity response to the popularity of India Pale Ale, which was always a premium beer. It also claims that the rise of “running beers” (most of which, anyway, were mild ales, not bitters) was connected with the growth of brewers’ pub estates, which is more nonsense. It was a consumer-led desire for less alcoholic, lighter beer that saw the formerly well-aged “stock” bitters disappear. All the same, bitter/pale ale was a minority, middle-class drink until the early 1960s.
The section on IPA repeats the canard that the original “pale ales as prepared for India” were high in alcohol, a fallacy which I thought Ron Pattinson and I had stamped out, again, 15 or more years ago. At six per cent to 6.5 per cent abv, 19th century India Pale Ales were lower in strength than 19th century milds, which were up to seven or 7.5 per cent abv. It also gets the history of the entire brewing industry wrong, claiming that IPA “changed the face of brewing in the 19th century”, as “new technologies of the Industrial revolution enabled brewers to use pale malts to produce paler beers.” It was always possible to produce pale malt, but developments in the 17th century – not the 19th – made pale malt production easier, and pale ales began growing in popularity from the end of the 1600s. (It’s a curious fact that the first known mention of the expression “pale ale” came in 1706.) What these were, however, were unhopped, or very lightly hopped pale ales: the more hopped “export” kind were an 18th century development.
Those lightly hopped, sweetish pale ales were what the brewers of Burton upon Trent specialised in before they started brewing the more bitter IPAs, and those sweetish pale ales became known as Burton Ales. It’s a style that has almost vanished now: Marston’s Old Rodger and Young’s Winter Warmer are two of the very few survivors. The 2020 GBG beer styles section actually mentions Burton Ale, but screws it up unforgivably by claiming that the beer launched in 1976 under the name Ind Coope Burton Ale was a Burton Ale of the sort once popular around the country until the 1950s. This makes me really want to smack someone hard, because I have again been pointing out for years that the 1976 beer was an IPA, with a recipe derived from what was once Ind Coope’s premium India Pale Ale, Double Diamond, and it was the marketing department at Allied Breweries that decided to mess with beer historians’ heads by giving their “new” cask bitter/pale ale the name of an older beer of a completely different style. So allow me to shout it out: IND COOPE BURTON ALE IS NOT A BURTON ALE. Thank you.
Let us continue with cataloguing the mistakes. This is very tedious, because I detailed these errors in 2013 and NOBODY TOOK ANY NOTICE, which makes me today VERY SHOUTY. Old ale was not called “stale” by drinkers because of the lactic acid and tannic flavours that developed as it aged, it was called “stale” by brewers because “stale” formerly indicated something that had “stood” (the word is related to “stall”), and thus meant merely something that had been around for a while, as opposed to fresh ale or beer, which was called “mild”. The same ale (or beer) would be “mild” when first brewed and “old” (or “stale”) after it had aged.
Mild was NOT “drunk primarily by industrial and agricultural workers in the 18th and 19th centuries, who needed to refresh themselves after long hours of arduous labour.” That role was filled very specifically by porter, which actually gets its name from the workers who were its first big fans, the street and river porters, coal porters, and the like, of London. Mild ale never took off in popularity until the second half of the 19th century, though after it replaced porter in popularity, mild remained THE working class drink, urban and rural, until the 1950s
Barley wine does NOT date “back to the early 18th century”, and nor was its development anything to do with “thumbing a nose at France”. Very strong “doble-doble” beers were being brewed when Elizabeth I was complaining about them, and ales that had been aged for up to ten years were around in Queen Anne’s time. It is claimed that such ales became more popular when brandy was unavailable during Britain’s frequent wars with France. But the expression “barley wine” as a term for such strong brews is extremely rare until the end of the 19th century.
I suppose I should be happy that the worst of the myths that were once repeated about the origins of porter do not appear in the GBG 2020, but there is nonsense enough: the development of porter did NOT “herald in the commercial brewing industry”, since we had had a thriving brewing industry in Britain for more than 350 years before porter. Nor were there special restrictions on dark malt during the First World War: and the dominance of “Irish brewers” (why the coyness? If you mean Guinness, say so) was grounded in developments happening long before the Kaiser kicked off in 1914. Nor, I suggest are stouts jet-black and roasty while porters are dark brown and sweeter: I do not believe there are any generalisable differences between beers brewed today called porter and beers brewed today called stout.
At least the 2020 GBG has the decency to admit that it is “an urban myth that Scottish beers are less heavily hopped that English ones”, a myth that it was spreading in the 2014 edition, but it still claims that Scottish beers “tend to be darker and maltier than those south of the border” – not true – and insists that “Wee Heavy” was a style of beer. It was not: it was the nickname for a particular brand, Fowlers’ Twelve Guinea Ale.
There we are then: two pages on beer styles, more than a dozen silly mistakes, with the true facts in each case easily available for years. The blurb on the 2020 guide’s back cover claims that it is “fully revised”. Can I suggest that for the 2021 edition the “British beer styles” section is not “revised”, but thrown right out the window, and a completely new version written by someone who has taken on board research done into the history of this glorious brewing nation’s beer styles over the past 20 years.
I cannot lie, my stomach made a little flip when I walked into
the union room at Marston’s brewery in Burton upon Trent on Wednesday. Here it
was: the most iconic fermentation system on the planet. The only example left,
out of – well, dozens, certainly, perhaps even hundreds, of unions in use in
breweries from London to Edinburgh back in the 19th century, though the most
famous sets of unions were in the breweries of Burton.
It is not a cheap method of brewing, and accountancy-led
brewing companies, combined with brewery closures, means that today Marston’s
is the only place where you can still find beer being made in traditional union
sets. Pictures don’t prepare for how big the union room is at Marston’s, packed
from wall to wall with sets of oak fermenting casks, each double row of 12
casks mounted under a long, deep trough, there to catch the excess yeast produced
in the fermentation as it spills out of the swan-neck pipes that rise up from
This being Wednesday, the unions had just been filled with
fermenting beer, which had already spent 48 hours in more conventional
fermenting vessels after the initial pitching of yeast into the wort. The
regime followed since a man called Peter Walker invented the union system in
the 1830s is that after that first fermentation has built up speed, the yeasty
wort is “dropped” out of the initial vessels, leaving behind trub and
other debris, and run into the troughs above the unions, before descending into
the union casks, each one of which hold 162 gallons – four and a half barrels
There, in the dark, the Marston’s union yeast gets into its stride, multiplying furiously as it turns the sugars in the wort into alcohol and carbon dioxide. The yeast loves life in the unions, and it increases so fast it foams up out of the casks and into the troughs in – from some of the unions last Wednesday – a constant creamy pour. The beer the yeast carries with it then runs back into the casks, leaving the yeast behind (to be, eventually, scooped out and turned into Marmite). Fermentation is effectively finished by the Friday, but the beer sits in the unions until the Monday, when it is run off to be packaged in cask, bottle or keg. Despite the expense, Marston’s brewers firmly believe the union system produced a beer with great stability and considerably enhanced flavours, and it is the only method used to make the brewery’s flagship Pedigree pale ale, as it was the main method of brewing in the many other breweries that once filled the town’s air with the beautiful scent of mashing barley, in the glorious past when Burton sent constant trainloads of IPA out around the world
And now, for the first time, Marston’s unions have been used to make an Imperial stout, the latest in the “Horninglow” series of one-off beers, which is why I was up in Burton, to talk to the head brewer, Pat McGinty, about the new beer, and also to have my first ever look at the Marston’s union room (shameful, I know. Call myself a beer writer?)
It’s not totally unknown to use unions to make porters and
stouts, and by coincidence only a few days before my trip to Burton I was
reading an article in a brewers’ trade magazine from 1878 by Charles Howard
Tripp of the Stogumber brewery, near Taunton, in Somerset about brewing porter
in unions. But I’m not aware of anyone making an Imperial stout that way.
Equally unusually, Pat McGinty has made this 7.5 per cent abv beer using
straight-up Burton well-water, rammed as it is with sulphates, which, conventionally,
is seen as terrific for pale beers but not so great for dark ones, where a more
London-like brewing liquor, with lots of calcium carbonate in, is regarded as
optimal. The reason for not altering the water chemistry, Pat says, is to
ensure this stout has a proper “Burton” character, which search for a
Burton character is the reason for brewing the stout in the unions, and fermenting
it with the standard Marston’s union yeast as used in making Pedigree. (The
yeast apparently got on fine with the dark grains and the higher OG of the
stout, though the brewers had to spend twice as long as they normally do, 4½
hours, cleaning the unions used for stout brewing, to ensure no contamination
of the next batch of Pedigree.)
To make up for the possibly unsuitable mineral profile, Pat
has used malted oats in the brew, to help round out the mouthfeel: the other
grains are pale ale malt, roasted barley, chocolate malt (Charles Howard Tripp
was keen on chocolate malt, which had only just been invented in his time, saying:
malt [gives] a capital rich and full flavour to the porter in which it is used”)
and malted wheat, while the hops are Challenger. The beer, which will, I
believe, be exclusive to Waitrose, was only two weeks old when we sampled it, unfiltered
and heavy on the roasty flavours, and it still had to be filtered, partially
carbonated and sent to the bottling plant, where each bottle will be seeded
with the same union yeast the beer was originally fermented with (the union
yeast apparently happily drops to the bottom of the bottle). It will then be
held on to for 14 days before being sent out for sale in stores, though Pat
McGinty suggests keeping the bottles for six to eight months to be “nicely
As well as a look at the union room we were also given the chance
to meet Marston’s last remaining cooper, Mark Newton, who spends most of his
time maintaining and repairing the union casks. That was fascinating, too, and
rather sad: Mark has trained up an apprentice, who now works elsewhere in the
brewery, but he is currently the last man in the town doing a job that once was
carried out by hundreds. Here’s a little photo-essay.
I’ve been going on holiday with my family to the Mani, in the middle “finger” of the Peloponnese, pretty regularly since 2006: it’s a beautiful, almost entirely unspoilt place, the beaches are broad and sandy, the sun almost continuous, the people are friendly, the food is excellent, locally sourced and cheap. The beer, until now, has generally not been up to much, but when it’s 32ºC almost anything cold and wet will do. All the same, I was thrilled to discover this year that a local entrepreneur, Takis Kapetanéas, has opened a craft brewery on the edge of the small fishing village of Agios Nikolaos, in the Western Mani, just five minutes down the road from the seaside village of Stoupa, where we always stay.
Greece now has 45 breweries, up from 35 two years ago, 13 in 2009 and a mere five at the start of the century. Most are still tiny, however (indeed, the Mani Brewery, despite being one of the newest is the second-largest “craft” beer brewery in the country), some have struggled and closed, such as the Messinian brewery, near Kalamata, opened in 2009, which made beer under the similar-sounding Neda brand, but which closed a couple of years or so back; and beer remains down the list of priorities for Greek drinkers: for comparison, the country is said to have some 500 different brands of ouzo, and 3,500 wines.
The brewery’s founder, Takis (short for Panagiotis) is in his early 40s and proudly Maniot born and bred: the “-éas” at the end of his family name is the universal ending for surnames in the Messinian Mani, and the brand name of his beers Nema, is a Maniot dialect word meaning “gesture” or “nod”, while the brewery logo features the tower houses found in almost every Maniot village, where, in the past, families would retreat to defend themselves against their enemies – generally rival families from the same village.
Takis, who worked in the property business before he became a full-time brewery
owner, says he “fell in love” with beer on his travels abroad, and became
a “long-time” home brewer, always with the ambition to open his own
brewery. The brews currently being made at the Mani Brewery, a 16 IBU 4.6 per
cent abv blonde ale and a 20 IBU, 4.6 per cent abv summer ale, are
“pragmatic” beers, Takis says: not the beers he would like to make
which would be well-hopped IPAs and stouts, but the ones he knows will sell in
the Greek market, where 99.5 per cent of the beer on sale is pale euro-lager.
The blonde is
an excellent, refreshing, unfiltered, unpasteurised easy-drinking top-fermented
ale, best served well-chilled: citrussy, slightly sweet, made with the local spring water, treated as necessary
(Mani tap water is unfit for drinking, containing four times more fluoride than
EU recommendations, but the springs in the region provide nicely lime-hard brewing
liquor), Magnum hops, Greek pils malt from the Vergina brewery in Thessaly and
a touch of Vienna and carapils,. It’s a great beach or poolside beer. The
summer ale, paler, slightly bitterer, slightly hoppier, is a little more
complex, and a fine companion for the generally unfussy, excellent-value Greek food,
all made from local ingredients, found in the many family-run restaurants in Ag
Nik and its larger neighbours, Stoupa and Kardamili, where you can still dine
very well for under €14 a head, including drink.
Takis and John
Malcolm, an expat Scot in his 60s and another long-term home brewer who met Takis
through their mutual interest in making beer, and who is now one of two assistants
at the three-man brewery, offered a sample of the blonde ale that had been
souped up post-fermentation with masses of extra Citra hops, a beer closer to
the sorts they would like to educate local drinkers into appreciating. It was
tremendous: the pale malts giving an almost transparent underpinning, like clear
glass struts, to a beautifully sculpted structure of lemons, limes and mangoes
whirled together in a frothy, scented, just-bitter-enough delight.
The brewery itself, which opened in June last year just off the main road south from Stoupa, between the mountains and the sea, after a short period where Nema beers were being made by the Sparta brewery, on the other side of the Taygetus mountains that divide the Mani peninsula, is housed in a building that started as an olive oil factory, spent some time as a marble works and was later a disco, which has to be, surely, one of the most varied careers of any brewery premises on the planet. Today it holds shiny Chinese-made stainless steel brewing kit: 1,200-litre brew length, mash tun, copper, lauter tun, whirlpool and hop kettle, four fermenting vessels (three 25hl, one 12.5hl), pumps and valves computer-operated, it only brews top-fermented, unfiltered, unpasteurised ales, so no lagering tanks, and there is a very small bottling and kegging line, with CO2 flushing. The kit was manufactured by Tiantai, in Jinan, Shandong, China to Takis’s specifications, and Tiantai send its Mr Wu over to Greece to put it all together: according to John Malcolm, Mr Wu did not speak English, let alone Greek, and all communication with him was via Google Translate. How much the kit actually cost, the Mani Brewery won’t say (indeed, they were rather upset when I made a guess), although John Malcolm did reveal that it cost more to ship the kit from Piraeus, Greece’s main port, to Ag Nik than it did to get it from China to Piraeus.
Takis is coy about the whole source of the brewery’s funding, saying only that it is “local financing”. He has backing from a big local drinks distributor, and he has also had encouragement from Mythos Brewery, the Carlsberg subsidiary that supplies what is probably the best of Greece’s macro-lagers. The encouragement from Mythos, he thinks, is there because the company sees an operation like the Mani Brewery as expanding the market for beer in Greece, and Carlsberg would like to be able to introduce some of its more “craft” brands, such as Grimbergen (yes, I know, but that’s how Carlsberg sees it) into the country. The reasoning seems to be that if, through the availability of more craft beer from the likes of the Mani Brewery, the Greeks are persuaded to drink more unusual beers and less macro-lager and ouzo, then this will be good for Carlsberg as well.
It’s a brave
step to push unfiltered, unpasteurised, slightly hazy ales at a market that
doesn’t really understand such beers yet, and once, at least, in my multiple samplings
of Mani Brewery beers in numerous outlets over more than a fortnight it didn’t work – ironically,
at a restaurant in Ag Nik itself, where the beer in two consecutive bottles was
clearly badly oxidised. That was the only hiccup, however, and I report it
solely in the interests of honesty. Otherwise, if you’re in Greece, Nema beers
are worth grabbing wherever you see them. The beers of the Mani Brewery are available, on draught and/or in bottle, in almost every outlet in the region, and pushing up into Kalamata, the local big city. I greatly look forward to sampling
them again, and seeing what new brews Takis, John and the rest of the team come
The original version of this post contained a story that I was told by two different people, which Heineken Greece insists is totally false. It was alleged to me that after the Mani Brewery opened, Heineken Athens, brewer of leading brands of beer in Greece such as Alfa and Amstel, contacted all the local bars, restaurants and supermarkets and told them that if they started stocking the new brewery’s beers, Heineken would withdraw its own brands, plus the dispense equipment, from their premises. “Fine,” all the bar owners allegedly replied, to a Maniot. “Do you want to come and collect it now, or shall we just throw it out into the street?”
It appeared a fine example of how you should never try to bully a Maniot – they are descendants of the Spartans, and fought the Ottoman Empire for more than 350 years, eventually leading the revolt starting in 1821 that finally saw the Greeks re-establish their independence – and Heineken, unfortunately, has form: it was fined a whopping €31.45 million only five years ago (reduced on appeal to €26.73 million) by Greece’s Competition Commission for abusing its dominant position in the country’s beer market. However, the Mani Brewery was swift to distance itself as far as possible from the story, and after I contacted Heineken for a statement, Yiannis Georgakellos, communications and corporate affairs director at Athenian Brewery, Heineken’s Greek subsidiary, insisted: “The allegation that ‘Heineken Greece contacted bars and restaurants in the local area and told them that if they stocked the new brewery’s beers, Heineken would withdraw its own brands and dispense equipment from their premises’ is simply untrue.
“Over the last five years the number of local microbrewery brands available in the market has drastically increased. This is a positive shift for us, as it gives consumers more options, thus contributing to a thriving beer culture in Greece, which is one of our main objectives as well.”
I am happy to repeat Mr Georgakellos’s assurances that the story is false, and should anybody tell you this story, Mr Georgakellos wants everybody to know that Heineken subscribes to something called Speak Up, “a service available to anyone, internally and externally, who wishes to raise a concern about possible misconduct within our company. We encourage everyone to Speak Up in confidence and without fear of retaliation about any concerns they may have. We offer several Speak Up channels such as speakup.heineken.com through which people can raise questions and concerns. They include trusted representatives and an external Speak Up service (telephone and online) which is run by an independent third party and available 24/7, 365 days a year.”
How many people in Britain ever waited until their 18th birthday before they ordered their first alcoholic drink in a pub? Not you, I bet, and not me, certainly.
In fact this year marks half a century since I started regularly drinking in pubs, and as I’m still a little shy of 68, you may assume, correctly, that my earliest out-of-home pints were seasoned with the spice of illegality. Not that it was much of a spice: 50 years ago bar staff, and the authorities, bothered even less about not-quite-legal under-aged drinkers than they did about drink-driving, which was not, shamefully, taken very seriously at all.
Not that I drove to the pub: strictly public transport. Onto the 801 bus, my throbbing green diesel-powered Routemaster to pleasureland, and away to Stevenage Old Town, where the High Street, once part of the Great North Road, offered a sufficiency of pubs, all ancient and characterful, to satisfy the keenest crawler. (And all a total contrast to the soulless boxes that were the pubs on the new town estates. But that is another essay, for another day.)
Not, either, that I crawled that much back in 1969: there were two pubs out of the eight on the High Street itself where most of my pals would be found, so those were the two where I did most of my drinking. Generally Friday and Saturday evenings those pubs would be rammed almost to bursting with, largely, under-20s drinking pints (or brandy-and-babycham for the teen females: at least, that was what they always seemed to be drinking when I was getting the rounds in). I don’t recall any trouble or violence: the physical aggro was restricted to the only two pubs in Stevenage’s vast pedestrian shopping centre, and mostly to only one of those, the Edward the Confessor, know universally as the Ted the Grass..
I moved from the town almost four decades ago, back to London, where I was born: grandparents, parents, uncles and aunts have died, other friends have moved away, and now my brother has sold his house in Stevenage to move permanently to enchanting Norfolk, cutting the last big link I have with the town I moved to when I was two. I went up a few months ago for a last look round, a couple of weeks after Lewis Hamilton, who also grew up in Stevenage, infuriated most of its inhabitants by calling it “the slums” on the BBC (he did correct himself immediately, but Twitter, of course, was already ablaze). No better way to say goodbye, my brother and I decided, than one last pub crawl down the High Street, starting at the bottom and moving north until we’d had enough.
Stop number one, the Chequers, was not, in fact, a pub that featured regularly on my nights out, being out of what today would be called “the circuit”. It was once, until the middle of the 20th century, the first drinking place travellers saw as they entered Stevenage proper from the south up the main road from London to York. The building of the new town’s huge pedestrianised shopping centre obliterated a long stretch of the old Great North Road at the gateway to the Old Town, and left the Chequers down what had become a largely unhurried cul-de-sac. It’s a quietly attractive, faintly arts-and-crafts influenced building, rebuilt in 1889 at a cost of £500 by its owners at the time, the Lytton family of Knebworth House, a couple of miles to the south, who were the big local landowners. (Edward Bulwer “dark and stormy night” Lytton was a big friend of Charles Dickens, which is why there was once a pub about 400 yards down the Great North Road from the Chequers called the Our Mutual Friend, after one of Dickens’s novels, which opened a month or so after the novel was first published: that pub is now demolished, but the name was transferred to a newly built pub in the New Town, close to where I grew up.)
When I started going into pubs regularly, about 1968/69, the drinkers at the Chequers were mostly Old Towners whose ancestors had lived in North Hertfordshire for, probably, 500 years or more, and who spoke in a noticeably different accent from the tens of thousands of New Towners, like my parents, who had moved to North Hertfordshire in the early and mid 1950s from North London suburbs such as Willesden and Burnt Oak, 30 miles to the south. (A few years ago I met a work colleague of my wife, and recognised her accent immediately: turned out that she had grown up in a village about two miles outside Stevenage.) Today the Chequers is probably one of the best pubs in Stevenage: its two bars, almost inevitably, have become one, but the deep black, hefty, solid oak serving area, surrounded by black and white floor tiles, the settles and oak table, have a comfortable pubby authenticity as welcoming as a hug from your favourite aunt, and although it is still owned by Greene King (who took over the local big brewer, Simpson’s of Baldock, in the 1950s) the beer range is excellent: the first place I can remember finding two dark milds on sale, one Greene King’s own, the other from the Tring Brewery away over the other side of the county.
Teenage me, beamed forward half a century, would still probably not come in here, since there continued to be no other teens in the place, even if there would not be the slightly hostile vibration there was in 1969 from middle-aged small-town working class pub-goers against somewhat feminine-looking 17-year-olds with wavy hair down to their shoulders. (My father, a bricklayer, once told me that one of his fellow brickies, astonished by his toleration of his sons’ long hair, asked him why he did not take the scissors to us while we slept.) Teenage me knew next to nothing about beer, except that he liked the taste, and he had not yet realised that there was good beer and bad beer (that would only come a couple of years later, at university in a town dominated by Watney’s). Teenage me went to the pub to meet friends and chat, in particular try to chat to girls (with almost no success). The Chequers in 1969 was not a place to find girls to try to chat to. Old man me, however, now with very much less hair, was entirely happy to be drinking in the Chequers, however. Still no teenage girls in there, but, of course, they’d be even less interested in me today than they were 50 years ago, and the lack of interest among girls in the 1960s in getting to know spotty teenage me better was an almost solid thing even then.
I have always enjoyed the atmosphere of pubs, what Iain Banks in one of his novels calls the frague, the almost indefinable vibration that a good pub has going on between its walls, the interaction of multiple people intent on having an enjoyable experience, the surroundings (which should be a barely heard basso ostinato of warmth, comfort and security), and friendly, attentive service, that makes even sitting in a bar on your own a pleasure. I still enjoy the crack that comes with good company in a good pub, too. Now, however, the beer is probably the most important part of the mix, up from something that didn’t matter at all when I was a teen. Great pub, poor beer or poor pub, great beer? Today it would have to be a really great pub, a “not to be missed”, to make up for the beer not being up to scratch. Fifty years ago, teenage me would have considered that an incomprehensible question.
It was poor pub, poor beer at the next stop on the anniversary crawl, another place I rarely visited 50 years ago, the Coach and Horses. Despite being quite attractive on the outside, a solidly built 19th century brick-and-red-tile inn that, as the sign suggests, catered for travellers until the railway arrived in the town in the early 1850s, this never had much appeal to teenage me, being, like the Chequers, mostly full of people then twice my age or more, and an early example, if I recall correctly, of the banquette and padded Windsor chair style of pub furnishings. In 2019 the interior is now darker and more basic, and the large pool table in the knocked-through bar attracts exactly the sort of customer you would expect to be attracted to a large, dark bar with a pool table. The one handpump had the clip turned round, so it was a half of Hop House 13 (strange how Guinness still provides the one fall-back for a discerning drinker in a pub with no properly acceptable beer, but now in the form of a flowery pale lager-like beer rather than a bottle-conditioned stout) and off up the road.
Pub number three on the anniversary crawl is probably the one I spent most time in during 13 or so years of drinking beer in Stevenage, the Marquis of Lorne. A converted 17th or 18th century cottage built of now worn red bricks, it is named for the man who married Princess Louise, one of Queen Victoria’s daughters, in 1871, and thus ought, pedantically speaking, to be the Marquess of Lorne. I doubt the signboard has ever carried the correct version of the name. The Marquis is a rare example of a pub that still retains its original two drinking spaces, a “tap” or public bar at the front and a long, narrow saloon or lounge bar at the side. For reasons that remain unknown to me, I and my teenage friends drank exclusively in the lounge bar, though, this being the 1960s, when the distinction still remained between public and saloon, we were probably being charged a couple of pence or more per pint for the privilege of carpet on the floor and cushions on the seats than the drinkers in the more basic, bare-boarded tap. Nevertheless, the lounge bar of the Marquis was hugely popular, and frequently, on a Friday or Saturday night, more rammed with teens than a telephone box filled with rag-stunt students. This is not an exaggeration. Sometimes it was almost impossible to move.
The draught beer in the Marquis 50 years ago was, I now know (and certainly didn’t then), top-pressure: cask ale, brewed at the former Wells and Winch brewery in Biggleswade, up the road in Bedfordshire, but served up from the cellar with the help of a cylinder of CO2, the taps on the bar shaped like miniature porcelain handpumps. Greene King IPA was the most popular choice, but nobody called it “IPA”: the order was always for “a pint of bitter”. Nobody, that I can recall, drank lager: there might have been a Harp fount on the bar counter, and there were bottles of Satzenbrau, Guinness’s attempt at a pilsner, on the shelves behind. Teens, of course, did not drink mild (that was what your dad drank), and I don’t recall seeing Greene King’s excellent dark mild on sale in any Old Town pub, though since my beer consciousness was minimal in 1969, consider me a deeply unreliable memorialist. Other Greene King pubs in the Old Town still had proper handpumps, though teenage me failed to notice any difference in the quality of the beer. What did I know? Forgive me, at the time I had probably drunk the products of fewer than half a dozen breweries. (It would, in fact, be another nine years or so years before the Marquis got its handpumps back, as Greene King finally caught up with the real ale revolution that began in 1971: by that time I was vastly more beer-aware, and on the local Camra branch committee, and we recorded these changes.)
Today the Marquis seems pretty much unchanged, the alterations in 50 years minimal: of all the pubs on the 50th anniversary crawl, it is the one teenage me could step into today without blinking. It has kept the pubby vibe, the smart but comfortable feel that would have made it worth visiting even if it had not been so popular with my teenage peers. Unlike the Chequers, the beer selection is entirely GK, but while nobody’s heart leaps today at the sight of a GK IPA handpump the way we did in 1978, when it meant another gain for the anti-fizz cause, when it’s looked after, GK is entirely acceptable: the Marquis wouldn’t, now, be my first choice of Stevenage pub as it was in 1969, but if you suggested it, I wouldn’t insist on going somewhere else.
The next pub going north 50 years ago, the White Hart, closed in 2010, and is now an Indian restaurant. I spent more time here after I became beerily “woke”, around 1975, than I did as a teen, since it was a rare local outlet for Ind Coope of Romford and, thus, their Burton ale and KK light mild (and, later, the revived Benskins bitter, named for the former Watford brewery), and I miss those vanished beers more than I do the pub.
Happily, the Red Lion, smallest of Stevenage’s former coaching inns and third call on the anniversary crawl, is still open: this was the other Old Town pub deeply popular with teens half a century ago, and it still seems popular with their grandchildren. Teenage me might have been slightly puzzled by the music being played over the sound system today, late 1970s heavy metal and its derivatives, but not that puzzled: I was an early fan of Led Zeppelin (I owned, and gave away, one of the first copies of Led Zeppelin I, with the turquoise lettering on the cover, which would be worth several hundred pounds today: ho hum) and I remember being deaf for at least an hour after sitting in row E for a Zeppelin concert circa 1970 at the Albert Hall. The pub is now properly a music venue, with regular rock band appearances at weekends and an annual “Redfest”, and it is with intense amusement that I note one band due to perform there this October, Gridlock, does a version of “Whole Lotta Love”, a song itself 50 years old this year. (There’s a theme for another essay: it’s like 1969’s teens and early 20s listening to the Original Dixieland Jass Band. What is the continuing attraction of granddad’s music?)
The Red Lion’s interior has been worked over, the back bar extended sideways into the courtyard where coaches once pulled up to have their sweating, tired teams of horses changed, and it is now possible to walk from the front bar to the back without going outside and through the arch that connects the courtyard with the High Street. The unbelievably manky men’s urinals, with their strange bright green mossy growths on the walls, have vanished, and so have the bar billiards table, and the darts board, where George Newberry, the tall, thin, elderly landlord, and a former News of the World darts champion, would occasionally come out from behind the bar and demonstrate how to hit treble 20s with six-inch nails, a performance even more remarkable since he had artificial legs. The walls, at least in the back bar, are now painted black rather than the nicotine-stained light caramel they were 50 years ago. (When the pub was decorated in the late 1970s, the brewery – Greene King again – actually chose a shade of paint almost identical to the effects of 40 years of cigarette smoke on white emulsion: perhaps Farrow & Ball should try adding “Public Bar” to its shades of cream and off-white.)
I find it hard to explain why the pub, in particular the back bar, was so popular with 1969’s teens: it was a classic Old Town boozer unchanged, at that time, since at least the Second World War, and should have been full of cloth-capped middle-aged Old Towners drinking the probably well-looked-after hand pumped bitter, or Abbot, and smoking roll-ups with, in the front bar only, their wives drinking Babycham or a small sweet sherry. Likely it was because George the landlord (his wife was known, inevitably and semi-accurately, as the dragon) was entirely laissez-faire about under-age drinking, provided you bought him the occasional rum-and-pep. Once it became a. place for teens to meet, and drink, then it stayed a place for teens to meet, and drink: we went there because we knew our friends were likely to be there. We might have driven the locals out, but we packed the place, and drank, very likely, as much as they would have.
After George and his wife retired to a home for ex-publicans, the Red Lion became more biker-oriented, and eventually music-oriented, and in half a century it has not lost its attraction to that apparently constantly renewing demographic in its 20s which enjoys shaking its hair to very loud guitar solos. Would teenage me still enjoy going down the Red Lion? Yes, I’m sure I would think it was tremendous. What about 50-years-on me? I have no problems still with loud music designed to make the audience bounce up and down – the last concert I went to, in June, was the fabulous Hot 8 Brass Band from New Orleans, which was strictly standing room only – but Led Zep covers, perhaps not.
However, we have a pub crawl to finish, so drain that pint and on up the road, past the two bars in the High Street that have opened in the past 50 years, balancing the two that have closed (the new pubs are a Wetherspoon’s in, inevitably, a disused bank and another large outlet in a former hardware shop, which at one time was selling a beer called Four Candles) to what was once Stevenage’s leading coaching inn. This thrived under the sign of the White Lion for more than 400 years: Greene King, with the thoughtless ignorance that characterises the company’s attitude to its heritage, decided to toss that in the skip four years ago and rename the inn the Mulberry Tree, for no known reason.
It’s another attractive old red-brick 18th century building on the outside, and another that I didn’t use that much as a teen: this was the most up-market of the Old Town pubs, popular with young couples on their tenth date, and my only reason for revisiting was to see how much it had altered. Teenage me would not have recognised the interior: the bar had been completely repositioned, the layout chopped about, walls demolished, and the entire set-up now making it clear this was a place expecting you to dine rather than drink: pub dining, of course, is a phenomenon that became widespread only in the past 30 years. The Mulberry Tree, like the White Lion, probably remains popular with young couples on their tenth date: teenage me would hate it, and modern me was pretty underwhelmed.
Conclusions? It was a surprise to me to realise, reflecting on the changes in the pubs, how much I had altered myself as a pub-goer in half a century, without losing a love for pubs. Thank heavens, frankly: going down the pub played a large and enjoyable part in my life 50 years ago, and I still enjoy it greatly today, but for wider and, I think, deeper and more considered reasons. I have no idea how many pubs and bars I have been in, from Sydney to San Francisco, since I first started drinking in Stevenage, but the ordinary British boozer remains my favourite place to have a beer, after 50 years.
Should you wish to know the differences between the craft beer scenes in London and Munich, Burchard Stock is a good man to ask. For two years he was a brewer with the pub brewery chain Brewhouse & Kitchen in Britain’s capital, ending up in charge of the Islington branch, close by the Angel: indeed, his pictures are still all over the venue’s website. Then in May this year he moved back to Bavaria to take charge of the Schiller Bräu operation, a “house brewery” in a restaurant on the ground floor of a modern hotel a short distance from Munich’s central station.
The Islington Brewhouse & Kitchen will sell you mac ’n’ cheese, beetroot burger in a vegan bun, or spicy Cambodian curry, with a hoppy American pale ale, a stout or a session bitter, all brewed on the spot. At Schiller Bräu, despite the modern interior, all tiles and distressed wood, it’s “traditional favourite dishes inspired by grandma’s kitchen”, and traditional beers inspired by grandpa’s Brauarei (sic), that is, “Schweinerei”, pork schnitzel covered in pretzel crumbs; “Bleede Kua”, grilled fillet of veal, and “Sauer macht lustig”, sour vinegar dumplings with onions, gherkins and radish, with, to drink, a selection of beers from the beautifully shiny brewkit at the front of the restaurant so solidly Bavarian, like the food, it will make any lederhosen-clad boarisch Mo fling himself into a chorus of “Ein Prosit!” immediately: Helles, Dunkel and Weißbier. And maybe a Maibock if it’s the right time of year. Don’t dream of offering anything that isn’t Reinheitsgebot-compliant, or they’ll have you outside and strung up on a lamp-post before you can say “Oans! Zwoa! Drei!”
Despite the conservatism of the drinkers in Freistaat Bayern, there are, in fact, more than twice as many “start-up” breweries in its borders, at 220-plus, than in any other single Land in Germany. At the same time it is the only state in the federal republic where the “traditional,” established breweries, of which there were 424 as of August last year, still outnumber the new ones: indeed, Bavaria has two thirds of all Germany’s old-established breweries, but only just over a quarter of the new ones (and just over 16 per cent of the total population). But Munich, which if it followed even the Bavarian average, ought to have around 25 new breweries, falls far short: nobody I spoke to seemed to known how many small breweries there are in the city, but it’s a handful, at best. The Big Four Munich breweries (counting the partly Heineken-owned Paulaner and Hacker Pschorr and the AB Inbev-owned Löwenbräu and Spaten-Franziskaner as one each) dominate, and one, the still independent Augustinerbräu, dominates most of all. For a city that boasts of its beerhalls and its world-famous 16-day-long celebration of beer, the Oktoberfest, the choice of beer, and beer styles, is more limited than in the average British corner shop.
Burchard, a mid-20s look-alike (he will hate me for saying this) for Harry Potter without the scar, says: ” A lot of people think Munich is the capital of beer. I think there was a time when that was definitely true. But what we have nowadays in Munich is basically four or five big old brands, while if you go to Berlin, you know, you have 50 small breweries and one big one, or Hamburg, which has such a variety of small breweries. There are plenty of people who say, ‘If you want to start a business that’s not going to succeed, start a brewery in Munich.’ I was impressed when I came here that this brewery was so young and doing so well. Everyone here drinks Augustiner: I think it’s 55 per cent of the Munich beer market, which is huge, and then another 40 per cent goes to breweries that are just copying Augustiner, so there’s not much left for others to claim.”
The Schiller Bräu brewery, on Schillerstraße, now two years old, is one of several “house breweries” based in hotels run by MK Hotels, which itself is owned by the Lindner Group, a large German construction company specialising in facades and interiors (its works include the Gherkin, 70 St Mary Axe, in London). Burchard says: “It’s a family-owned business, and at the beginning of this century the founder said, ‘I want to set up a hotel business.’ So he started a small hotel chain – I think we’re about 12 or 13 right now – and with the hotel group he also fulfilled one of his oldest dreams, which is owning his own brewery. With the first hotel they built they put in a brewery, in Mariakirchen, in Lower Bavaria, and there are now four hotels with breweries in.
“The beers vary depending on the location: in Mariakirchen, for example, they’re very, very, very traditional, because the Bavarians down there just drink the local equivalent of mild. Moving up to Munich, we’re still traditional, but from time to time we do a little bit more of a tweak. The more northern you go, though, the crazier it gets: In Remscheid, [near Dusseldorf], one of the other production sites, he’s doing quite similar stuff to what the people in London are doing, so watermelon ale and stuff like that – he’s into the craft beer stuff. But It depends on the people around you and who drinks your beer. The Bavarians are very conservative.”
“Here we have four standard beers: Helles lager, dark lager, wheat beer, and a lower-abv Helles, 2.5 per cent alcohol. Every month there’s a new seasonal coming out, so for this month it’s a Pilsener: this is where the brewer gets to vary things.” The local cut up the last time Burchard brewed a pils, though: they don’t like ’em too hoppy in Bavaria, unlike in Northern Germany. “This is how all the breweries in the group work: you have your core beers, and then every month you get a little special treat. After August we are going to have a Märzen, for the Oktoberfest, that will stay on for two months, and then we’re going to have a dark wheat beer, a dark doppelbock, a dark bock, a rye wheat beer, a Märzen again, a Maibock – pretty much a standard Bavarian selection. It’s just slightly different from what I was brewing in Islington,” he says, smiling. “We had real ales, we had a session lager, a really fruity American pale ale, oatmeal stout, Saison, witbier, sour biers, all the usual craft beer range.”
Burchard was born near Bonn, grew up in Berlin, and spent a couple of years in Munich. He started out wanting to study psychology, or social work, and applied to various universities in the south and west of Germany. “My mother told me that someone was studying social work at Weihenstephan, just outside Munich, so I looked it up on the internet, couldn’t find that course, but saw the brewmaster diploma course, and thought, ‘that looks really fun,’ so I applied for it almost as a joke.
“They gave me an offer of a place, so I thought I had better take a serious look at the course. It involved a one-year internship before the course, and I really liked the idea of that – earning money so I didn’t have to live off my parents’ money, and if I didn’t like the job, at the end of the year I could move on and go and study psychology after all. I was 18 years old, what did I have to lose?”
Before he could take up the course, Burchard did an internship at Oettinger, Germany’s biggest brewer, and “really really like the subject it, really enjoyed it, enjoyed my time a lot. I moved on to Munich to study at Weihenstephan, studied for three semesters and with every semester, for me, the fun was going out of the subject. I looked at it and I said, ‘If you finish that course and you become a Diplom Braumeister, as we call it in Germany, then in the end of the day you end up in a laboratory, overseeing everyone who is doing the brewing stuff, but basically having no hands on the beer any more.’ If I wanted to do that I could have done a business degree, and apply to a big brewery for a management post, or study microbiology and gone into a laboratory. That was not what I was looking for, but in the very beginning, when I applied, I had no idea how the business worked.
“So I quit the university at that point, went back to the beginning, did my apprenticeship in a very small brewery, Eschenbräu in Berlin, a really good brewery, I recommend anyone to go there. I finished my apprenticeship really quite quickly – in general you do a three-year apprenticeship, but since I had quite a bit of pre-knowledge from my studies I could finish it in a year and ten months, something like that. I came back to Munich and worked half a year for Paulaner, where I made my choice that I would never work in a big brewery again, because it’s, excuse my French, fucking boring, pushing buttons and observing and controlling, the practical work is missing. That’s what I really like in this job.
“So then I moved over to London for two years to work in Brewhouse and Kitchen, became head brewer in one of their branches, in Islington, and then came back to Munich and started here.”
The brewing kit at Schiller Bräu consists of a copper-clad mash tun/copper, lauter tun and whirlpool, plus three fermentation vessels and seven conditioning tanks down in the hotel’s cellars, where the beer is also stored in tanks when ready for serving. All the equipment was made by the highly regarded small-brewery specialists Caspary in the village of Hart, near Chieming, in the far south-east corner of Bavaria, who recently supplied the London Fields brewery with a 15-hectolitre brewhouse. Schiller Bräu’s kit cost €400,000, vastly more than the cost of the kit at Brewhouse and Kitchen, and it is considerably more sophisticated as well. While the kit in London was set up for single-step infusion mashing, the Schillerbrau kit will do multi-stage decoction as required, depending on the style of beer, though Burchard generally does what the Germans call the Hochkurz mash, literally “high-short”, where a portion of the mash, usually one third, is boiled for five minutes and then blended back in. The Helles stays in the conditioning tanks for at least a month, the dark lager and pils for the same time, the Weissbier “I think is good after two weeks, but usually it has three weeks, because the tank it’s served from isn’t empty yet.”
Burchard brews twice a week, in 900-litre batches, using malt from the Bavarian maltster Weyerman, while most of the hops are from the Hallertau, the yeast from Augustiner, 20 litres at a time, replaced every two to three weeks, and the water straight from the tap, with acidulated malt used if he ever needs to lower the pH. Almost all the beer is sold on draught, unfiltered and unpasteurised, with 96 or 97 per cent of the beer drunk on site, and only a very small amount put in bottles, growlers or mini-kegs for taking home. No other brewery’s beers are sold in the restaurant, apart from Schneider’s alcohol-free Weißbier.
The business, as it should be, is booming: ” It’s hard to find a table here if you don’t have a reservation. Around Schillerstraße there are a lot of hotels and you get a lot of tourists here, but I wouldn’t say tourists are our main customer group. We have quite a lot of regulars, who are typical Munich Bavarians, who have lived here a long time, they just want a regular pub, so they come together every week, sit down and have something to eat and drink a few beers.” Those beers are solid, down-the-line interpretations of Bavarian styles, not, perhaps, worth making a special journey for, but if you’re in Munich, definitely worth looking up.
And what about Munich itself as a beer tourism destination? It’s a tricky call, to be frank. You can go elsewhere in Bavaria and find better Helles, better Dunkel, and so on than anything the city’s big breweries offer. The Oktoberfest is a joke: six million people all drinking basically exactly the same beer. But the beer halls of Munich ARE worth seeing, and experiencing, for the architecture and the atmosphere, and you can watch elderly Bavarians gathered at the Stammtisch enjoying what beer should be all about – convivial chat. So no, you probably don’t know beer well enough until you’ve downed a Dunkel in the Hofbräuhaus. Even if it is full of Japanese tourists taking selfies with the brass band. And if you do go there, you’ll also be able to buy an HB-branded blue spotted handkerchief in the gift shop: that beats a T-shirt any day.
Should you be looking for something more beerily adventurous in Munich, let me point you to a place Burchard tipped his hat at for me: Meisterstück, a bar/restaurant in Weißenburger Straße, in the upmarket suburb of Haidhausen. Behind it is the Hopfenhäcker brewery, one of those rare Munich micros, producing beers you certainly won’t find at Oktoberfest – Indian Pale Lager, for example, or a witbier called Kill Bill (the brewery was originally called Hopfenhacker, “Hop Hackers”, without the umlaut on the A, but Pschorr enough a larger Munich brewery objected, so the name had to be typographically tweaked). Meisterstück sells more than just Hopfenhäcker beers, however, with eight or so draught beers, and 100-plus different bottles available to drink on the spot or take away. I only had time for one as I sat in the little “beer garden” behind the restaurant, which was not actually a “new small craft” brewery, but a dark, sweet and malty Kellerbier from the North Bavarian family brewery Zirndorfer (and, er, not actually that great, alas …).
Still, the next day I just had time, before leaving for Munich airport (which has its own brewery, natürlich) for a swift and delicious Dunkelweiß in the very lovely Schneider Bräuhaus in the heart of the city, and to regret that I had only arranged for a day to explore a tiny fraction of Munich’s attractions. Aufwiedersehen, München – I hope to be back.
Anything they do in That London, Manchester can do as well, including the catastrophic collapse of a giant vat full of maturing porter. Admittedly the Great London Beer Flood of 1814 was rather bigger than the event in Lancashire 17 years later, with the vat that burst at Meux’s brewery, off Tottenham Court Road, containing nearly six times as much porter as the one that collapsed at Mottram’s brewery in Salford in 1831, but eight people, all women and children, died in the London flood, while the only real victim of the one in Salford was a pig that must have had a serious hangover the next day.
Here’s a report of the event in Manchester, from an Irish newspaper, the Westmeath Journal, in Mullingar, Thursday 3 March 1831, p2:
Another newspaper had a slightly different take on the event, including the drunken pig. This is from the Chester Courant of Tuesday March 1 1831, courtesy of Peter Dyer:
A Flood of Porter – On Wednesday morning a large porter vat, containing about 380 barrels of the best brown stout, burst on the premises of Messrs. Mottram, in Brewery-street, Salford (Manchester.) The liquid rushed out with such force as to carry before it a portion of a wall, under which it nearly buried a man and horse, which were at the outside. Another man, who was in the same room in which the vat stood, was carried out into the yard by the flood. The beer overflowed a pond, and was for a few minutes two feet deep in the cellar of a cottage. All sorts of vessels were in requisition for carrying off the precious liquid from the pond. Among other comers was a sow, which was seen in the course of the day staggering off in a state of disgusting inebriety. The loss from the accident, we regret to state, is estimated at from £700 to £1000.
The Westmeath Journal was right to say that London brewers “occasionally” suffered from such “casualties”: among others there were at least two vat collapses at Whitbread’s brewery in Chiswell Street, in 1776 and 1794, in the latter of which hundreds of rats “were taken up by pailfuls in an intoxicated state,” while one of four vats, each containing 1,500 barrels, collapsed at Henry Thrale’s Anchor brewery in Southwark (later Barclay Perkins) in 1772. Outside London, a 530-barrel vat collapsed at Searanke and Biggs’s brewery in Hatfield, Hertfordshire in 1805, though locals with “tubs and pails”, knee-deep in beer, managed to save around 150 barrels-worth of beer; and a 40-fee-high vat containing 720 barrels of vinegar burst at Fardon’s vinegar brewery in Westley Street, Birmingham on Christmas day, 1891, flooding the surrounding streets several feet deep: THAT must have stunk.
In Cork, Ireland, in 1913 a 560-barrel vat at Murphy’s Lady’s Well brewery burst. One brewery worker, who had been underneath the vat when it collapsed, had to swim 40 yards through porter to save himself as the stream carried him along. Outside in the street the porter was diluted with water from a fire-hose by quick-reacting brewery workers, to stop anyone from trying to drink it.
Mottram’s brewery, incidentally, looks to have recovered from its loss and ran through until 1897, when it was acquired by a local rival, the Cornbrook Brewery Co. Ltd, itself acquired by Eddie Taylor’s United Breweries in 1961.
By coincidence, on the same page of the Westmeath Journal as the story about the collapsing vat was another report of an accident at a brewery, this time more tragic:
The newspaper report suggests the poor victim’s internal pain was caused by his diving into the cold water after the accident: my understanding of how this works is that in fact he almost certainly didn’t stay in the cold water long enough. If you’re unlucky enough to be badly burnt or scalded, you have to cool down the affected parts as much and as quickly as possible, because otherwise the underlying flesh, muscle and organs stay very hot, conpounding the harm the heat has already done. This was discovered in the Second World War, when doctors realised that badly burnt RAF pilots who had ditched in the sea recovered much better from their injuries than those who had bailed out over or crashed on land: the cold sea water cooled down their burnt bodies internally and lessened the harm. Morris’s brewery in Lewes became Ballard’s in 1876, which was acquired by Page & Overton’s brewery in Croydon in 1927.
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.