“You know the old saying: you win some, you lose some. And then there’s that little-known third category.” — Al Gore
Let’s say you’re a small brewery with a relentless social media presence that includes three, four or even more Facebook posts per day, probably 90% of them touting musical performances and various in-house events ranging from knitting to arm wrestling, but also on occasion touting the brewery’s great mixed drinks and its guest food trucks.
Scrolling through this establishment’s posts on April 9, I can see that none of them since March 6 has promoted the brewery’s own house-brewed beer, apart from a garish handful just prior to St. Paddy’s Day that undertook to reassure anxious patrons that as many house beers as possible would be colored green – because why drink craft beer without a Instagram-ready gimmick?
Although in fairness, at least this confirmed the existence of the brewery’s house beers, even if they were about to be woefully mistreated in the name of Amateur Eire.
All of which prompts a perfectly serious question of the sort that might occur to a random, curious onlooker who doesn’t profess to be a beer aficionado, the answer to which also addresses my own reluctance to say anything at all about a local “brewer” if I can’t say very much that’s good, and the avenue of inquiry goes like this: Wouldn’t it be easier and less expensive not to brew at all, than to be this disinterested in what you’re brewing right now?
Or, maybe a follow-up: If you’re not going to use that brewery, could I borrow it? There’s a smoked lager I’d like to revive.
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As of 2021, roughly 332 million people lived in the United States.
In itself, this is a mind-boggling figure; for starters, that’s an awful lot of toilet paper, and we all must have socks, a toothbrush, and internet access for ordering redundant trinkets for immediate delivery, not to mention stocks of “hard” seltzer so that I always have a handy human foible to deride.
In short, there are a great many of us, fewer than in China but far more than Paraguay, and I believe it is safe to state that whatever else we might say about the American “mainstream,” it is by definition a concept painted in exceedingly broad brush strokes.
Pick a topic from the limitless spectrum of human endeavors, and a few hundred thousand people just might “get it,” eventually, but tens of millions likely won’t — at least without some degree of simplification (in the case of politics, lying seems to be an effective way of achieving this).
Lest you assume I’m omitting myself from this curmudgeonly paradigm, please be aware that a similar process of “simplification” also occurs with me each time a mechanic tries to explain the nature of my car’s most recent technical issue. Internal combustion is as broadly “mainstream” as it ever gets in America (cars might as well comprise their own orgiastic religion), but none of it ever manages to sink in with me. Those automotive details might as well reside on Saturn.
When it comes to servicing mainstream tastes in any genre, mass marketing and saturation advertising exist solely to remove the annoying constraints of detail-oriented expertise, offering a quicker, easier way to keep up with the Joneses by being relieved of just as much cash as they’ve forked over. After all, this is late-stage capitalism, and as yet, there are no opt-outs.
All the while, social media and other aspects of electronic communications enable the constant assembly line production of “suckers born every minute,” and to such a pervasive extent that past masters like PT Barnum would be humbled and stupefied.
All of which is to say that while better beer has made major market inroads recently, there’s no danger of Michelob Ultra and Miller Lite being toppled from their sales thrones anytime soon, even though I’ve spent a lifetime in the beer biz furiously tilting at mainstream windmills in search of precisely such an outcome. In spite of watery and flavorless beer’s continuing success, I think we’ve done quite well to carve out safe havens for better beer, even if they never grow to mainstream status.
Thinking back to the many wonderful experiences I’ve enjoyed along the way, it occurs to me that in fairness, there have been many smaller-scale disappointments, too, in the sense of ideas I’ve advanced, or styles of beer I’ve espoused (in some instances for decades) with only limited resonance. I’ve thought to myself, everyone will like this – but I couldn’t lure them away from “the coldest wet air in town.”
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Apparently the following five beer categories are among those proving to have been way too much for hereabouts, which is slightly odd, because with the possible exception of number five, they’re not altogether extreme. Rather, they’re subtle … and come to think of it, maybe that’s the mainstream’s biggest problem; by definition, the mass market habitat isn’t suitable for nuance.
And so be it. Better beer has been very, very good to me, feeding my innate contrarian tendencies and providing polemics galore. Let’s have a glance at my professional failures, which continue to please me personally.
My Top Five Failures as a Beer Purveyor – or “How I Kept Pitching ‘Em, and You Kept the Bat Resting Squarely on Your Shoulder”
- Session Beer – It’s not a specific style per se, but a range of beers that displays willful intent; at its most elemental, this implies tasty, flavorful beers that also are relatively low in alcohol (4.5% tops, at least in my world). Examples include Mild and Ordinary Bitter; 10-degree Czech Dark Lager; as well as famous names like Guinness Draft Stout, Fuller’s London Pride and Pilsner Urquell. Moderation is the chief benefit to consumers, who are able to drink a beer or three without the risk of drunken antics or DUI arrests, while importantly for pub owners, low ABVs may result in extra pints purchased, with the bottom line expressing its appreciation for upward nudging.
Why you didn’t listen to me: “But Roger, how can the man who invented Gravity Head expect me to drink these weak-ass beers?” Yes, I’ll grant you that “Session Head” never worked altogether well.
- Ale Styles from the British Isles – Intended in general terms, but referencing “cask-conditioned” ale in particular (also referred to as “real” ale). As conceived, brewed, packaged and served in the natural manner, cask ales are the indigenous, tasty, beery glories of the United Kingdom and environs.
At their finest, balance is the watchword for all English real ales, especially those quaffable Bitters, and cask-conditioning is more than a way of drinking. It’s a way of thinking. Flavors are understated yet unmistakably rendered. The malt character is rich and sweetish, with a touch of fruitiness. The classic English hop varieties are reassuring, packing less of a bitter punch than their American cousins. The overall package is thirst quenching or contemplative, depending on one’s mood.
Why you didn’t listen: Cask ale is a genuine oddball of a throwback, requiring time and effort beyond the norm, and honestly, apart from occasional exceptions, American breweries try doing it so seldom that it’s always been hard to showcase the experience and develop followers. Unfortunately, even in the home country it has become an uphill struggle to keep the traditional methods alive. So, you all get a pass here; go to England, dear readers, and enjoy real ale while you can.
- Bieres de Garde – Historically, Bieres de Garde were fashioned at farmhouses and small urban breweries in Northern France. Brewing took place during cooler weather, to be bottled in used wine and champagne bottles, which then were cellared for drinking during summer until the heat subsided in autumn and brewing could resume.
Bieres de Garde had to be sufficiently ample and alcoholic for aging, but not too heavy in body for warm-weather drinking. They also had to go well with food, because that’s what France is about. Hence, the wonderfully complex maltiness of the style’s better, enduring examples, like Jenlain, La Choulette and Castelain.
Why you didn’t listen: Perhaps if these purely elegant ales (some actually are lagers) were called “Freedom de Garde” more folks in the USA would take positive notice. The fact remains that apart from poutine, which actually comes from Canada, Americans are utterly befuddled by France – and, admittedly, Bieres de Garde is a sub-niche among niches. But I’m here to tell you that the mysteries merely enhance the sublime feeling you’ll get from a plate of stinky cheese, crusty bread and a 750 ml of Trois Mont.
- Kentucky Common – The style remains a tad amorphous, with the finest examples I’ve tasted perhaps prompting description as dark cream ales. But Common is indigenous to Kentucky, making it an American rarity (read: local breweries should be marketing it with techniques borrowed from bourbonism). In terms of overall character, Kentucky Common probably falls into a slot near Amber and Brown ales – malty, not hoppy, having been brewed originally as a “present use” daily session beer.
Last weekend I was delighted to see Falls City Kentucky Common on tap at The Exchange in New Albany, and two pints (at a lovely 4.5% abv) brilliantly accompanied an excellent Cuban sandwich with fries. Don’t forget Louisville Ale Trail’s principled, ongoing campaign to have Kentucky Common declared the state beer. It’s a topic near and dear to my otherwise calloused, three-sizes-too-small heart.
Why you didn’t listen: Like the Mild and Ordinary ales from the UK, the very word “Common” is a tough sell in a country accustomed to Super Bowl, WrestleMania and Mega Millions – not to mention the craft beer world’s lamentable propensity to “imperial-size” everything. However, I’m optimistic that Common has a future, with big thanks to Falls City for keeping theirs in the lineup.
- Rauchbier (Smoked Beer) – During the malting process, when barley from the field is prepared for use in brewing, the grain is soaked with water to initiate germination, then dried to arrest it. The method of drying is key.
Traditional floor malting involves spreading the wet grain around a large open area and allowing natural evaporation to do the trick. Later during the Industrial Revolution, exposure to indirect heat (kilning) came into being and was constantly refined, allowing variations of color to emerge from the intensity of the heat; as an example, consider the difference between light and dark roasted coffee.
But there was another way of drying barley after malting. A fire was built and the wet barley placed above it by means of a grate, and the rising smoke passed through the barley, both drying and permeating it. The result is a smoky palate, which can be a little or a lot, with applicability to a number of beer styles, including classic Bamberg smoked lagers (primarily beech wood), Alaskan Smoked Porter (alder) and the decidedly unique Grodziskie from Poland, brewed with oak-smoked wheat malt.
Why you didn’t listen: You insist on thinking that smoked beer tastes like bacon, cigar residue in ash trays or Lagavulin, and you know what? This is perfectly fine by me, and it always has been, because your incomprehension means more of those glorious smoky treats are left for me to consume.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to head over to a local brewery somewhere. There’ll be pop-up tacos, Bloody Marys, a Gordon Lightfoot tribute act, and the weekly fingerpainting class. There might even be beer, but of course that would be a bonus.
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Previously at Hip Hops:
Hip Hops: Early bird Craft Bash, 502 Beer Day & new brewpub plans
Roger Baylor is an entrepreneur, educator, and innovator with 42 years of beer business experience in metropolitan Louisville as a bartender, package store clerk, brewery owner, restaurateur, writer, traveler, polemicist, homebrewing club founder, tour operator and all-purpose contrarian.
