David Preston

Making a bee-lion for Manchester

Alerted to their existence by a nice piece on the Pellicle podcast, engineering a visit to a Manchester Union stockist (a stylish modern local in Ancoats, Elnecot) was a pre-requisite of a recent trip back to my home city.

Time comes around. Not that long ago, if you wrote about lager there was a sniffy ‘big brewer apologist’ air attached to you. Lager, was the inference, was the domain of mass-production brewers, those who could brew to a super attenuation strength (12 – 13%ABV) and ‘liquor down’ to the desired market strength they wanted ‘in the glass’; those who could replace a pure malt bill with filler (malt, rice, dandruff – the usual); and those who could, apparently, only sell their inferior wares because they had big marketing budgets and scale. So to write that lager was really where it’s at and one day, you’ll come to your senses… well, huff, puff and hufflepuff to you, lager-boy.

Not now. Surely now, even craft brewers are seeing the irrefutable twofold logic – the logic of the head – that our market is still ostensibly a lager market i.e. most beer sold is lagered beer – and the logic of the heart too – that a well brewed lager is a thing of joy. Scratch that… it’s a two, three or four ‘things of joy’ because the first should always call out for a second.

So good for Manchester Union – giving in to those two dimensions of logic and setting out on the noble mission of ‘brewing the finest lager in Manchester…’.

They’ve not cut corners. Designing a decoction mashing regime into your brewing kit was seen as unnecessary madness by their consulting experts. But they did it anyway, finding the brew-kit solution in Bolton of all places. And that two step decoction process is right there in the glass; you can taste it and you can feel it. The taste is that subtle layering of flavours you only get with decoction – there’s the clean maltiness of course, but there’s more. Is it an ever-so-slightly burnt biscuit note? Just there at the tail end of the after taste? A mushroomy roundness (this is a good thing, trust me). And the feel; that rounded, 3 dimensional coating quality that infusion mash lager can never replicate. Like a Zulu battle plan, this lager invites you in to the centre, then surrounds you on all sides. Then pokes you with a sharp stick to order another.

Next time, the dark lager…why are these so rare? And for now, unless you live in Manchester, Manchester Union lager will remain just that, a rare find. But not for long surely – after all, there’s a second part to their purpose – “…famous the world over”.

There’s only one f in Hofmeister

I started my career as a beer sales person some *ahem* years ago. The portfolio, for the brewer Bass, was an assortment of mainly domestic lager brands: Carling Black Label, Tennent’s Extra, Tennent’s Super, Breaker and Lamot Pils (originally a Belgian beer, at the time recently brought into UK production. Plus ça change, eh?). There were others flitting in and out of the premium space, concoctions such as Treffliches Altenessen Gold (T.A.G.), Stauder Pils or exotic Scottish imports, such as Tennent’s Gold Bier.

In the price fighting territory was Tennent’s Pilsner; those of a certain age may remember the advert that was uniquely shot in reverse, then reversed to play forward. As odd to type as it was to watch. And Tennent’s Pilsner was competing against a number of big, well supported brands yet at the same time competing with sharp pricing on the (still relatively new) multipacks of 12 or occasionally 24 cans in size. There was Castlemaine XXXX, Heineken (the weak UK brewed version, as was), Harp, McEwan’s and most notably Hofmeister.

Yes – Hofmeister. The hirsute Bav-bear-ian who we were implored to “follow”, not in the social sense. Big yellow cans, usually offering 13.5% extra free, and with a franchise, by this time reduced to supermarkets and the south of England in particular. But just a few years earlier, Hofmeister had been Courage’s main focus, enjoying big bucks advertising support and, with the help of George the Bear, was pushed hard on draught, until the market started to move to authentic imports and Courage licensed other brands that were shinier and newer. The focus was lost until finally, in a portfolio review, Hofmeister was dumped without ceremony in 2003. Cans canned if you will.

And really, that then, was that. Other, more interesting and up to date, brands had replaced the furry Bavarian, and to be honest, the gravestone didn’t have much chiseled into it. No one in particular was mourning the loss.

Which makes the rebirth of Hofmeister quite curious. The name and the striking colourways are really the only consistent motifs. It’s clear that for the new team behind the brand erasing any memories of Hofmeister as a footie and ‘laaaads’ swilling beer is a priority; old memories erased and replaced by more powerful, positive associations. But of course, those drinkers are in their late 50s and beyond, so you could argue why bother? And so, the strategy of just going for all out authenticity makes sense – erase lingering doubts with those who remember it; create a striking new beer for those who don’t, to stand out in a crowd. This then is a beer brewed in Bavaria by Privatbrauerei Scweiger in Markt Schwaben, east of Munich. A 5% ABV Helles sold, for now at least, in 330ml brown glass bottles with a classic, 1L handled maß to serve it in. The choice of 5% ABV is curious too, when frankly, the momentum in the market place is mid 4s, but again, it’s clear they want to leave no doubt about this being reborn and different. I liked it a lot… this is a beer very much in the mould of a well rounded, quite-honeyed and highly drinkable Bavarian helles. The presentation calls for a draught serve, and with the tools they have developed to support it, would make it a memorable experience. But I worry that by itself, and without the backing of a powerful player with access to distribution in the on trade, it may struggle (but who knows, there may be a plan there).

And that’s why, perhaps, Hofmeister have also launched a weißbier (and a credible low alcohol line as well). The Weiss is excellent with a warming alcohol and a clearly hard working yeast that’s thrown out those classic esters of woody clove – without an overbearing banana trait that impacts drinkability. Weißbiers are usually lazily characterised as perfect for Summer drinking, but I’d vacuum one of these up In The Deep Midwinter quite happily, thank you.

It’s a pairing that would sit very happily on many a bar, offering something that are both classics of their styles but wonderfully drinkable too. The Bear, it seems, is now worth following.

Net Zero?

There’s a Facebook group I’m a member of that’s dedicated to Czech beer and as always with these things, it seems, there are interesting debates, informative sharing of unfamiliar beers and a bunch of irrational bugbears that become on-going motifs of the digital conversation.

One particularly beef is Staropramen; a beer that, since being sold to Bass Brewers after the fall of the Iron Curtain in the mid ’90s has had a more hand-offs than a game of rugby: sold to Interbrew as was, then into venture capital ownership as table stakes to make another big ABI deal happen and then back like a nomadic cat to Bass’ successor in kind, Molson Coors. Throughout this time, the beer has, as is the wont of multinational brewers, been hardly cherished – and through expert ‘flavour matching’ been brewed in the outer Prague suburbs, including Preston and Burton-upon-Trent, the latter where UK and much export Staro is brewed today.

For many of the Czechs on the Facebook Group, Staropramen is ditch water wherever it’s brewed, but there’s barely a dissenting voice that the UK brewed version is worse even than that. Few challenge this perception (maybe they don’t dare). And maybe it’s true. But it could also be utter tripe. Think what you like about Big Beer, but their brewers are always superbly well trained, with on-going continuous professional development and frankly, are sought after by small brewers the world over. They know how to flavour match. And the chances are that their flavour match is much more accurate than a hazy, half-cut customer memory of what Staropramen once tasted like in some Prague bar in 2013 where, you know, it was ‘authentic’.

It underlines what we already know but often don’t want to admit to. We drink with our eyes and our memories as much as with our taste buds and sense of smell. We’re happy to drink from belief not fact. And if you don’t believe me, some of the same people who are happy to slag off Staropramen, compare it with the terrific taste of Velkopopovický Kozel, a beer brewed under license in many markets and which is a weak shadow of its former self (just take the significant reduction in ABV over time as one dimension of this).

I choose to drink authentic beers, brewed in their homes. I believe that small breweries, sourcing from their local area, supporting their local economy and community is better. I am not arguing that we should all just accept brewing under license and get on with it, because that would be hypocritical. But caving into irrationality around how something tastes based on where the brewery is? I don’t buy it. This isn’t wine. This isn’t terroir.

Take Peroni. I like the fact it’s brewed in Rome or Bari and even though I prefer the taste of Moretti, I don’t like that it’s brewed in Edinburgh or Tadcaster. McMoretti, by gum. But, this is just my subjective preference – in fact, only recently did Heineken stop importing 6 pack small cans of Moretti from Rome, switching to UK brewed… and I only realised the difference afterwards because the outer wrap had changed from plastic to card, so I read the blurb. It tasted the same. My head realises this, even though my heart hates it. I don’t drink Staropramen any more. But the fact that somehow it’s fundamentally different to that brewed in Prague…. come on.

And then there’s the necessity for us all to move to low carbon lifestyles. It’s going to require sacrifices. And we all know that shipping containers of mildly inebriating, coloured fizzy water around the planet in diesel powered mega-ships when it could be made up the road is bonkers. It just doesn’t make sense on any level. For a UK drinker, this might not be an issue for a beer brewed in Leuven, Poznan or Umbria. But California? China? New Zealand? Surely that can’t be right.

And in the scale of sacrifices to come, Burton brewed Staropramen – Staffopramen perhaps – might just turn out to be loose change.

Refresh and reinforce

Occasionally, professional and personal lives overlap – and this was the case when Simon at Budweiser Budvar sent me a little box containing some Budweiser Budvar goodies. He wasn’t doing this out of the kindness of his heart, although knowing Simon as a kind-hearted sort of guy this was possible, but no, Budvar have redesigned and launched their UK web shop to boot and he’s trying to drum up support, understandably.

Simon doesn’t need me to write nice things about Budvar. He’s got plenty of beer writers who are much better known waxing lyrical about the company, for good reason. Despite some pretty shaky times in Czech brewing since the late 90s, when free-market capitalism renewed its roots in the country and Czech brewers of all sizes were being gobbled up by larger brewing concerns, this state-owned brewery has remained true and consistent to brandishing the torch for the traditions of Czech lager brewing. Simple things like sticking to regional ingredients (Moravian malt, Žatec hops, local aquifer water you know versus, Thames or Severn Trent), using double decoction mashing regimes, avoiding high gravity brewing and heaven forbid, actually lagering their beer for the weeks it takes to create those subtle layers of flavour stratified with gentle, natural carbonation.

So, when a brand such as this is redesigning, my instinct is to hold my breathe and hope. The paying side of what I do is helping companies create and strengthen their brands. Oh, sure, many brewers hate the thought of brands, many beer writers too, the late Michael Jackson included. It’s not about brands, they say, brands are impersonal. It’s about the beer. It’s not consumers, it’s drinkers. Brands are what Big Beer do…sniff, sniff, snivel, snivel etc.

Which is all very well, except they’re wrong. Because brands aren’t simply a marketing ploy, they’re a shortcut that the human brain uses to make decisions easier. ‘Reducing cognitive load’ is the behavioural science name for it. And the annoying thing for the likes of our nay-saying brewers and beer writers is that (when done right) it’s proven to work.

Arguments to one side, what everyone can agree on is that how a brand shows up – it’s name, the beer itself, the design, the points of interaction – like website, draught font, glassware, bar gear and so on – are critically important to how a brand is understood, remembered and bought.

And Budvar made a bit of a mis-step last time. “B-Original” they declared in a fit of trying-to-be-clever. “B-Free” announced their non-alcoholic variant (errr – you’re a beer, not Braveheart). Strangely, “B-Dark” trumpeted their, you guessed it, dark lager and not switching off the lights or internet. It was always wrong. It looked wrong. It sounded wrong. It felt wrong. It was a classic brand trying too hard. Like someone desperately trying to be something they’re not. The label of the bottle sported a jaunty ‘swoosh’ in gold. ‘We can be like Nike’ it said, fundamentally misunderstanding the brand and its context.

With some trepidation then, I opened this little box from the Budvar web shop and silently whooped with joy. If, on the last design, some wag had told the Board that Budvar needs to appeal to Millennials by being (sorry, B-ing) fresh, young and contemporary, now Budvar is doing exactly that by reframing the task, staying true to itself and just being timeless for everyone.

Look at the design: there’s no missing the name (task 1 achieved). There’s no missing the simple descriptor (task 2 achieved). There’s no missing the premium values of this brand because they ooze off the package (tick, tick, tick): the crest of České Budejovice; the matte ink, the textured feel; the gold can top with brand-red tab. And a composition that can breathe because it isn’t cluttered and rammed-full with “benefits”. Without saying anything, everything about it says, “This is the great Budweiser Budvar…. come to me”.

Bloody hell. You may ask, ‘Who is this bloke banging on about a design and why does it matter?’

Oh, it matters. Brands are built when two things fuse together as one. The message and the memory structures – the name; the colours; the symbols that allow the brain to register and recognise it. All too often, brands throw around “re-design” like its a sign of excitement and success. No, it’s a sign of failure. I’m not saying that Budvar failed previously – that would be going too far – but if your customers struggle to recognise your package and when they do, not like it, well that’s a big problem.

And this is the beauty of the Budweiser Budvar redesign. They have taken the wonderful, memorable assets that they already own (in people’s minds) and simply refreshed them -thereby reinforcing what their brand is about. The packaging; the glassware; the web shop and the merch all unequivocally screams the brand. And if you think having a distinctive brand isn’t important in this game, good luck to you.

Dark Lager and Hedgehogs

A wheelbarrow full of hedgehogs.

A lad from Primary school, who I haven’t seen since, pushing a wheelbarrow full of hedgehogs (who seemed quite happy – maybe thankful for the lift) down our old road. A road on which a friend now lives, but in a house with windows a disconcerting shade of Manchester City blue – something that frankly, would not be tolerated by him much beyond getting the key on moving-in day.

But the dreams during Lockdown have been getting weirder. In one, mimicking reality, I ordered a copy of the classic advertising text, Hey Whipple, Squeeze This online, only to have Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree delivered as a ‘suitable replacement’ (even more bizarrely, a few days later Girl Unknown* by Karen Perry* was delivered mistakenly in its place – any one want it?).

But in the most vivid, I was trudging up a cobbled hill – setts, really, as they were laid with continental precision. Up a hill that led away from a bridge over a river. A medieval magpie-style building was built out into the river with an annexe, presumably once a mill – but there was no wheel present, no rotation and the river wound its course unnoticed. Nor was it a Cheshire-style magpie building -black wood, white wattle and daub, nestling into rolling hills – but German style; taller, narrower, ornate ironwork, a steep-pitched, tiled roof, handsome gables. In the roof, triangular dormer windows, angling down rather than out.

And a golden pretzel, hanging over the window of the shop as the street wound up and round. Nope, this wasn’t Nantwich. Or Bunbury. And the Pretzel certainly wasn’t hanging outside Chatwins.

It was the dream-real smell of wood smoke that gave it away. Neat awnings, drawn out from the building fronts; bench tables; baskets of bread and glasses of dark beer. Cold, dark beer, with a caramel-white head, an inch deep, thick and tinged with wisps of smokey brown, like veins of chocolate shards running through stracciatella. Griddle pans, like square paella dishes, sizzling hot with thin sausages, onions, skinnily-sliced, tangled and interwoven like sauerkraut, caramel brown and honeyed, and the sweet-sharp smell of tangy, mild mustard, peppered with mustard seeds and caraway.

Bamberg, maybe, but a Lego-village version of it, built from half-formed highlights of days past, imagined futures and twisted memories. Groups of laughing people sitting shudderingly close to one another; the melodic runs of chords and finger-clacks of an accordion, played by a Moor wearing a hat full of pheasant feathers.

And always the beer. The dark, lagered-beer, brown like a chestnut, shiny and deep, but not opaque, rather, a refracted ruby lens-light, a malt-hopped prism, separating the components before melding them together in that delicious, longed-for, first sip.

*No, me neither.