Observations – Page 12 – Beer Tinted Spectacles

Blonde Ambition

At the Oktoberfest one year, a whiskery old Bavarian chap leaned over to me, winked and said conspiratorially, “You would make a fine member of the Hitler Youth”. I reckon he’ll be there this year too, intimidating the foreigners. The point is that until my early 20’s I was blond. My wife is blond. My daughters are blond. And let’s be honest, blond is where it’s at. At least, it is in food and drink.

I was mulling on this as I drank a pint of Hawkhead’s Windermere Pale, described on its label as a ‘blonde beer’. And it is; it’s a moreishly moreish 3.6% ABV pale ale, as bright and glowing as a sherbet lemon with a beautiful hop note on the nose, which reminds me of Amarillo but I’m sure can’t be. It’s not alone. Most major ale brewers have a blonde in their range now, be it Wychwood or Fullers … and the smaller players are in on the act too – Slater’s of Stafford with their Top Totty Blonde (the one that caused a Parliamentary kerfuffle recently – but not as seismic as Jimmy Carr fortunately) and then of course, is Castle Rock, which with Harvest Pale, ‘The Finest Blonde Beer’, won Champion Beer of Britain in 2010.

Far from being the realm of the Ginge, Scotland seems a hot bed for blondes, so to speak. Innes & Gunn, Oban & Aran all contributing fine examples, spurred on I’m sure by the great success of Deuchars north & south of the border. So many blondes in fact that it’s almost become a beer style in its own right. Given that there don’t seem to be any rules about what makes a beer ‘blonde’, this alone is interesting.

And if that’s happening here, you can imagine what’s going on over the water: a blonde bombshell (*groan*). There are genuine ‘blonde’ beers – blonde wheats, Belgian-style blonde ales, double hopped blonde IPAs, American Blonde Ales; and then of course there are just the gratuitously named blonde beers, like ‘Pure Naked blonde’ or ‘Big Ass Blond’. Right on.

cornish-blonde — I chose this image after Googling ‘Big Ass Blonde’ took me to pages the kids shouldn’t see.

It’s not just beer though. Wherever brand owners are looking for a short cut to a ‘lighter’ product, the word ‘blonde’ is cropping up. Take Starbuck’s, they have just launched a ‘Blonde’ roast in their stores – in fact it’s a range, including ‘Veranda’, ‘Willow’ and ‘Decaf Willow’. Mind you, given that many people call it Charbucks, they probably needed to. Apparently they are ‘subtle’ ‘refreshing’ ‘lighter bodied’ yet ‘full of flavour’. Sound familiar?

And it makes the job of innovating a lot easier. When I’m developing my next new beer, I shall be raiding the shelves of the hair colourant market. My ‘Plum Power’ Pale Ale and ‘Cayenne Red Mahogany Brown’ Ale are just bound to be winners.

© David Preston, Beer Tinted Spectacles 2012

Apparently, p*ss is alcofrolic.

Steve the Writer placed a short Facebook comment this week about Carling Zest being discounted in Sainsbury’s: ‘2 for £6. *sigh*’. His comment, a gentle poke at the inevitability of succumbing to discounting amongst the big brewers, sparked many responses. Some witty; some full of agreement; others pointed, including one which I shall paraphrase as, “It’s below 3%, therefore it’s just lime flavoured piss”.

I found myself surprisingly agitated by this comment.

First off, as far as I am aware, urea is non-alcoholic. 2%, 3%, 9% ABV …it doesn’t matter – none of these will be piss. Sorry fellas, but CGA, the industry market data analysts, classify ‘Piss’ as a NABLAB*.

Second, and the real rub, is the commonly held belief that low alcohol = low taste. Plenty of ale drinkers actively choose lower ABV (3%s) beers because they get lots of taste whilst retaining reasonable control of their faculties.

Third, it goes without saying that people having a pop at brewers for at least trying something new and different should rile anyone who is pro-beer, even if, let’s be honest, this particular innovation from Carling isn’t exactly pushing the envelope of creativity. We shouldn’t be too sniffy about this – beer drinkers, and consumers in general – are normally pretty risk averse, and I understand that Carling Zest is doing alright.

The real question is, can a beer below 3% really taste that good – not because it is low in alcohol (read: ethanol), but rather because it is potentially too low in the other elements that make beer enjoyable? Body; texture; mouthfeel; richness, ability to form foam and so on. Oh, and the psychological side of things too: can we ever believe that it can taste good if it’s below 3%**

It’s going to be something we can soon judge for ourselves in bars and supermarkets up and down the land. The Government’s move in halving duty on beers of 2.8% ABV and below a short while back is now acting as the pebble that caused the wave of new products. Carling Zest is one of the early entries – using the addition of fruit essences to mask the lack of body in the beer itself, whilst I wouldn’t add it to my beer list of choice, I can appreciate that on certain occasions, for certain moods, it’ll have a place. There are others, Marston’s have launched ‘Pale Ale’, a beer that is ‘Traditionally Brewed For Flavour & Taste’ (Best served chilled). It’s 2.8%. Adnam’s ‘Sole Star’, a ‘Pale Amber Ale’ is brewed to 2.7%; Hop Back ‘Heracles’, a ‘bold new beer….truly strong in flavour’ is 2.8%; J Willie Lees ‘Golden Lite’ (Lager) is…… 2.8%.

Notwithstanding the fact that this list sounds like the runners and riders at Kempton Park, all of these beers (and many more I haven’t listed here) have come to market recently. All, using one form of words or another, make a claim to ‘flavour’. None it seems, compare themselves to ‘piss’, nor list this as an ingredient on the back label. What a ‘relief’.

It’s about time we were more open to the wonderful diversity and lexicon of beer styles and flavours, and disconnect the crass assumptions that more alcohol automatically equals more flavour. In the UK, this category is here to stay. It’s just the job of relearning that’s going to be a big one.

*NABLAB = no alcohol beer / low alcohol beer.

**Not that long ago, I had a meeting with Tim Martin. He had an interesting perspective that there isn’t a real ‘gap’. Drinkers, he reckoned either wanted the full on experience with the alchol hit and were prepared for it (ie walking / getting a bus / lift home) or didn’t want any alcohol at all i.e I won’t trust myself to have 2 pints of a 2.8% beer and still drive.

The Session #65: You’re never alone with a Strand

It’s funny, drinking alone. For many of my friends it just isn’t done; an admittance perhaps that your socially failing. Another example of modern day liberal mindedness gone too far though I fear. My father in law has set off for the pub by himself, every Sunday, most weeks of his adult life, and possibly a few before that. He doesn’t ring around in advance to ask who will be there; no checking of social media sites or text messages and no sending of pigeons either come to think of it. He gets up late; has a shower and heads off. He will sit at the bar and drink a pint of whatever takes his fancy, but is within the bounds of his respectable repetoire. Bass, yes. Old Speckled Hen, yes. Landlord, yes. London Pride, no. Bank’s, no. Greene King IPA, nay, nay and thrice nay. Pedigree, pub dependent.

But of course, the beer is of little relevance in this scene. Sure, it’s part of the pub currency… a pub currency that has linked these visits from the time he started. Memories of beers that have come and gone; of public houses now just houses, and Landlords now lording it under the land behind the Church. And sure, despite what he says, the pint itself matters even less when most of the time he sluices a Gold Label into it anyway.

Because in reality, he never does drink alone. John is someone who is an institution in his village in a way I can never been in mine – he has lived there all his life; his business is there; his family are around him. And his extended village family too – people he has known all his life; or their children, new bucks he gently teases about their effiminate ways… even if he wanted to be alone, he couldn’t be. And while he may complain about this from time to time, he knows as well as everyone else that he wouldn’t have it any other way. If the pub has no other customers, then he chats to Tom, the Landlord; if he knows no one in the bar, he either introduces himself, or much more likely, is introduced. So, even though he is by himself, he is most definitely not alone.

I’m different. Sometimes I need my space. Once or twice a year, I really do need to be alone and just let the cobwebs that have accreted over the passing months get blown away. I’ll go to the hills and walk, or set off on my bike. But this isn’t the everyday me. I have what I deem to be an curious individual trait, which of course, is common to most: from time to time, I like to be alone in others’ company. the hustle and bustle around me; the chatter; the greetings; the people-watching. I observe it directly or in the corner of my eye as if floating like an invisible orb above the scene, but actually being in it is critical. Because I can choose to participate if I want to.

And beer doesn’t always feature here. Before I had children, the occasional Sunday newspaper, bag of crisps and a pint was more occasional than not; today, it’s more likely to be a snatched 30 minutes between the parental taxi duties. Not that I’m complaining. Because the shimmering image of those Sundays, sitting at a big oak table, with a broadsheet spread out in front of me and a pint of …ooh, let’s say, Broadside, my accompaniment, is always there. It may take me until retirement to live that dream frequently again, but I can dine out on the thought of it happily until then.

Heads it is.

The Greyhound in Colton is a quite typical British pub – not stereotyped, just typical. It’s set in a pretty, wooded village in Staffordshire where Cannock Chase begins to lip down into the vale of the Trent. The buildings are a crumbly redbrick and often stone edged; there’s a village school next to the Church which together, seem to be the focal point for the community. It’s even got a ford which must predate the little hump-backed bridge adjacent to it, where you enter the village from the west. Just like Emmerdale only with fewer flatcaps and boinging sheep.

It wasn’t a pub I went to that often; at the time, I lived a couple of villages away and driving was the only way to get there – at least, it was the only way to get back before 4am. But in the Summer it was always worth making the effort as the beer garden actually was a garden – it was out of the front of the pub, with flower beds in abundance, and the building itself was an end terrace. Leaning over the fence and chatting to the neighbours was probably what attracted the regulars.

This was the scene where I witnessed my first episode of ‘Head Rage’. The landlord had had the temerity to serve a customer a pint of Bonks’ with a head. It was possibly as deep as a whole centimetre.

Ranting. A tirade. Spitting feathers. Incandescent with rage. None of these phrases conjure up the ire that this particular gentleman was lobbing at the publican. ‘Short changing me’. ‘Robbing me of my beer’.

Calm down Dear. It’s only a 5mm head.

Robbing me of my beer.

You see, I am of the other persuasion. Where Bristolians zig, with their headless pints of ‘flat’ cask ale, I zag. I like a good head on my beer. More than this, I’m a double zagger, because I like more than normal head, but that’s because my head isn’t normal. The head is part of the beer. It wouldn’t be there without the rest.

I’m anchored to memories of awesome beers with towering stacks of cloud-like foam: in the Augustiner Hof in Munich at 11am eating weiss wurst and wiping the foam from a weissbier from my nose. Or pints of Boddington’s in the Lower Chequer where you wanted a spoon to finish off the last precious drops in the bottom of the glass. And the lacing, furled and curled down the sides of the glass, like Gandalf’s smoke rings puthering out into the air. I often ask for more head on my beer not less, in fact in a Vintage Inn the other week, this request so befuddled the waitress she seemed to turn into Marvin the Paranoid Android featuring a look of “Does. Not. Compute.” across her face the whole time we were there.

But you know, I’d never shout at anyone for not serving enough head on a beer, especially where it’s local tradition. I referenced Bristol earlier as a while back, I had a cracking pint of Bass there. If it had been served during ‘The Terrors’ of Paris during the French Revolution it would have had more head. I’m pretty sure that in Bristol, publicans have been strung up from the Clifton Suspension Bridge for even hinting at the use of a sparkler, but as with any place, find a good bar, you’ll get a good pint. In Devon, you get what I call a natural head. Just that thin layer that seems to suggest that the pint would be out of breath if it had to produce any more with the CO2 available. And Burton beer used to be like that too, but the sparkler has made inroads here in the last 10 years.

But this chap was bright red. He was jabbing at the sign that provocatively proclaimed that the head must be less than 5% of the total with a staccato insistency. And he was shouting. Sweating. Swearing. He was on the edge of losing control.

Good for beer I suppose, that it creates that level of passion, but for me, heads it is.

The Brown Dog returns

For whatever reason, I’ve never really got on with Newcastle Brown Ale… but I wanted to. There was a bit of a boom for the brand in the mid ‘90s, fuelled by a failed attempt by an Australian brewer to buy it. For a while front labels were inverted (I hadn’t noticed until someone pointed it out) and there was a general fuss made across the north east. So I gave it a crack again back then, but no, it just didn’t flick any switches for me… at least not on taste anyway. I’ve always liked the bottle; I’ve always liked the schooner glass and I’ve always bought into those hard-working leg-pulling Geordie values. Taste though – didn’t get it and still don’t.

Yet, like with mild, there’s a bit of a general brown resurgence going on. This was triggered this last weekend gone by a pint of ‘Milkwood’ in a local Vintage Inn. Brewed by Brain’s in commemoration of Dylan Thomas, it’s a 4.3% brown ale. And it is brown, which is a start. Don’t mock – one of my issues with Newkie Brown is that’s it’s not – it’s more of a deep, chestnut red. No it is –buy one and have a look. It’s not unattractive, just not that brown. So anyway, Milkwood – a brown ale. And putting to one side the less than scrupulously clean glassware, it was a decent enough pint. A tightly loose head with a thick creaminess that somehow managed to support some big bubbles, mid brown colour and a clean, malty taste with just a touch of granary crust nuttiness. Nice lacing too which I like to see. And selling well up against Pedigree and Everard’s Tiger.

The interest in the style is good to see, for it could have gone the way of the Dodo. Original styles, dating back 300 years or thereabouts were likely brewed with brown malt that a higher level of roast from direct fired malting. Pale malt revolutionised beer both in the UK and on the continent – but with every revolution there is a loser, and brown ale was one. Whilst brown ale continued to be brewed, they became sourced from pale malt, or crystal malts, that add a more coating sweetness, or were pepped up with a generous pitching in of brewing sugars. Strengths fell over time too, a trend exacerbated by two wars, until eventually only really Mann’s Brown Ale existed as a connection with the original brews from the past (Newcastle Brown Ale was a twentieth century invention, ironically by a brewer from Burton).

I wonder though how much of the recent resurgence in the style comes down to what’s going on across the pond. Newcastle Brown itself has become that old chestnut: 15 year overnight success story – selling about 450,000 barrels of beer to the USA each year. It’s now the number one British brand over there. The once positively ubiquitous Bass has been soundly mismanaged by Anheuser and Newkie Brown has doffed its grateful hat and Dyson’ed up their business. The American craft brewers too have copied and reinvented the style. As you would imagine, many US versions have a more distinct hop character, but are none the worse for it. Sierra Nevada do a very drinkable Autumn Brown Ale, and the wonderfully named Dogfish Head also do an ‘Indian Brown Ale’ which I snuck into my repertoire whilst out in Denver on beer business one night. Something similar happened in Hawaii* too – where I had a brown ale from the Kona Brewing Company (which I only bought at the time because I was thinking of buying a Kona Mountain Bike and wondered if the two were linked. They weren’t – and remember folks, don’t drink and ride.) This one in particular was a smoothly drinkable version, reasonably hopped. It reminded me of the Geordie nick name for Newcastle Brown, ‘Dog’ so called because it bites your legs. Well the Kona Indian Brown Ale certainly did, as it was secretly hiding a mid 5s alcohol.

I’m pleased the style is having a revival, particularly in the UK. Whilst I like the hoppier versions from the US, I find that there are enough IPAs and double IPAs doing the ol’ hop 1-2 full frontal. A beer style that swings the other way as it were, with a lingering sweet character is needed in the lexicon of beers. As well as being moreish, who knows, perhaps a brown ale will make it through to be a recommended beer with this week’s Great Beertish Menu!

*At the border, the normally serious and scary US officers were quite genial. The one who stamped my passport however was a little disbelieving: “You’re here on business. Yeah, right”. Alas, I was.