Category Archives: Germany

Bavarian Beer on Scilly

Augustiner Edelstoff beer at the Kaffeehaus, St Mary's.

We were surprised to read that in the middle of St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly, there is a Bavarian cafe, The Kaffeehaus. Of course, as fully-signed-up Germanophiles, we had to see this for ourselves. It was easy enough to find, despite its remote location, thanks to the blue and white chequered flag flying high above the premises, visible from half a mile away.

The homemade pretzels were expensive, small (not as small as those in the picture…) and no better than the ones we bake ourselves, but that was more than made up for by the excellent and authentic-tasting strudel.

And there was beer — Carlsberg, yes, but also Augustiner Edelstoff. We’ve had it before but it was interesting to taste it again after several days of drinking only very traditional British ales and the occasional local lager. It seemed rather bold, pleasingly light-bodied for its strength (5.6%), with a fresh hop flavour and aroma that brought to mind chewing on a stalk of new green grass. There was certainly no syrupy corniness and it could hardly have been paler in colour. A German equivalent of the British ‘pale and hoppy’?

For a brief moment, we did manage to kid ourselves that we were in a village somewhere near Munich, especially when a Swiss couple sat down next to us and began to chat in German. They, on the other hand, were bewildered: where were the pasties? The cream teas? The crab sandwiches? The Ales of Scilly? Had they travelled by train and boat and plane, and then yomped for an hour, for this?

We think we visited every pub on Scilly during our stay. We’ll let you know our favourites tomorrow.

Beer halls and duelling in Heidelberg

Beer hall: German student society c.1897.

Mark Twain on drinking and duelling clubs at Heidelberg University in A Tramp Abroad (1880).

Nine-tenths of the Heidelberg students wore no badge or uniform; the other tenth wore caps of various colors, and belonged to social organizations called ‘corps’. There were five corps, each with a color of its own; there were white caps, blue caps, and red, yellow, and green ones. The famous duel-fighting is confined to the ‘corps’ boys. The ‘Kneip’ seems to be a specialty of theirs, too. Kneips are held, now and then, to celebrate great occasions, like the election of a beer king, for instance. The solemnity is simple; the five corps assemble at night, and at a signal they all fall loading themselves with beer, out of pint-mugs, as fast as possible, and each man keeps his own count — usually by laying aside a lucifer match for each mug he empties.

The election is soon decided. When the candidates can hold no more, a count is instituted and the one who has drank the greatest number of pints is proclaimed king. I was told that the last beer king elected by the corps — or by his own capabilities — emptied his mug seventy-five times. No stomach could hold all that quantity at one time, of course — but there are ways of frequently creating a vacuum, which those who have been much at sea will understand.

[...]

There seems to be no chilly distance existing between the German students and the professor; but, on the contrary, a companionable intercourse, the opposite of chilliness and reserve. When the professor enters a beer-hall in the evening where students are gathered together, these rise up and take off their caps, and invite the old gentleman to sit with them and partake. He accepts, and the pleasant talk and the beer flow for an hour or two, and by and by the professor, properly charged and comfortable, gives a cordial good night, while the students stand bowing and uncovered; and then he moves on his happy way homeward with all his vast cargo of learning afloat in his hold. Nobody finds fault or feels outraged; no harm has been done.

Text adapted from Project Gutenberg etext edition; illustration from ‘Duelling in German Universities’, by ‘An English Student’, The Strand Magazine, Vol 13, 1897, p.149.

The Meaning of Ale

Sign for zum Uerige, Duesseldorf, Germany.

In 1977, beer writer Michael Jackson, choosing his words carefully, said this in his World Guide to Beer:

Although its palate is emphatically German, Altbier is not dissimilar in style from the British and North American ales, and it even more clearly resembles Belgian top-fermented beers like the Antwerp De Koninck brew.

Not dissimilar, resembles… what he doesn’t say is that Alt or Belgian top-fermented beers are ales — only that some top-fermentated beers share certain characteristics. He doesn’t use the word ‘ale’ at all when discussing Kölsch in the same book. It’s a way of helping people who’ve never been to Düsseldorf or tasted Alt to understand what to expect, and also perhaps to make a point about the influence of yeast.

A year later, however, Michael Dunn, in his Penguin Guide to Real Draught Beer, which lists Jackson’s book in its very short bibliography, presented this over-simplification of the same idea:

Even though we do not have real lager in Britain, excellent real draught beer is obtainable on the continent — there are, for example, the alt beers of Düsseldorf, the Belgian trappiste beers, and kölsch [sic] beers from Cologne — but these are top-fermented ales and not lagers.

Dunn, elected to CAMRA’s national executive in 1976, had an axe to grind: if the best beer is ale, in the sense applied by CAMRA after 1971, then foreign beers which could be described as such were more easily accepted into the fold.

But how many others at this time misread and/or misrepresented Jackson in the same way? Are people cribbing from him, but lacking his subtlety, to blame for the irritating tendency to call anything top-fermented, from whatever culture, ‘ale’? As German beer blogger Felix vom Endt put it in a recent discussion on Twitter: ‘Altbier = Altbier and Kölsch = Kölsch .. You don’t translate it’.

European Beer, 1634

Oscar A. Mendelsohn’s Drinking With Pepys (1963) is a compendium of everything Pepys wrote about alcoholic drinks, including beer and ale. As a bonus feature, Mendelsohn also includes a long letter by a contemporary of Pepys, James Howell, to Lord Cliff. Here are our favourite bits.

In this Island the old drink was Ale, noble Ale, than which, as I heard a great Forreign Doctor affirm, that there is no Liquor that more encreaseth the radical Moysture, and preserves the natural Heat, which are the two Pillars that support the Life of Man, but since Beer hath hop’d in amongst us, Ale is thought to be much adulterated, and nothing so good as Sir John Old-Castle, and Smugg the Smith was us’d to drink…

In the Seventeen Provinces hard by, and all by low Germany, Beer is the common natural Drink, and nothing else, so it is in Westfalia, and all the lower Circuit of Saxony, in Denmark, Swethland and Norway; The Prusse has a Beer as yellow as Gold made of wheat, and it inebriates as soon as Sack. In some parts of Germany they use to spice their Beer, which will keep many years; so that at some Weddings there will be a But of Beer drunk out, as old as the Bride.

His source is a 1624 edition of The Familar Letters of James Howells, e-texts of which are available online, though we’re struggling to find this particular letter.

Mock Imports

Wild River beer promotional material from Fuller's.

Importing beer is expensive and inconvenient, and, from the perspective of British breweries, every bottle of Belgian, German or American beer represents a lost opportunity.

Recently, we’ve seen Shepherd Neame launch a licensed, UK-brewed version of Sam Adams Boston Lager; Fuller’s launch a US-style IPA, Wild River, complete with Americana branding; and smaller (for now) breweries are launching saisons, dubbels, tripels, pilsners, weizens, wits and imperial double black bacon IPAs left, right and centre.

Generally speaking, we’d really rather drink a fresher, British-brewed imitation of a foreign beer than a stale, authentic, imported one.

However… the first report we’ve read, from Rabid Bar Fly, suggests that, the Shepherd Neame brewed Sam Adams Lager is fine, but an entirely different beer than the original. We haven’t seen the ‘point-of-sale’ material but our concern remains that most punters will think they’re drinking an imported beer and pay more for the privilege. If it doesn’t have BREWED IN THE UK in big letters, it’s a swizz.

Fuller’s approach is interesting. We’re taking Wild River’s branding as an attempt to convey a sense of the inspiration behind the beer and to give the consumer an idea of what to expect in their glass, rather than an attempt to con anyone: the branding merely evokes America and bears a prominent Fuller’s logo.

The smaller breweries are generally proud of where they’re based and there is little room for confusion in the packaging, as far as we can see. The problem here is that, sometimes, regrettably, the beer is half as good and yet twice as expensive as the real thing.

These wrinkles will iron out. A couple of years back, Meantime’s own lagers were put to shame by the imported beers from Schoenram on sale alongside them at the Greenwich Union; but, on our last visit, Meantime’s beers had improved immeasurably and, yes, were better and cheaper than their imported cousins.

Memorable Beers #8: World Cup 2006

Kauzen beer glass with owl logo.

By Boak.

I was lucky enough to spend two weeks at the World Cup in Germany in 2006 with various friends. We had tickets for five games but also made a point of watching every other match we could in pubs, restaurants and beer gardens.  As you might expect, there were many memorable beer occasions, but the one that sticks with me most is spending a few days in Rothenburg ob der Tauber between matches.  Even in those pre-blogging days, I was sufficiently interested in beer to want to try as many as possible, whereas my main travelling companion was a fan of “normal lager, like normal people drink”.

We camped out in the back room of a café that specialised in Flammkuchen to watch all three of the day’s matches, while the staff brought us pint after pint of Ochsenfurter Kauzenbrau, which I found remarkably delicious.  Unfortunately, as my friend did the ordering, I have no idea which one of their range it was (“I just ordered normal beer”). I drank at least six pints, way more than usual — it was just impossible to stop.  Serious nectar-of-the-Gods territory, with a deep malt flavour that I sometimes think I can still taste. They were three very memorable matches, too, particularly the Czech Republic vs USA, made even more enjoyable by the banter with three Americans on the table in front of us.

The disappointing postscript to this is that, on a subsequent trip to Franconia, I dragged Bailey round every pub we could in and around Rothenburg until we found the legendary brew that I’d been banging on about. It turned out to be…OK.  Possibly my biggest ever beer let down, and more evidence, perhaps, of “the time, the place”.

Other beery highlights from the world cup include watching a Germany match in the Englischer Garten in Munich, where the efficient German machine managed to serve more than 3000 litres during half time.

Where is the British Bamberg?

The other day, we asked if there was a beer equivalent of Hay-on-Wye and, pondering the responses, we began to wonder if our question was the right one.

Steve Lamond suggested York as a candidate. One of the things we love about York is that, unlike most British towns and cities, it has a bona fide walled Altstadt, within which, crucially, most of its good beer is easy to find on foot, with no need for trams, buses or trains, or worrying walks through industrial estates. So, yes, York could be a British Bamberg, if not a Hay-on-Wye.

Of course, another thing that defines Bamberg is just how dominated the landscape is by brewing: Weyermann’s maltings loom on the skyline and the air is filled with the smell of brewing. We were reminded of this on arriving in St Austell on Thursday, getting off the train to be struck by an almost overpowering smell of stewed hops and sweet wort on the wind. The brewery building sits on a hill overlooking the town taking a place which, in other towns, would be occupied by a Norman castle.

It might only have one brewery, and scarcely any pubs of note, but it is a beer town through and through.

The St Austell visitor centre bar is the best place in Cornwall to get a wide range of their beers in good condition (but still no Black Prince mild). We enjoyed Raspberry Porter, brewed by Roger Ryman on his small experimental kit, and reminiscent of the fruit beers from Saltaire.

Memorable Beers #5: Hasselbacher Pils

We’d underestimated both the temperature and the distance when we set out to walk the banks of the Ilz from Passau in the summer of 2012 2010. After several hours, we reached our destination, only to find the beer garden closed

We nearly gave up but, consulting our maps, decided to push on.

We got redder in the face, sweatier and wobblier on our legs, until we were almost delirious. Eventually, even the sheltering trees disappeared and we found ourselves on a plain in the midday sun. The only thing that kept us going were worn-looking signs every few hundred metres: “Biergarten.”

What we found at the end of the trail was a village with chickens in the road and no sign of life. The signs directed us to what looked like the back of a residential property where there were two patio tables under the washing line. Sure enough, though, an old lady in a pinny appeared and we gasped our order: “Zwei Pils, bitte!”

Can you imagine how good the beer in the picture above tasted?

You might start to notice a theme emerging here: that the most memorable beers are often not, in themselves, especially distinguished. Time and place and all that…

Memorable Beers #2: Weisse in Berlin

Berliner Weisse

In 2002, or thereabouts, we flew to Berlin from London City Airport in a shaky, propellor-driven plane which left us needing a drink at the other end.

We’d heard that beer was quite the thing in Germany (who knew?) and our Lonely Planet guidebook told us that Berliner Weisse was the local speciality. We spent ages looking for somewhere advertising its availability and eventually ended up in a kosher-style restaurant near the New Synagogue. A few words of German and dopey smiles got us two chalices of bright green, cloudy liquid which looked as if it ought to be bubbling and smoking in a Visarian laboratory.

We didn’t much enjoy the beer, but it was certainly a change from the Foster’s and John Smith’s Extra Smooth we were used to drinking at home. We didn’t realise it then, but we’d taken an early step towards becoming beer geeks.

German vs. British Beer Gardens

German beer garden, Wuerzburg.

The German Beer Garden
Tall trees sway and rustle in the breeze; discs of sunlight dance across the well-manicured gravel floor; and, on the air, a hum of quiet conversation. The view through the surrounding woodland is of summer haze in a green-sided valley. There is a powerful smell of roasting pork and wood smoke from an open grill. On the table, newly delivered stone mugs brim with cool, fresh beer. Birds are singing.

The British Beer Garden
Wasps buzz around the hatchback-sized industrial waste bin, over by the wooden fence with its dropped slats. The concrete paving slabs under foot are littered with cigarette ends, knotted crisp packets and squashed chips. The remains of steak and ale pie sit on the next table over, as they have done for the last two hours. A tattered white Bacardi-branded parasol is threatening to break from its moorings in a gathering gale. The ashtray on your table overflows.