If people are choosing to drink wine, cider, pear cider, spirits, fizzy pop or buttermilk, well, good for them; but we also believe that to know beer is to love it. In other words, lots of people who don’t think they like beer just haven’t tried a really good one.
People who find beer “too bitter” or bad tasting aren’t going to be won over by nasty beer. They already think it’s nasty and those products just confirm their prejudices. They might, at a push, be lured into drinking the odd bland beer, but that’s not going to convert them anymore than wallpaper turns people on to art.
What might convert people is really amazing, impressive, exciting beer. Colourful beer — perhaps literally so. Eyecatching beer with a story and sexy label. But, most of all, beer that presses the pleasure buttons because it tastes so damn good. Irresistibly so. This is component missing in so many brand extensions and big beer launches.
Consider this: three of our wine-drinking friends have independently said more-or-less the same thing to us in the last year and a half: that after tasting US IPAs on holiday they are interested in trying more beer. Doesn’t this opens up a whole different interpretation of the idea of gateway beers — not “easy drinkers” for beginners but a kind of shock therapy?
And maybe, if people don’t like beer any more, because they think other things taste nicer, then beer’s time as a mass product is over. That’s not the end of the world, though it is a sad thought.
In the nearly five years we’ve been blogging, we’ve seen big brewers launch all kinds of spin-offs, usually with TV advertising and much public-relations brouhaha. Here are a few of our favourites and updates on what became of them.
Stella Artois Black (2010-present)
The big problem with this one is that it isn’t bloody black. Budvar Dark (still with us…) is dark; Guinness Red (see below) was red (kinda); Stella Black was… golden, just like normal Stella. In addition, it suffered the fate of most lager brand extensions: being sold on an aesthetic and an ‘experience’ which the real world British pub couldn’t or wouldn’t deliver, as Pete Brown memorably recorded here. Still with us, technically, although we don’t recall seeing it in the wild.
Artois Bock (2005-2008) and Eiken Artois (2008)
Two attempts to create a strong variant of Stella Artois. Why didn’t these take off? Because they were too posh and expensive for Special Brew drinkers and too tainted by the wife-beater brand for the la-di-dah crowd. Which imaginary niche were they aiming at? The alky wanting to treat himself on a special occasion?
Peeterman Artois (2007-2008)
See Artois Black, above: fancy glass, fancy serving ritual and cod-French marketing undermined by the actual experience of drinking it in pubs. Stella 4% (basically the same product) seems to be doing OK, though. Perhaps it was just the introduction of this dubious sounding Peeterman feller that did for it? Given that everyone calls it “Stella”, it seems odd to try to extend the “Artois” bit of the brand.
Kronenbourg Blanc (2006-?)
Not such a bad idea — launch a beer to steal a bit of Hoegaarden’s market using an established brand name — but something about the execution didn’t work. For a start, no-one defines themselves as a Kronenbourg drinker — it’s just what Stella drinkers go for when pushed, or if they’re actually in France — so the ‘familiar brand’ isn’t worth much. Secondly, it just didn’t taste enough like Hoegaarden, being sweeter and too overtly citrusy. Why didn’t they just outright clone HG? Someone (a ‘normal’) brought a four pack of this to a party at our house, drank one, pulled a face, and left it. We eventually threw out the remaining bottles last year.
Foster’s Twist (2006-2009?)
Foster’s is sold on the basis of its Australianness, which supposedly means it’s relaxed, laid-back, informal, a bit cheeky, and generally conforms to national stereotypes. Corona, meanwhile, is sold as quintissentially Mexican — relaxed, laid-back, informal, good at dancing, slightly skunked, and with a bit of lime sticking out of it. Foster’s, wanting a piece of that market, made an advert (see above) which showed Australians were also good at dancing, got some clear bottles, and put some ‘citrus hops’ in the beer. Lime lovers, nonplussed by the mention of hops and the absence of actual fruit peel, kept drinking Corona; Foster’s lovers kept drinking Foster’s… as you were, nothing to see here.
Guinness Red (2007)
For years, you hammer home this message: Guinness=black, Guinness=black, Guinness=black… then suddenly, you launch a red version. Confusing and contrary, but at least it wasn’t Guinness Blanc. (Hey, that’s not a bad idea…) It wasn’t really red, either — just a bit lighter in colour. Sort of brown, really, but they couldn’t call it that. Once again, it did nothing to tempt new customers, and gave those who already drank Guinness no reason to switch. Did not get beyond ‘test marketing’ in the UK.
Carling C2 (2006-?)
This created a bit of a buzz. When everyone else was going for a 4% variant (Becks Vier being the most successful, as far as we can tell), Carling upped the ante (or downed it?) by introducing a 2% beer. The only time we saw anyone try to order one, he was mocked and derided until he agreed to have a normal Carling. If only real blokes were as tolerant as those square-jawed, skinny, nicely tailored lads they had in the adverts.
We haven’t mentioned every Ice, Cold, Super Cold, Extra Cold and Extra Icy. It’s too early to know what will become of Animée but, suffice to say, we find it’s very existence baffling. Apparently, Foster’s Lukewarm is on the way next year, along with Stella Green. (It’s yellow.)
The only reason I started drinking was because of peer pressure from my mate Nick. I stayed at university for an extra year to do a masters and he had another year of his engineering degree to go and. Early on, the full horror dawned on him: “I can’t believe I’m stuck in this miserable city with only a teetotaller for company.”
I started drinking to keep him company and soon learned that Nick had a set of rules about pubs and beer:
1. Pubs should be dark brown up to waist height and nicotine brown above.
2. Red Stripe is the go-to beer for most situations, but especially nightclubs and picnics.
3. Beck’s tastes of blood.
4. Stella gives you headaches because it is “dirty”.
5. No-one likes Guinness, but you have to drink it on Sunday lunchtime — “It’s a rule.”
Having only been drinking for about two months, I remember vividly being bullied into getting a pint of Guinness and taking two hours to drink it. It only got worse as, sitting next to a roaring fire, it got warmer and warmer. I’d never tasted anything so bitter or so vile.
I was not reassured by Nick’s Sixth Law:
6. Guinness makes you shit treacle.
These days, of course, Nick is himself teetotal, and I’ve got way more rules about beer and pubs than he ever did.
In 1965, the landlord and landlady of the Valiant Soldier in Buckfastleigh, Devon, shut the doors and retired to the flat above the pub. They left ashtrays full and unfinished pints on the bar, and never went back. Thirty years later, when the landlady died, the pub was rediscovered — a perfect, dusty time capsule of post-war drinking culture.
We visited on Friday afternoon. It was raining — thundering, in fact — and we had the place to ourselves. Walking across the bare, creaking flooboards of the bar with the archive sounds of the Light Programme drifting in from another room, we felt the hairs on our necks stand up. It was as if, at any moment, a long dead landlord was going to appear behind the bar and take our order.
The walls are covered with vintage advertisements for the Exeter City Brewery. The board over the fire place listed prices for bitter, best bitter, BB, HB, PA, XXX, mild, pale, brown and imperial ales. Two beers — Tun and Watney’s Red Barrel — were advertised as coming from a ‘container’. On the tables, half-finished games of dominoes and cards, cigarette packets and ticket stubs.
That was the bar, of course; the lounge, with its flowery wallpaper and cushioned chairs, was altogether more genteel. The ladies seemed to have stepped outside, just for a moment…
In fact, the pub isn’t quite as it was found in 1996: it was emptied, cleaned and put back together, and there are some anachronisms where things found in the attic or cupboards were too good not to have on display.
Sadly, thanks to a vintage restrictive covenant imposed by Whitbread, no booze can be served on the premises. It would have been lovely to enjoy a couple of pints of mild in that bar.
Not longer after we’d decided to ditch Foster’s in favour of real ale, we had our minds blown for a second time when we rediscovered lager at a friend’s birthday party at the Greenwich Union, the brewery tap for Meantime.
We were surprised to realise that, within that catch-all category, there were sub-types and variations we’d never dreamed of: at that time, the Union was selling Kölsch, ‘Golden’ and Pils. All three looked similar, but tasted different. Not wanting to look too geeky, we whispered to each other — “This one’s more… it’s got more… it tastes…” — but didn’t really have the vocabulary to express what we were experiencing.
We liked Golden Lager the best and we came back later that month to drink it again. They no longer make it but, even now, when we taste a certain kind of “double malt” European beer, like Estrella Voll Damm, GL is the reference point we return to.
The important lesson for us, we suppose, was that Real Ale Good/Lager Bad is a stupid over-simplification.
It’s 2002 and I’m in a central London chain pub celebrating my birthday with a mixture of work colleagues and friends from the real world. At this time, you’ll normally catch me drinking Foster’s or bloody marys but it’s my round (hey, thanks, so-called friends!) and one of my colleagues asks for a Deuchars IPA. I am so intrigued by the name that I order one as well.
It’s quite nice – every bit as refreshing as the lager but with some interesting flavours that I find I want more of.
Over the course of the next year, I drink more, and start looking out for it in other pubs. My conversion to real ale has begun.
You know, some people have a real knack for capturing what it is that makes pubs great.
That thought occured to us when we read this marvellous post by one of our favourite bloggers, Ten Inch Wheeler:
Now you’re in the Harp. First friday after payday. Five deep at the bar, shouting your conversation over your shoulder as you order. Two pints of Brewers Gold. First gulp. The best part of any nights beer. Fresh and hoppy. What happened to your hand? Fell off the roof. Lucky. Could have been brown bread.
A long afternoon in the Sheffield Tap. Tickers pass through, holidaymakers hit the Bernard before the Manchester Airport train, football fans with their team shirts threatening to poke out of tightly-buttoned jackets. Rowdy student rendevous. A couple’s last drinks dallied over, a whispered goodbye, a faint tear.
During World War II, my grandfather was taken prisoner at Dunkirk, and spent most of the next few years at Stalag VIIIb in what is now Lambinowice in Poland, but was then called Lamsdorf.
I decided to visit the site of the camp and badgered Boak into using her Polish to make arrangements. As a result, I was greeted on site by an English speaking student from the University of Opole, who showed us what little remained of the camp and escorted us around an exhibition building.
There were three camps, she explained, and the “Britische Lager” was by far the most civilised. The Russian camp was hellish; the Polish one not much better; but the British soldiers benefited from lip-service to the Geneva Convention.
She pointed to a photograph: “They even had one bottle of beer a week from packages sent by the Red Cross.” There it was, the familiar shape of an English ale bottle, with what I thought was the Big Red Triangle on the label.
It must have tasted great after a day labouring on the construction of an Autobahn; the fact that it was a little piece of home must have made it all the sweeter.
We’re not pasty experts, but it seems to us that there are some interesting parallels with the world of beer, and some lessons to be learned.
1. It’s possible to be particular without being a snob
Most people we’ve spoken to in Cornwall have a favourite pasty maker and often a least favourite, too. They can talk for ages about the pastry, the meat content, the seasoning, and so on. But most pasties cost about the same, and people’s preferences seem to be based entirely on their experience of eating them, rather than branding or cultural prejudice. A working man is just as likely to buy a pasty from an independent trader as a chain and, despite the general sense of connoisseurism, the pasty remains an everyday foodstuff. (Point: snobbery isn’t always the word you’re looking for when it comes to people who are picky about beer.)
2. Doing it yourself makes you a more savvy consumer
People don’t only buy pasties, they also make them. We get given recipes by shopkeepers, butchers, neighbours and people we meet on the bus: everyone has one, they’re all different, and they are all (supposedly) absolutely definitive. When they do buy a pasty, it is with an intimate knowledge of the product. (Point: more people should try brewing, at least once.)
3. The big companies can’t cut it in this environment
Though ubiquitous elsewhere, Greggs does not exist in Cornwall. Its pasties cannot compete with those from the local chains and independent bakers on either price or quality, so they’ve stayed away. (Point: when you can only get beer from Burton and Suffolk in pubs in Exeter, something has gone a bit wrong.)
4. The best pasties do not have the most expensive ingredients
People do try to posh up pasties by, for example, using more beef, from more expensive cuts. It doesn’t work. A small amount of a cheap cut — chuck steak, usually — seasoned well, cooked with care, is perfect. It’s the premium sausage problem again. (Point: this again, maybe — we’d like to hear brewers boasting about what they’ve achieved with basic ingredients.)
We’ve now tried the bottles (thanks, John) and can confirm that:
we’d be much happier drinking these than bottles of standard Greene King IPA
they are not bland
they are not nasty
we enjoyed drinking them.
On the other hand:
clear bottles really don’t do them any favours
nor does the aggressively fizzy carbonation and
there are a number of other beers readily available in the supermarket we’d recommend over them.
IPA Gold is the kind of beer other breweries have been making for years — more full-bodied and less dry than we now expect of pale beers, golden rather than white-blonde. It is actually sort of moreish, once the initial fizz has died down, and the slight skunkiness has drifted away. The hops, though they are Slovenian, seem very English to us, all subdued citrus, cut grass and… well, they say tropical fruit, but we’re reminded more of Robinson’s Orange Barley Water. Nonetheless, distinctly lager-like, which is presumably the idea.
IPA Reserve is a crystal malt bomb, toffee with a touch of fruit, but very… finishable. We abandon quite a few beers, but not this one. Nope, definitely nice enough to finish. (Is the phrase ‘damning with faint praise’?) We suspect this will be a lot better from a cask and, with a good whack more alcohol than standard GK IPA, should be better equipped to survive the journey out of Bury St Edmunds.
It’s hard for us to write about Greene King because we know we harbour prejudices towards them. Did we think the beers were a little skunked because we’ve got a thing about clear bottles? Would we have enjoyed them more if they’d come from a new, small, trendier brewery? On the other hand, are we being generous because they sent us samples, or because we don’t want to be seen to be having a knee-jerk reaction to a big, ambitious brewery? So complicated… need therapy.
We're geeks in general, but especially about beer. Bailey's a bloke, Boak is a lady. We live in Cornwall in the UK and have been blogging about since 2007 and it's taken us all over Britain and Europe in pursuit of the perfect pint.
