Syracuse New Times, April 12, 1973; Buffalo New Times, March 31, 1974

This piece is 50 years old, but it does give a picture of what the beer scene was like in the year it was written.

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Warning: Those readers who are unable to safely run the gauntlet of strong emotion from outrage to ecstasy, for reasons medical or religious, should read no farther. The volatile subject matter and mind-boggling revelations contained herein may well change the lives of those strong enough to go on, or usher into the Hereafter those curious Milquetoasts who have cast discretion to the winds in a last dash to self-destruction.

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Remember when a quart of Buffalo-brewed lager sold for six cents? Yes, something like that would be impossible to forget, even if it happened 140 years ago. Remember the first brewery in the Queen City? Some say it was started by Rudolph Baer, a Swiss settler, in 1826, while others credit Jacob Roos with the premier effort.

 By 1840 there were five breweries in town and in the following years Buffalonians observed the parade of progress fortified and enlightened by the fermented achievements of Magnus Beck, Gerhard Lang, the Lion Brewery, the Phoenix Brewery, the Clinton Star, the Lake View and dozens of others. In 1879, Buffalo had 31 breweries and now if you reach for a bottle of Iroquois, you’re leaning all the way over to Cleveland.

Buffalo brewing has gone the way of the Pierce-Arrow. After several wars, Prohibition and mass production, local beer drinkers have nothing to really call their own. And beer itself, it’s got to contend with taxes, pollution… but let’s start at the beginning.

***

Think of it. You are beer. (Try to get into this.) It’s the beginning of time. You haven’t seen the light of day yet. You’re waiting to happen. Over there, at the mouth of the cave, someone has just grown the first barley. They are reaping it. If it’s a man, he’s bringing the grain to his wife. What’s she going to do with it?

She puts off the decision. Leaves the grain in a stone bowl outside. It rains. The barley gets wet and starts to germinate. In the heat of the following days, the germination stops. The barley toasts in the sun. Then, more rain. The bowl fills up. A little yeast blows in on the morning breeze. As the days pass (cue the French horns and violins), you ferment. You are beer.

For ages, women brew you for family consumption. But you don’t remain in the kitchen everywhere. In Mesopotamia and Egypt, you are cared for by the high priests. You are a figure of respect, of godhead, of magic.

But it isn’t until the 19th century that you get yourself together. Emil Christian Hansen, working at the Carlsberg Breweries with the recent findings of Louis Pasteur, perfects the pure cultivation of yeast. You now taste the same every time. Your flavor can be controlled, developed. You don’t get milky or sour anymore.

But 100 years later, what are you hearing? Is it the pleasant chatter of the kitchen, the incantations of the temple? With rare exceptions, neither. You are hearing “profits for the second quarter of 1972… cost per unit rose by… negotiations with Local #234…” ad nauseum.

And if you are American beer, it’s worse. You are the skinny kid on the playground. Even if you hit the ball, it knocks the bat out of your hands. And the treatment you get in the media is a crime. How many times have you seen the fat guy in front of the TV with a beer in his paw? The Hell’s Angel washing down an atomic taco with a can of suds? The barfing freshmen? Beer, you have fallen on dark days.

***

You are you again, and beer is beer again.

***

What beer tries to tell us is that it’s great stuff. Two things keep us from hearing the news: 1) There is no adequate cultural framework within which to drink beer now. 2) The beer available here is unrepresentative of beer as a whole.

These two factors reinforce one another and it’s difficult to discuss them separately. It is impossible to build an adequate culture around something as limited as American beer, and it’s nearly impossible to sell better and more varied beers in a culture built around the present product.

By cultural framework, I mean all the images that come to mind when we hear the word “beer,” our approach to beer and the traditions of the brewing industry and the beer-drinker. A composite image of the typical beer-drinker is that of a young to middle-aged male of low to middle socio-economic status surrounded by loud companions watching an athletic event drinking more of a light golden frothy cold fluid that anyone else from a throwaway can resting on a slight paunch which occasionally reverberates with thunderous burps as more and more of the said inexpensive but inebriating fluid is sluiced into a distended digestive complex.

This scene, however common and enjoyable, is one-dimensional and unfair to beer. Other people enjoy other kinds of beer in different settings in different ways. What is vital is that when we hear the word “beer” we don’t flash to the standard image, rather we think of beer as an entity with many variations and possibilities.

Just as wine has its Château Lafite Rothschild, beer has its aged stouts and barleywines. And just as wine has its “serve ice cold,” beer has its “69 cents a six.” We are hindered from this kind of understanding by cultural habit and the uniformity of the available beers. (By available, I mean not only within reach but also within financial reach as well. Hugh Hefner can probably drink whatever he wants but for those of us looking through the cooler doors, 5 cents an ounce is a painful price to pay for something we want to drink a lot of.)

An important thing to realize is that American beer plays a small role in the Big Picture. No doubt, America makes some of the finest light beers in the world, but as brewers sacrifice quality for volume and those who don’t cannot survive, we might lose even that distinction.

American light lager runs the gamut of strength, flavor and body from A to B. On hot summer afternoons, it is ideal; on balmy summer evenings, it is a delight. But on a cold winter’s night, a can of Coors is woefully inadequate, a whey-faced lad where a grizzly of a brew is needed. As for complementing food, American beer is brewed to set off the potato chip, but nothing heartier. If you seek to enhance a pretzel, a good cheddar or a roast, it’s best to look to other shores for your beer. Imagine a flavor spectrum with a hundred flavor slots. American beer occupies perhaps four. What’s left is what beer is all about. Your tongue has been held prisoner in America, but there’s a way to break out.

Other tastes. A good place to start is Canada. Canadians make a far superior beer to almost anything we brew and the border is nearby. Several imported Canadian beers are brewed to an American taste and while retaining the characteristic flavor, they may be lighter and weaker than the brews made for home consumption. But it does make a nice transition from a light American beer to a light Canadian beer.

The real treat is to zip over the border for a recreational visit. While you’re there, it is perfectly legal for anyone of 21 years of age or more to purchase Canadian beer at the Brewers’ Retail (the Canadian equivalent of a State Store, etc.). Canadian beer is price-controlled so most brands are the same price. Competition is based on quality. The last time I went up, the price of a case was $5.20, which included a deposit on the returnable bottles. On the way back, declare the beer on the American side. (If you don’t and they catch you smuggling it’s a $6 fine per case and they keep the beer.) Pay about 75 cents to the IRS and Customs for each case. Your total investment is now $6 a case for the best beer brewed in North America and that’s only $1.50 a six-pack.

A few Canadian beers are more expensive. John Labatt’s Stock Ale goes for $3.25 a half-case and it’s worth every maple-leaf penny. It’s the best ale, from anywhere, I’ve ever had: beautiful clarity and color, a creamy head and a flavor that every other ale in North America can envy. It’s not overpowering or overly smooth – it’s perfect.

Other Canadian beers I recommend are Labatt’s Velvet Cream Porter – a classic richly smooth dark beer; Formosa Springs Tonic Stout, from a brewery in Barrie, Ontario; Labatt’s Gold Keg – a very British beer, amber and sharp; Carling’s Cinci – a very refreshing light beer; and Molson’s Cream Porter and Stock Ale, two exceptional beers from the great number made by Molson’s.

Once you’ve exhausted the Canadian supply, there are many foreign beers imported into the U.S.A. Most are expensive, but they all offer something different in taste and they’re worth at least one try. I’m partial to Swan Lager, from Australia; Carlsberg and Elephant Malt Liquor from Denmark; Guiness Extra Stout from Ireland; and, of course, the original pilsner from Pilsen, Czechoslovakia, Pilsner Urquell.

I am fond of some American standouts among the standard flavors, i.e., Coors, Hamm’s, Olympia and Stroh’s, but that would just be a quick way to start an argument and undermine my credibility.

The strongest, most individual ale in the U.S.A. used to be Ballentine India Pale Ale, but since the sale of Ballentine to Falstaff, it may no longer be true. That leaves us with Washington-brewed Ranier Ale, lovingly known as “The Green Death,” a really gripping ale that’s right up there with the best ales in the world. Share your next-of-kin with someone nearby before drinking a lot of this; it isn’t brewed for heroics; it’s brewed for heroes.

Every winter, a beer is brewed for consumption in the spring. It’s good old Bock Beer. The barley malt is toasted longer to give the beer its darker color and more pronounced flavor. Stroh’s makes the best bock I’ve had although my experience with bock is limited. Schmidt’s made a good bock, but I haven’t seen it since 1967. Pabst Bock has appeared for several years but I haven’t seen it so far this year. Genesee Bock is the local contribution and it’s the best thing they make, but it’s not a ribbon winner. I haven’t seen Utica Club’s Bock in a few years; the label was a joy.

I once had a German bock, Elbschloss Ratsherrn Bock Beer. It had a very assertive flavor and caused me, momentarily, to forget my name. It was very good.

***

When you have found a beer worthy of the attention, seek out a comfortable room with a good clean window and an overstuffed chair next to a small table. Soft music would be okay, but I think the sound of surf or crickets would be best. Soothing sounds, nothing to distract from your other senses.

Your beer should be chilled, 40 to 50 degrees Fahrenheit, at the warmer end for British beers, and you need a clear, clean glass. A little soap film will destroy the head and flavor the beer, so be sure the glass has been rinsed with hot water and left to dry. Just before use, rinse the glass with cold water. This chills the glass and rinses out any stray kitchen odors or dust that might have crept in.

Bring the beer, an opener and the glass over to the chair. Have a seat, relax. Read the label. Enjoy the graphic arts. If you’ve spent more than 16 cents for your beer, the label should be interesting. Foreign beers give you an exotic setting to muse upon. Read the bottle cap. Pry it off. If you don’t live next door to a corral or a Valvoline plant, you should be able to smell that first tangy waft of hops. Watch the smoky patterns the carbon dioxide makes in the neck of the bottle.

Now, pour the beer into the glass. It’s wrong to ease it out of the bottle, but don’t dump it like you’re trying to hurt someone at the bottom of the glass. Give the beer a good, healthy, smooth ride into the glass. You want a good creamy head at least ¾” to 1” deep. You want a good head for four reasons:

One, it’s a thing of beauty. Two, it releases the aroma and flavor of the beer. Three, the carbonation in the head, if unreleased initially will form a head of its own in your stomach, creating the familiar “blimp” effect, augmented by thunderous belching and a “full” feeling or, in more serious transgressions, cramps, shooting pains, tearing eyes and a call for a priest.

Four, it’s a good test of the quality of the beer. A good beer head is deep, retains its height, has fine (as in small) bubbles. As the head subsides, or as you undermine its base, it should leave a series of rings or “webbing” on the side of the glass. What this shows is that the brewer has done well and used quality ingredients. But there is a catch. (You might have guessed.) A rich, long-lasting head can be created through the wonders of chemistry, such as the addition of cobalt sulfate which turned several people blue one summer. (It is no longer used as a head stabilizer.)

Look at the beer. Contrast the jewel-like clarity of the beer with the rich, creamy, textured head. Take in that aroma. Let the light shine through the glass. Terrific. Watch those little bubbles start at the bottom and ascend to the surface. Look at the underside of the head. (You’d be surprised how many beer drinkers haven’t seen this show.)

Now bring the glass down and take a good mouthful. Let the foam crest over your upper lip. Close your eyes and concentrate on the feel and taste of the beer. The shape it assumes as it moves from your lips into your mouth and down your throat. The flavor of the beer as it hits your tongue, when your mouth is full, when you exhale and inhale as it clears your windpipe – all different tastes, all important.

And the aftertaste, the small taste at the back of your throat. (Buck Beasom once said that the aftertaste was the most important taste of all – if it tasted like carrots, it was a bad beer; if it tasted like wheat, it was a winner. A subjective system, but it worked for him.)

A beer that has a good, distinctive character at every level, that’s a good beer. But don’t hurry through your beer with a chart; just get to know it.

So there you have it. A beverage of humble beginnings, noble history and magical properties. And it’s waiting for you. Give it a good home.