Joshua M. Bernstein - Brewed Awakening: Behind the Beers and Brewers Leading the Worlds Craft Brewing Revolution

BREWED
AWAKENING

BEHIND THE BEERS AND
BREWERS LEADING THE WORLDS
CRAFT BREWING REVOLUTION

Joshua M. Bernstein

STERLING EPICURE is a trademark of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc. The distinctive Sterling logo
is a registered trademark of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

2011 by Joshua M. Bernstein
Photo Credits are
Book design by Rachel Maloney

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-4027-7864-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4027-9379-0 (ebook)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bernstein, Joshua M.
Brewed awakening : behind the beers and brewers leading the worlds craft brewing revolution/
Joshua M. Bernstein.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4027-7864-3 (alk. paper)
1. Beer. 2. Brewing. I. Title.
TP570.B47 2011
663'.42dc22

2011003196

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Some of the selections were previously published in slightly different forms as follows: Parts of Hop to It were published as Flavor of the Month in Imbibe. Rye Rising was published as Against the Grain in Imbibe. Parts of Falling in Flavor, Ancient Ales, Going Green Has Never Tasted So Good, Barrel-Aged Brews, and Pre-Prohibition Lagers were adapted from Blast from the Past in Imbibe. Cask Ales was published as A Living Tradition in Imbibe. What a Pair: Beer and Food was published as Look Whos Coming to Dinner in Imbibe. Of a Certain Age was published as Time in a Bottle in Imbibe. Berliner Weisse, California Common, Klsch, and Saison were adapted from Unsung Heroes in Imbibe. International Spotlight: Norways Ngne was published as Hey Ngne Ngne in New York Press. Parts of Gose were published as So the Story Gose in Imbibe.

For my parents, Jenene, and all the brewers making the world a more delicious place.

MY LONG, CARBONATED JOURNEY FROM PINT GLASS to print would have been far less enjoyable without the endless support of friends who patiently listened as I babbled on about brewing minutiae and helped me conduct endless research. Thanks for never telling me that another beer was a bad idea.

For my parents, Jack and Maryann, and siblings, Becky and Jon, for believing that beer bottles could lead to a book.

Thanks to all my encouraging editors, especially Karen Foley and the crew at Imbibe and Adam Rathe and Jerry Portwood at the New York Press, for allowing me to write at length about a subject I adore.

To all the brewers, bar owners, barkeeps, cellarmen, photographers, farmers, festival organizers, fellow journalists, historians, and beer lovers, thanks for taking the time to tipple and talk.

Thanks to Carlo DeVito, Diane Abrams, and the Sterling Publishing gang, especially my tireless editor, Pam Hoenig. Kudos for navigating the sea of ABVs and IBUs and, once and for all, answering the question: Is it pilsner or pilsener?

Last, and most important, thanks to my dear Jenene for her unwavering love, even when I was a complaint-filled cranky pants. I couldnt have written this without your support.

WHEN I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL, I WAS IN LOVE WITH Busch Light. Since I was just seventeen, I kept this affair secret. Busch and I met only on weekends, long after my parents were deep in their sugarplum dreams.

Long past the witching hour, my band of suburban Ohio miscreants would congregate in my backyard. As moonlight bathed our pimply bodies, we would climb into my parents hot tub armed with a frosty 30-pack of Busch Light purchased at a lenient beer-and-wine drive-through and watch Geoff assemble his latest invention. Geoff was an engineering whiz who, these days, maintains the navys nuclear submarines. His smarts were paired with a deviant streak. During high school, that meant constructing things like flame-powered potato guns and, more pertinent to this story, colossal beer bongs.

For the enlightenment of those who did not attend public college or join a frat, a beer bong is a funnel attached to plastic tubing. Though it recalls a torture tool, something that the boys at Gitmo might have dreamed up, we would fight to insert the tube betwixt our jaws. On the count of three, a Busch can was cracked and dumped into the funnel. Gravity sent the foamy brew racing down our gullets like a burst dam. If you finished the funnel, we cheered. If you vomited, we cheeredquietly, lest my parents rustle. When we were seventeen, the beer bong was a portal into an adult universe. We pretended to be mature by pounding Busch.

That early conditioning, combined with a healthy dose of advertising, convinced my taste buds that Busch Light was Americas best beer. My belief endured through my undergrad days at Ohio University, when Id occasionally flirt with wincing Natural IceNatty to those in the know. And when it came to beer, I knew no better. My peers cared about quantity, not quality. Me too. Why spend $10 on a six-pack when the same money could purchase 24 cans of inebriation? Or perhaps a half dozen 40-ouncers of Phat Boy, the malt liquor made with ginseng?

My Tastes Improve with Age

I graduated in 2000 with a journalism degree as worthless as a week-old newspaper. Nursing a case of wanderlust, I embarked on a cross-country road trip with my platonic pal Bari. She and I steered west, across Kansas and Nevada and up Californias coast-hugging Highway 1. The scenery was as rugged as our fights were fierce. Bari and I were polarized magnets, drawn apart by proximity. By the time we reached Great Falls, Montana, we made like bananas and split. Just drop me off at the Greyhound station! I screamed, gathering my belongings. Where are you going? she asked. I dont know! She screeched off in a cloud of dust, just like they do in the movies.

At the bus station, I sat on a bench and pondered my future. I had a pack of smokes. I had total freedom. I had nowhere to go. On a payphone, I called a friend in Boulder, Colorado, and pled my plight. Come on down. Well drink some beer. Twenty bumpy, sleepless hours later, I arrived at my friends home. I was greeted with hugs and a trip to the megastore Liquor Mart. Wandering the aisles stuffed with six-packs bearing then-foreign monikers such as Avery and New Belgium and Boulder, I felt as clueless as a newborn lamb. My friend bought a sixer of Avery IPA, and we headed home.

What is that? I asked my host, cradling the bottle as if it were a rare talisman.

Its from Colorado, my pal said. Its a nice, bitter India pale ale.

I took a sip. My taste buds were pummeled with citrus and sweet caramel, with an aroma of resinous pine needles. This was Fourth of July fireworks compared to the wan sparklers to which Id become accustomed. I sought out other local elixirs, such as Boulder Brewings hoppy, unfiltered Hazed & Infused and Flying Dogs floral pale ale. Though I was in the land of Coors, I thirsted for more flavor than the Silver Bullet could offer.