Beer Is Proof God Loves Us: Reaching for the Soul of Beer and Brewing
256
Beer Is Proof God Loves Us: Reaching for the Soul of Beer and Brewing
256eBook
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Overview
Beer Is Proof God Loves Us is a funny, engaging, and downright joyous examination of the whole world of beer and brewing. Your guide, Charlie Bamforth, may be the world's #1 expert on every aspect of beer. After a worldwide search, he was selected as the first Anheuser-Busch Professor of Brewing Science at the University of California, Davis. Now, he presents the most compelling social history of beer ever written: where it came from, where the brewing business stands now, and what the future holds. In this far-reaching book, he reveals:
· The extraordinary complexity and artistry that can be found in great brewing
· The factors that impact beer quality and wholesomeness
· Centuries-old cultural values embedded in good beer
Bamforth also explains what the rise of new craft breweries means to beer drinkers and what the latest global trends will have on beer consumption. The book concludes with a look to the future, illustrating how environmental issues will change the brewing industry and addressing radical new approaches to brewing, such as Happoshu and malternatives.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780132172998 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Pearson Education |
| Publication date: | 08/26/2010 |
| Series: | FT Press Science |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Charles W. Bamforth has been in the brewing industry for 32 years, including 13 years in research, 11 in academia, and 8 with the famed brewing company Bass. After an international search, he was selected as UC Davis’ first Anheuser-Busch Endowed Professor of Malting and Brewing Sciences. His Web site gives fuller details of his career and much interesting information about beer and brewing, besides: http://www-foodsci.ucdavis.edu/bamforth/.
Throughout his diverse career, he has embraced every dimension of beer, from raw materials and processing, through quality, to beer’s impact on the body. This makes him unique among “beer people” worldwide. He has published many research papers in the peer-reviewed domain, but also those targeted at the layperson, seeking to engage awareness and debate about beer as a product and as part of social fabric. This is his ninth book on beer (one of his earlier ones is in its third edition), and he is generally considered to be one of the world’s leading writers and speakers on beer, from an authoritative, but also humorous and engaging, perspective. In recent years his major research thrust has been on the wholesomeness and public perception of beer.
Read an Excerpt
IntroductionIntroduction
My regular haunt as a boy was a pub called The Owl (see Figure 0.1). I was not yet 17, and the legal drinking age in England was (and still is) 18. Friday evenings. One or two pints of Walker’s Best Bitter.1 A bag of crisps (a.k.a. chips) with a tiny blue bag of salt in every pack.2 And Woodbine cigarettes, of which perhaps three or four would tremble on my lips. I would observe the comings and goings, mostly of the male gender (women then, as now, pleased my eyes more, but in those days they were heavily outnumbered in the pub). Many of the men were tough-as-teak workers, some clad in clogs, leaning against the bar, throwing darts, or rattling dominoes as they took their accustomed places in the dusty oaken furniture solidly set on rustic flooring. No television, no piped music. The food was restricted to pickled eggs, crisps, scratchings,3 and perhaps the offerings from the basket of the fish man who did his rounds of the pubs, with his cockles, whelks, and mussels.4 He jockeyed for position with the bonneted Sally Army woman and her War Cry.5
Arthur Koestler6 wrote, “When all is said, its atmosphere (England’s) still contains fewer germs of aggression and brutality per cubic foot in a crowded bus, pub or queue than in any other country in which I have lived.” Not once in the pubs of 1960s Lancashire did I witness anything to contradict this truth.
Who were these men, in their flat caps and overalls, or their simple and well-worn woolen suits? What unfolded in their lives? Were they drinking away their babies’ or teenagers’ futures, or were they rather savoring precious moments of content amidst the harsh cruelty of their labors? Were they stoking the fire of violence that would afterwards roar through the family home or were they merely rejoicing in bonds of brotherhood with others who knew only too well the rocky roads and unforgiving fields that each of them traversed as laborers and farmers, bricklayers, and quarrymen? This was no less their sanctuary than St Thomas’s church7 or Central Park, the home of nearby Wigan’s prestigious Rugby League team.8 This was oasis.
And in their glasses would be English ales, nary a lager in sight. Pints (seldom halves) of bitter or mild.9 The occasional bottle of Jubilee or Mackeson.10 Perhaps a Bass No. 1 or a Gold Label.11 Beers with depth and warmth and, yes, nutritional value to complement their impact on conviviality and thirst.
Wigan, immortalized by George Orwell in his Road to Wigan Pier,12 was a few pennies away on a Ribble13 bus. The pier was a landing stage by the Leeds-Liverpool canal, a place for goods to be offloaded, notably cotton for the mills of the grimy but glorious town. The folks lived in row upon row of small houses, all joined together in grey, damp blocks. Two rooms down and two up and a toilet a freezing trek away down the narrow back yard, with newspaper to clean oneself up and often no light to ensure a satisfactory result. Baths were taken in front of the coal fire in the living room, in a pecking order of father first, mother next, then the children. For those with coal-miner dads it was no treat to be the youngest offspring.
Was it then a wonder that the pub held appeal? Warm, cozy, buzzing with camaraderie and escape.
In England today, pubs are shuttering their doors at a rate of 52 every week. I blame Thatcher, whose ill-judged Beer Laws of the late 1980s led to revered brewers like Bass and Whitbread and Watney selling their breweries to focus on serving the brews of others in spruced-up pubs that are now more restaurant and sports bar than back street boozer. Cleaner, smarter, livelier? Sure. But do they have heart or soul? Yes, they are smoke-free zones,14 but there are as many folks on the sidewalk outside, spilling into the roadway and littering the pavement with butts and spittle.
Perhaps it is small wonder that many choose no longer to head to the pub and prefer to stay in front of their 70-inch surround-sound televisions, chugging on canned lager bought at fiercely competitive rates from a supermarket chain that commands one in every seven pounds of disposable income in the British Isles and which squeezes the remaining UK brewers to the measliest of margins as they entice the shopper to become solitary suppers of beers with names very different from those of yore.
Beers from breweries like the multinational behemoth Anheuser-Busch InBev, which commands nearly 25 percent of the world’s beer market, more than twice as much as the nearest competitor, South African Breweries-Miller. Stella Artois, Budweiser, Becks: all brands owned by the biggest of breweries. Excellent beers, of course, but at what risk to other smaller traditional labels?
The world of beer is hugely different from that I first glimpsed as a too young drinker close to the dark satanic mills15 of my native Northern England. Has beer, I wonder, lost its soul?
Or is it, rather, me that is the dinosaur? Is the enormous consolidation that has been the hallmark of the world’s brewing industry for decades nothing more than business evolution writ large as survival of the fittest? Do the beers that folks enjoy today—and the latter day “near beer” which is the malternative (think Smirnoff Ice)—speak to a new age of Kindle, Facebook, and fast food?
In truth, there remains much for this hoary old traditionalist to delight in: the burgeoning craft beer sector in his new motherland, the United States. A growing global realization that beer, rather than wine, is the ideal accompaniment to foods of all types and (whisper it) is actually good for you, in moderation.
All is not lost in the world of beer. Let’s go there.
© Copyright Pearson Education. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Preface xiii
Introduction xv
Chapter 1: Global Concerns 1
Chapter 2: The Not-So-Slow Death of a Beer Culture 23
Chapter 3: Barbican, Balls, and Beyond 39
Chapter 4: On The Other Hand: The Re-Birth of a Beer Ethos 49
Chapter 5: So What Is Quality? 65
Chapter 6: Despite the Odds: Anti-Alcohol Forces 79
Chapter 7: Societal Issues 93
Chapter 8: Looks Good, Tastes Good, and… 101
Chapter 9: Whither Brewing? 115
Chapter 10: God in a Glass 123
Conclusion 129
Endnotes 133
Appendix A: The Basics of Malting and Brewing 213
Appendix B: Types of Beer 219
About the Author 223
Index 225
Preface
Introduction
My regular haunt as a boy was a pub called The Owl (see Figure 0.1). I was not yet 17, and the legal drinking age in England was (and still is) 18. Friday evenings. One or two pints of Walker’s Best Bitter.1 A bag of crisps (a.k.a. chips) with a tiny blue bag of salt in every pack.2 And Woodbine cigarettes, of which perhaps three or four would tremble on my lips. I would observe the comings and goings, mostly of the male gender (women then, as now, pleased my eyes more, but in those days they were heavily outnumbered in the pub). Many of the men were tough-as-teak workers, some clad in clogs, leaning against the bar, throwing darts, or rattling dominoes as they took their accustomed places in the dusty oaken furniture solidly set on rustic flooring. No television, no piped music. The food was restricted to pickled eggs, crisps, scratchings,3 and perhaps the offerings from the basket of the fish man who did his rounds of the pubs, with his cockles, whelks, and mussels.4 He jockeyed for position with the bonneted Sally Army woman and her War Cry.5
Arthur Koestler6 wrote, “When all is said, its atmosphere (England’s) still contains fewer germs of aggression and brutality per cubic foot in a crowded bus, pub or queue than in any other country in which I have lived.” Not once in the pubs of 1960s Lancashire did I witness anything to contradict this truth.
Who were these men, in their flat caps and overalls, or their simple and well-worn woolen suits? What unfolded in their lives? Were they drinking away their babies’ or teenagers’ futures, or were they rather savoring precious moments of content amidst the harsh cruelty of their labors? Were they stoking the fire of violence that would afterwards roar through the family home or were they merely rejoicing in bonds of brotherhood with others who knew only too well the rocky roads and unforgiving fields that each of them traversed as laborers and farmers, bricklayers, and quarrymen? This was no less their sanctuary than St Thomas’s church7 or Central Park, the home of nearby Wigan’s prestigious Rugby League team.8 This was oasis.
And in their glasses would be English ales, nary a lager in sight. Pints (seldom halves) of bitter or mild.9 The occasional bottle of Jubilee or Mackeson.10 Perhaps a Bass No. 1 or a Gold Label.11 Beers with depth and warmth and, yes, nutritional value to complement their impact on conviviality and thirst.
Wigan, immortalized by George Orwell in his Road to Wigan Pier,12 was a few pennies away on a Ribble13 bus. The pier was a landing stage by the Leeds-Liverpool canal, a place for goods to be offloaded, notably cotton for the mills of the grimy but glorious town. The folks lived in row upon row of small houses, all joined together in grey, damp blocks. Two rooms down and two up and a toilet a freezing trek away down the narrow back yard, with newspaper to clean oneself up and often no light to ensure a satisfactory result. Baths were taken in front of the coal fire in the living room, in a pecking order of father first, mother next, then the children. For those with coal-miner dads it was no treat to be the youngest offspring.
Was it then a wonder that the pub held appeal? Warm, cozy, buzzing with camaraderie and escape.
In England today, pubs are shuttering their doors at a rate of 52 every week. I blame Thatcher, whose ill-judged Beer Laws of the late 1980s led to revered brewers like Bass and Whitbread and Watney selling their breweries to focus on serving the brews of others in spruced-up pubs that are now more restaurant and sports bar than back street boozer. Cleaner, smarter, livelier? Sure. But do they have heart or soul? Yes, they are smoke-free zones,14 but there are as many folks on the sidewalk outside, spilling into the roadway and littering the pavement with butts and spittle.
Perhaps it is small wonder that many choose no longer to head to the pub and prefer to stay in front of their 70-inch surround-sound televisions, chugging on canned lager bought at fiercely competitive rates from a supermarket chain that commands one in every seven pounds of disposable income in the British Isles and which squeezes the remaining UK brewers to the measliest of margins as they entice the shopper to become solitary suppers of beers with names very different from those of yore.
Beers from breweries like the multinational behemoth Anheuser-Busch InBev, which commands nearly 25 percent of the world’s beer market, more than twice as much as the nearest competitor, South African Breweries-Miller. Stella Artois, Budweiser, Becks: all brands owned by the biggest of breweries. Excellent beers, of course, but at what risk to other smaller traditional labels?
The world of beer is hugely different from that I first glimpsed as a too young drinker close to the dark satanic mills15 of my native Northern England. Has beer, I wonder, lost its soul?
Or is it, rather, me that is the dinosaur? Is the enormous consolidation that has been the hallmark of the world’s brewing industry for decades nothing more than business evolution writ large as survival of the fittest? Do the beers that folks enjoy today—and the latter day “near beer” which is the malternative (think Smirnoff Ice)—speak to a new age of Kindle, Facebook, and fast food?
In truth, there remains much for this hoary old traditionalist to delight in: the burgeoning craft beer sector in his new motherland, the United States. A growing global realization that beer, rather than wine, is the ideal accompaniment to foods of all types and (whisper it) is actually good for you, in moderation.
All is not lost in the world of beer. Let’s go there.
© Copyright Pearson Education. All rights reserved.