I did not drink much beer when I was young. Not even in college. I played in a few rock and country bands while in college, and often a bootscraper would totter over and drawl, “Lemme buy you a beer.” I’d say, “Whatever you are drinking.” So, I sampled Coors, Budweiser, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and, of course, Lone Star. None made my taste buds tingle for more. They all tasted like watered-down sour Kool-Aid to me.
I had a roommate and fellow keyboardist who had spent considerable time in playing honky-tonks all over Texas before deciding to go to college. He introduced me to Dos Equis and Newcastle. He told me that the latter was what the Beatles drank in Liverpool before they hit it big. (I don’t know if that was true—he also liked Boone’s Farm, so there you go.) However, I discovered that I liked darker beers better than lighter, though still not enough to buy a six-pack on my own, or even order one at a restaurant or club.1
Drinking beer as an adult bored me
As a young adult, the beers changed, but my reaction was the same. I would drink whatever was offered at a friend’s house. Some considered themselves aficionados and told me that I had to drink Red Hook, or Pyramid, or the latest Sam Adams offering. I could appreciate that these were “crafted” beers—better quality, perhaps. I still wasn’t that interested.
Once, on a trip, I visited a winery for a tasting, and discovered that this winery, Firestone, had begun brewing beer. Caught up in the historical moment and the cutting edge of winery exploration, I bought a case. Weeks later, having drunk only a few, I found they were not any better than the others. But they made me look like a good and wise host when I offered them up. (Later, Firestone would produce an ale named after the area code where I lived at the time—“805”—which is a pretty damn good ale.)
I moved to Germany—and I wasn’t bored
I inherited a love of history from my mother. Furthermore, I find that knowledge of history often explains a current event or situation, and frequently makes the event or situation more meaningful.
During the 2000s, I lived in Heidelberg, Germany for a year. The land of lederhosen, Oktoberfest, and at least one brewery in every village, town, and city. Beer with history—of centuries! If I did not find a beer to love here, I never would.
One night, during the first week, I had dinner on the far side of Königstuhl, at a restaurant called the Alter Kohlhof. Ready to begin my sampling journey, I ordered a dark beer—Dunkelbeir. It was the best beer I had ever tasted. (The previous day I had a Heidelberg 1603 Pilsner that, up to that point, had been the best beer I ever tasted.) I began to understand why beer and Germany are so closely associated. Statistics say Germans drink more coffee than beer, but we know what Mark Twain said about statistics.2
Having told my newfound German Freunden about my experience, they gave me a lesson on German beer, suggesting that this would explain why I found their national treasure so tasty. (I should note that one of my new friends was Austrian, not German, and was prone to exaggeration about things related to his homeland—the European version of a Texan. He once told me that the true “Holy City” was Vienna, not Jerusalem.)
In 1516, the German government passed a law called the Reinheitsgebot (Purity Law), which is still in effect. It reads, in part:
…we wish to emphasize that in future in all cities, markets and in the country, the only ingredients used for the brewing of beer must be Barley, Hops and Water. Whosoever knowingly disregards or transgresses upon this ordinance, shall be punished by the Court authorities’ confiscating such barrels of beer, without fail.
This is why every town in Germany has its own brewery (or more than one). While additives and the speed of transportation in modern times make it easier to ship beer around the earth, taste is affected by the chemicals and the sloshing. This makes the ordering of a local beer, on tap, without transport or additives, an exciting prospect for beer lovers.
The German beer taste test
Sadly, if drink an imported German beer, it will never taste the same. Close, perhaps, but not as good. While I was living in Germany, a beer-loving, microbrewery fan, friend of mine came to visit. I ordered two steins of the 1603 Heidelberg Pilsner, and after a taste, he admitted it was better than any beer in the States. I told him about the Reinheitsgebot and wondered if that was why I liked German beer, or whether it was just the romanticism of being in Germany. He suggested we order another round, but this time ask for the export version. I ordered two 1603 Heidelberger Pils Export. We performed a taste test using fine German bread to cleanse our palettes between tastings. We confirmed, beyond any doubt, that there is a great difference between the two. The Export Pils had a bitterness and an aftertaste that was absent from the tap version, making the latter smoother, more flavorful, and enjoyable in every way.
The Reinheitsgebot created a problem many years ago when the European Union was negotiating trade laws among the member nations. Germany argued that, because of this long-standing law, it should not have to import beer that did not follow that law. Germany lost the argument, much to the chagrin of the breweries and the German people. In the long term, however, Germany was triumphant because sales of the imported beers are quite low. After all, why would one buy an imported beer containing preservatives when fresh, natural beer is available?
Alas, I live in America, land of overregulation
Now, living back in the states, I sadly cannot drink that sort of beer. Sure, there are friends who brew their own beer, but they cannot match the centuries of experience the German Brewers have.
So, I must live with drinking beer from a tap that has preservatives and has been sloshed all over the place, having been transported from Germany. (Although I will say that Guinness from a tap is extremely close to the taste of Guinness from a tap in Ireland. This is a saving grace.)
Still, as they say, bad beer is better than no beer.
- A later roommate and I shared a taste for Bailey’s Irish Cream and Kahlua, probably because we thought it made us a bit rebellious by drinking outside the box. We went so far as to make our own coffee-flavored liquor in our dorm. ↩
- “There are lies, damned lies, and statistics.” ↩
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