I’ve been a wild rover for many a year, and muckle have I seen. I’ve seen folk drink from yards of ale, I’ve been in pubs which serve from glass chamber pots, I’ve seen men drink beer from a wellington boot. There’s all manner of glassware, pewter and whatnot all designed with one delightful task in view; that of drinking beer. I’ve seen beer hats, kilts that boast the ability to carry 20 bottles of beer, but until today I have never seen anything so outrageous, so bizarre and so just-plain-wrong as this new technology.

The Beer Bra

There exists a container (or possibly a pair) that is shaped after the human female bosom and designed to fit in the upper female undergarment. You may doubt, you may scoff, but it’s a genuine product and it does appear to meet a genuine need. After all, who wants to carry several bottles or cans into a sporting event, or some other venue where they don’t allow you to drink anything other than their (frequently overpriced) fizz?

There are a couple of problems that I see with this device. First of all, I wonder what it’s made of, and whether that material (presumably some specie of plastic) would affect your drink. I’m wary enough of beer in cans or growlers without worrying about whatever might taints the taste of your ale. Even those “safe” acrylic glasses one is forced to quaff from occasionally do affect the flavour.

The second problem I consider to be temperature-related. Most people fuss about beer being served at anything even approaching room temperature, so you’d need to consider the effect of having a couple of pints of cold beer strapped to your boobs, and the affect of enjoyment as the beer temperature approaches body heat!

It’s available in different (bra) sizes, and does enhance the bust; indeed the manufacturers boast that “you can turn an A cup in to double Ds”. It’s an odd world and it gets odder each day, and this is more proof, as if it were needed.

I’m a real beer lover, possibly even a beer geek. I enjoy craft brews from everywhere – I loved them in England, now I enjoy them in Northern California. The microbrewery revolution has resulted in great ales being available in abundance, so I talk about great microbrew beers, beer culture and history. This is not just a review site, it’s about the love of well-crafted beer and how best to enjoy it. Browse and enjoy. Cheers!

There’s a great British drinking tradition that seems to have grown up in recent years. It is connected with imports – lager (not a British traditional drink of yore) and curry (which in England generally means spicy dishes from the Indian subcontinent). The history of these two elements comes together with the nouvelle tradition that is the “boys’ night out”, which revolves around binge drinking and a late night meal (and all too often, relieving themselves in a shop doorway).

When I was a youngster, back in the days when hairy elephants roamed the earth, an evening’s drinking involved going to the pub around 7 o’clock until closing time (11pm), sinking a number of pints of bitter before hying to the nearest fish-and-chip shop for six-penn’orth of chips and a Pukka pie. The beer was typically 3.8% – 4% ABV, the meal about 25% fat.

Taj Mahal Premium Lager

Now I don’t want to give the idea that every British male spends every night filling themselves to bursting point on this explosive mixture before throwing on the way home, nor that this is limited to the female of the species. This is, however a trend that seems to be growing, to the point where the Government is getting concerned; about the binge drinking, not about the curry consumption.

An American tale of curry-and-lager

Recently, we learned about a local curry house in Dixon, about 12 miles away from us. Excited about the prospect of my first good curry in several months, off we trotted to the Punjabi Dhaba restaurant where we decided to sit down a a traditional meal of chicken tikka masala, jalfrezi, naan and bhajis. Washed down, of course, with a traditional Indian lager. Well, two – I opted to go for a small sampling. Not a binge, oh no.

Taj Mahal Premium

I started with a Taj Mahal out of the United Breweries (India) stable. I’m afraid I have little to say about this, other than it’s an American-style adjunct lager. It’s a light colour, with a good white head.

There’s little nose beyond a hint of grain and very little hop. It drinks like any other lager, with a fairly thin body, a light maltiness and the faintest tang of hop and grassiness. I did find it a little sour rather than sweet, which detracted from the overall enjoyment for me.

It’s quite effervescent, not at all sweet, and in keeping with the style, relatively devoid of character. Simple is what it is, and refreshing, and despite the protestations of many curry-and-lager fans, it’s not what I’d choose with a spicy meal. C-minus, and a detention.

Kingfisher Premium

Kingfisher Premium Lager

The next pick was Kingfisher Premium, another lager from United. This poured with a skinny-looking head that sadly didn’t last long enough for a decent picture, and a tad darker than its cousin. A little maltier in the nose, with some sweetness apparent, it was more appealing and appetising.

There was a little more body than the Taj Mahal, it was sweeter and more flavoursome, the hops seemed a little more forward and it lacked the musty, faintly skunky flavour. Overall it was decidedly more pleasant, with a better balance of taste, a mix of sweetness and a touch of bitter at the finish. It did better than the last, with a C+ rating.

Overall, neither beer really satisfied me. My guess is that anyone who is having a spicy meal won’t notice that the beer is mediocre, because what they want is light refreshment to cool the mouth. For my part, I’d take a pale ale any day, to balance the strong flavours in a curry, and a little more hop would certainly not go amiss with all those spices vying for attention on the palate.

Oh, and I can hear your comments now. Complain all you like that I didn’t get legless and then go for the curry – I have too much respect for beer, food and my constitution to go through all that.

Angel Creek Amber Ale

It turns out that the best way to enjoy this beer is on an early autumn afternoon in the Capay Valley, Northern California. Oh, and with hummingbirds. I grew up in England, where hummingbirds are not to be found, and I think of them as mythical, almost magical creatures; to me it would be like sitting down for a quiet cup of tea and spotting a dragon flapping by.

At any rate, this ale was brought to me from Nevada by my good friends Sam and Caroline, and it’s at their ranch that I sit now enjoying a spot of quiet relaxation and rest, watching the few clouds and the many flickering mythical creatures.

I’m delighted that the beer matches the moment; lively enough to refresh, it’s not only alive, it’s kicking gently. The head is initially deep and frothy, and it slowly relaxes to leave a little lacing behind, although sadly it didn’t hang around long enough for a good photo, though that is more down to my skills (or lack thereof) as a photographer.

The colour is not what I’d normally call amber, more a reddish-gold, which glowed quite nicely in the open air. It’s crystal-clear with a little show of bubble,  a precursor to the liveliness that becomes apparent with the first mouthful. Lifting the glass, there’s a malty nose that’s the first hint of a very decent session beer indeed. The hops aren’t too pronounced, showing as a pleasant citrus fruit scent backing up the sweet caramel.

Next thing I notice is at the first taste, a little light caramel sweetness and a little bitter, enough to poke at the tastebuds. Couple that with the carbonation and the result is a smooth balance that is instantly refreshing. There’s a little hoppiness in the finish, which is crisp and clean. I pause for a moment and recall some of the pale ales of my callow youth, because that’s the same effect I get with Angel Creek Amber, clean, easy drinking that’s simple enough to refresh but interesting enough to enjoy.

The body is light, matching the 5% booze content, which may be on the high end for a true session ale, but is none the worse for it; I could quaff one and sip three over the afternoon before settling down to watch the mythical hummingbirds flitting around in the valley sunset.

It’s a solid B for me – the worst I could possibly say is that it didn’t move mountains, but it’s an above-average ale, so if ever you’re in Nevada, look this one up for a light and pleasant hour of refreshing beer gold.

“I believe a person who has never worn a beer-foam mustache is missing something.” – Jim Dorsch
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So what does the head on a glass of beer do? Is it, as many people feel, a barrier to the beer, at best a moustache decorator? Is it just for looks, or is there a deeper reason? Not everyone demands a good foamy glass, and there are local variations; in Norwich, where I began my drinking life, beer was served without head, but in the Midlands and North (of England) a good foamy head is expected.

Head is as much part of a good beer as good body, adding visual appeal and doing other surprising things. One of the things that a beer’s head does is traps molecules of the smelly stuff, releasing these  aromatics with each little bubble that bursts. So a head adds not just to the appearance but to the enjoyment of the brew.

A Little Science

Kevin, getting excited about froth

So what makes for good head? (Stop sniggering at the back, please.) Hydrophobic polypeptides, according to wikipedia. In simple English, this means strings of amino acids that repel water. Doubtless some clever chemist¹ will seek to be more accurate, but that will work for me. These chemicals disagree with water to the extent that they get as far away from it as possible, rising to the surface where they form the bubbles that in turn make the foam. The amount of head produced depends on several factors, then – the chemical composition of the brew in question, and the carbonation (or nitrogenation, if nitrogen be the driving force).

There’s a big variation in differing beers. Adnams Bitter, the beloved beer of my late teens, produced a skinny cap of foam, whereas many of the Belgian styles produce such a head of foam that the breweries produce special glasses designed to handle the profuse frothiness. Most of the American bottled beers I’ve been sampling lately produce about a finger’s width of head when properly poured, but there is of course a good deal of variation there depending on the pouring style. Open the bottle and pour it straight into the bottom of the glass and you’ll get more, trickle it gently down the side for less.

Similarly, in draught beers, there’s variation depending on whether the beer is pumped by hand or CO2/nitrogen pressure – too much pressure or gas and the depth of head exceeds the depth of beer. This is a crime to the beer-drinker, who is paying for liquid, not froth. It’s damaging for the vendor too, as many pints of beer can be wasted by pouring off excess foam. For a long time in Britain, CAMRA campaigned for pubs to draw their beer so that the top of the liquid was at or above the pint line (which is marked on pint pots in the UK), and to this day, there’s a hue and cry raised if a pub consistently serves too much foam and too little beer.

A Little Beer Snobbery

“Head retention” is another thing you’ll hear about, which means what it says – how the head holds up over time. Smaller bubbles generally mean better retention, and so does the chemical makeup – if the surface tension of the bubble is great enough, the head lasts longer. Other elements come into play as well – the drier the glass the better the head, and a clean glass is essential for good formation and retention. Don’t believe me? Try a Belgian Duvel in a dry glass and a damp glass – in the dry glass you’ll get a pillowy head that stands up for ever, whereas the damp glass produces less. An experiment I have tried myself with the added advantage of allowing me to drink two glasses of the amber delight!

You’ll also hear about what happens to the head as you drink it – there’s even a term for the froth left on the sides of the glass as you consume. “Belgian lace” is the term I’ve most often heard, and of course there are those Real Ale Bores who can go on about this seemingly for ever. Oops, is that the time? Sorry.

Of course, brewers know their markets and their drinker’s preferences, and many add various things to beer to boost head and retention – sometimes as part of the genuine brewing adjuncts (wheat makes for a good head) but sometimes by artificial chemical means. The former is allowable, the latter is, to my mind, Just Plain Wrong, but then I am something of a beer purist, if not an actual snob.

¹ See also this site for more actual science

There probably comes a time in everyone’s beer-drinking life when they realise that there’s more to beer than simply plucking a beer out of the ‘fridge and swigging it from the bottle, or running to the nearest bar and grabbing the proffered glass of malt and hop. For me, this began with a British organisation known as CAMRA, the Campaign For Real Ale.

Appreciating beer since 1974

I’d left home at age eighteen for the bright lights of the ancient county seat of Norwich to embark on a dual career of banking and beerdrinking. At the time, many of the small breweries that had once been dotted about the county had vanished into the drinkers’ collective memory. The “big boys” with their mass-produced keg beers had taken over more and more pubs, old-fashioned beers were harder to find. The huge advertising budgets from the megabreweries promoted the drinking of the thin and gassy ales that were the antithesis of the old-style brewer’s art. Perhaps these were the last days.

Norwich pubs

At twenty one, I was young and cocky. I had been drinking beer for three years (UK law says you can drink at 18), and already considered myself a cut above the average boozer because I eschewed the mass-produced, insipid beers available in 95% of Norwich’s pubs, and tended to go for the remaining local brews of Adnams, Greene King and the now sadly departed Tolly Cobbold. Some of the old ways persisted, thanks to a small band of determined beer-lovers.

I was blessed in so many ways – there were a dozen or so pubs in and around the city that were “free houses”, that is, not tied into a brewery chain, and many of them specialised in the “real ales” coming out of the smaller, traditional, local breweries that today we call “microbreweries”. It was at one of these more liberated pubs that I came across CAMRA, and it was through these good folk that I first started to learn more about beer.

The rise of CAMRA raised the awareness of what beer used to be, and suddenly the tables were turned. Gradually, the massive Watney brewery and Norwich Brewery (now owned by Watney) pubs fell from favour as a new, better-educated beer drinker rode on the wings of the Real Ale storm that was sweeping the country.

I have very clear memories of many old pubs in the city – the Mischief Tavern, Micawbers, and the Golden Star. They were a strange mix; partly old-fashioned pubs with the ticking clock and the unwalked dog, partly venues for the newly-liberated real ale drinkers. There was a range of beers, both local and from the far-flung corners of the Isles, and a bewildering range it could be. I started to discover the range of old-fashioned beers, from the delightfully refreshing pale ales and bitters, through the darker and sweeter mild ales, then the browns, porters and stouts. Each pub an Aladdin’s cave filled not with jewels, but with liquid delights for every taste, time and season.

The one pub that stood out was the Golden Star. This was the only pub I knew of that brewed its own beer, and one of those brews was named “Wifebeater Ale”, which needless to say provoked some justifiably negative comments from local women. Following a protest at the pub, it was renamed “GBH” (meaning Grievous Bodily Harm, the name of a violent criminal offence). That didn’t go down well with the local police, so at some point it became simply Star Bitter¹.

Nottingham and beyond

In time, I moved the focus of my drinking to Nottingham, and discovered new pubs, drinking buddies and most especially beers. Shortly after I moved, the two big city breweries, Home Ales and the Shipstone’s brewery, closed down, not that I missed them too much, though both breweries made a lovely nutty Brown Ale that did leave something of a vacuum.

Nottingham is, of course, home to what claims to be the oldest pub in the world, Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem. Then there’s the Salutation Inn and the Bell Inn, each of which also has some claim to being the oldest pub, if not in the world, certainly in Nottingham.

Many of the old pubs went the way of <choose your extinct species>, including the excellent Flying Horse (the front of which now decorates a shopping arcade), the Black Boys Inn (demolished to make way for a dreadful supermarket) and the Old Corner Pin (taken over by the Disney Store, who filled its cellar with concrete).

But the beers are still there – the Nottingham Brewery turns out good ales and Castle Rock carries on a great brewing tradition. Real ales in abundance by this time, but sadly the city centre has been taken over by the chain pubs which (forgive me for oversimplifying) serve gassy and insipid lager to equally gassy and vulgar louts. Escape from the city and you’ll still find the old-fashioned pub with all that means – live music, good company, ancient decor and most importantly, good microbrewed ales.

I began to sample and appreciate other delights too – German, Belgian, Trappist ales all had a part to play in my continuing journey through the world of brewing.

Now I live in sunny California, and to my great surprise and delight I am discovering that the art of the American microbrew is not only alive, but kicking, and kicking hard. I’ve had so many great examples of good beer styles that it’s hard to forget that until quite recently, pretty much the only American beer was lager.

Now all we need to do is three things. Convince America to open actual pubs to replace the sports bar, teach them to brew a decent cup of tea, and desist from calling that sport “football”. Because unlike their beers, there’s practically bugger-all kicking there.

¹  Confirmation here.

“I myself am often surprised by life’s little quirks” – Westley, The Princess Bride

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Quirks are unusual occurrences, and along with Westley, I am continually surprised by them. Having just written about session drinking I was delighted to come across a beer that is (in taste) the very essence of a session beer. I was offered this little brew at a friend’s house, and despite my not generally considering myself a lager drinker, I nonetheless accepted the offer. I have to be honest here and say that had it not been a black beer I may have declined.

Black lagers are outside my ken, so this was a first for me. I have to say that I was quite delighted by this brew, from the first pour to the last drop, and I dare say that I could have enjoyed another one or two of them on the night. Of course it pours a dark brown-black, with a feathery head, and a malty nose is apparent almost immediately. When I stuck my nose in the glass I was delighted to get a sweet and faintly chocolate-and-toffee whiff, reminiscent of the bonfire toffee of my youth.

Session Black Lager

The flavour is mild, the body understandably light and refreshing, but there’s a slight fruitiness that again came as something of a surprise. I really wanted to quaff it and go back for a second helping, but I failed in that regard, although I see a future in which a few of these will sit in the fridge for those easy session-beer evenings with a few friends.

At 5.8% ABV it’s stronger than I’d drink in a serious evening session, but it really is an easy beer to drink, neither challenging or complex, yet yummy enough that I would stock up a little so that I can have a cold one or three when I fancy it. Unusually, it comes in an 11-ounce bottle, slightly smaller than “regulation” beer size, and that may account for New Sail calling it “Session” – you’d possibly still drink the same number of bottles in an evening, without all that tedious getting plastered.

I’d be curious what would happen if I let it warm up a little as it was served at fridge temperature. Next time I’ll pour a pint so I can see what happens as the chill slips away. Maybe one of these evenings I will do just that, and I’ll be sure to let you know my findings. Meantime, if you come across this one, do give it a whirl and prepare to be as surprised as I was.

So you like to drink beer? You like to drink a lot of beer? You like to drink a lot of beer over the course of a social evening, but not be falling-over drunk at the end of it? Then what you need is a session beer.

What’s a session beer? Typically, such a brew will have three qualities; an alcohol content of generally less than 5%, a balanced flavour and a light to moderate body. There are good reasons for specifying these things.

Adnams Bitter, 3.8% - a good session beer

First of all, in a social setting, getting blotto is a no-no; the object of an evening in company is to be, well, companionable. You also want to be able to make it home in one piece and however you plan to do that, having a bellyfull of beer and a bloodstream full of booze in not conducive to a safe or comfortable journey. (On a side note, and for safety information, and because I worry about you all, I found a Blood Alcohol Count calculator tool that you may find to be of use. Respect beer and enjoy yourselves, but let’s be careful out there.)

Flavour and body can be issues, too. Some beers can be quite challenging on flavour after a while – for some, a lot of highly-hopped or bitter beers can be hard to handle, for others, sweeter brews. Heavy beers too, have their problems; I can think of half a dozen beers I’d not want to drink one after another.

So in short, a session beer sits in the middle of the ABV, taste and body range, enabling the enjoyment of many pints over an afternoon or evening, without damaging conversation, comfort or safety.

A Little History Session

I’ve heard many a tale regarding the origin of the term, but the one that seems right to me concerns the old UK pub licensing laws. At one time, pub opening times were strictly limited; 11am til 3pm and 7pm until closing time at 11pm. These four-hour sessions were presumably set so that no-one could sit in the pub all day and get plastered. Workers leaving work therefore had four hours of drinking time until they were thrown out of the boozer, and hence if they wanted a reasonable and sociable time, and to enjoy a few pints, they’d limit themselves to those beers that they could drink throughout the opening session.

At the time, most pub beers were around the 3.5% – 5% alcohol mark, with a few other beers like barley wines and “old ales” that were stronger. It was vital, then to know the difference between the stronger brews and those that one could drink all night.

Over the years, the law changed, and permitted pubs to open longer hours (although to this day most pubs still have to stop serving at 11pm). The “session beer” is still a valuable thing, however – provided you’re a social drinker.

Pacing yourself

Back in the day, when I was a young and cocky boozer, it was not uncommon for me to head to the pub on a Friday night and expect to sink six or eight pints (Imperial pints, mind you – 20 fluid ounces) over the course of an evening. Allowing for travel and food, I’d be drinking for about four or five hours. No way was I going to be pounding down strong Scotch ales, perilously hoppy IPAs or heady Imperial stouts for that time.

Food can be important too – having something to eat isn’t going to stop the alcohol from taking effect, but it does tend to buffer the beer, and can slow down the rate of absorption a little, which is why the British drinker frequently munches on crisps (that’s chips to you American folk) or peanuts, presumably on the basis that every little helps.

The beer of choice was generally Bitter, occasionally Dark Mild or Brown, but always around the 3.8 – 4.5% mark. That way I could hold my own at the bar, the conversation and the trip home. These days, of course, I’m the responsible married man, out for one or two and home before nine (with one exception, of course). It turns out that every man is entitled to one mistake; every woman, apparently, is allowed one rolling pin.

“Enlightened Black Ale…a highly quaffable dark beer“
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A Little Dark History

Many great things happened in 1554. The city of São Paulo was founded, Lady Jane Grey was executed, pirate-adventurer Walter Raleigh was born, the herbalist Hieronymus Bock died. Well, not all these things were great, but they are important historical facts.

Whilst these matters have some bearing on our modern world (especially if you live in São Paulo), there were even more momentous moves afoot in a monastery somewhere in Belgium during these Dark Ages. There, a group of enlightened monks worked day and night to develop a new style of beer, one that took dark-roasted malts and turned them into a beer worthy of Heaven, but that was dark as the very gates of Hell.

Of course, that’s just a flight of fancy, but what is true is that a couple of chaps from the New Belgium brewery uncovered references to zwartbier, a Belgian black ale in a book dated 1888.

Inspired and impelled, they began to dig around, and with help from a brewmaster in Belgium, they uncovered further references to the style in another book, published in 1554, and a parchment dating to 1447. According to NB’s website, BeerNotes and a delightful email from Peter Bouckaert, they had to decipher ancient manuscripts, convert from obscure ancient measurements (what is a setier, anyway?) and at least in my imagination, evade Indiana Jones-style traps.

Excited by their discovery they began to to develop this recipe for brewing in the US, using hops, which were a new development in Europe at the time the original (hopless) recipe was recorded. By all accounts, New Belgium’s 1554 was an instant hit. What they came up with was a modern brew that emulated the ancient zwartbiers, avoiding a brew that had anything to do with the later porter style (to which they are not related).

Tasting a Blast from the Past

New Belgium 1554 Enlightened Black Ale

Finally, to the main event, and what an event it is. Put really simply, this is a yummy beer. In brief, it’s the dark beer lover’s dream – scrumptious, versatile and generally a pleasure to drink.

I poured it from the bottle into a glass and watched it settle. It’s a rich dark chestnut brown, almost black. The head is a fingers-depth and which held up fairly well during the course of drinking. It’s a good colour – pale tan and creamy, setting off the ale’s colour perfectly.

The nose is wonderful – there’s the chocolatey aroma you’d expect, a little espresso and malt, with a very faint hint of banana fruitiness and a whiff of spice, and it really whets the appetite for the palate, which is a roasty-toasty malt-and-cocoa extravaganza, which fills the mouth with flavour.

In the mouth it’s quite sweet and warming, there’s a pretty little spiciness to balance the sweetness, and just enough hop to make it interesting This is a robust beer that is all about delighting the palate without being overly complex or overpowering. It’s a great beer to enjoy either by itself or with food. I’ve drunk it with winter stews, strong cheese and also with lighter dishes. Just one thing to note though – for goodness’ sake, let it warm up a little when you take it out of the fridge; it unleashes a full range of flavours when you do, and will delight even more than served well chilled. Think of it as akin to a robust red wine, that you’d serve at close to room temperature.

Getting to the end of the glass, the rich reddish-brown colour looks warm and inviting and that last swallow stays with you for quite a while. The mouthfeel is gorgeous, round and pleasant without being overwhelmingly heavy; in fact the carbonation again balances the robustness quite nicely.

It’s just 5.5% alcohol, which means you can enjoy two or a few without falling over. I’m not sure I’d call it a session beer, but it’s dangerously drinkable; all in all, it’s a wonderful brew, one that I could well imagine supping for a long time as a winter beer, but equally refreshing in our early California autumn.

I gave it an A- rating on BeerAdvocate – it’s hard to say what would improve this blackest of brews, except another one just like it. Hats off to New Belgium for this excellent ale, and a big thank you to Peter Bouckaert and his colleagues.

“I’m looking for the type of mugs [of beer] that are so cold that your hand gets numb…so cold that it doesn’t matter how cheap the beer is…so cold that bits of ice float in your beer” – Forum comment
v

In my thirty-odd years of drinking, one of the things I’ve discovered is that there’s more to brewing beer than science – there’s art too and even (dare I say this?) magic. Not just to the production, but to the enjoyment. It was on a tour of one of the pubs in Norwich that I learned about how beer is cellared, and that different brews are frequently best enjoyed at different tempartures.

It’s a thorny topic, this business of serving temperature – nowadays the seeming majority of beer drinkers are conditioned by the media to expect their beer to be ice-cold. The quotation above demonstrates something of this, but it’s been driven by the advertising of just one type of beer – a fairly recent addition to the beer pantheon, lager.

So strong has the lager influence been, especially on the American psyche, that natives of that land visiting Great Britain would return complaining of the warm, flat beer served in those isles. But there is a reason, and it lies in the deeps of the ancient pub cellar, and its temperature.

So what is “cellar temperature”, and why should I care?

This is another of those really odd questions, like “what is room temperature?”, to which there are some who might answer “the temperature of a room”. I have met many Americans who sincerely believe that English pubs serve their beer at room temperature. They are wrong, and I usually take great delight in pointing out just how wrong. In fact, cellar temperature is much lower than room temperature (typically held to be 70°F/20°C ). Whilst in the past British pub cellars used to vary quite considerably, they tended to be around 45-55°F (7-13°C). These days, cellars can be climate-controlled, and on occasion, individual barrels can be kept at an ideal temperature for that particular beer. CAMRA’s web site states that real, live casked ales are generally best served between 54-57°F (12-14°C), considerably below the “room temperature” that many Americans believe.

Old Man Ale - to be served at 58°F

But what is the “ideal” serving temperature, and why should we care? Well, there are components in all beers that are volatile; they evaporate, being freed from the liquid. These are the components that we enjoy most – they add considerably to the enjoyment of the beer, both in the nose and the flavour. After all, the tastes detected by the tongue are few – salt, sweet, bitter, sour. The olfactory senses in the nasal cavity can detect minute quantities of thousands of different chemicals, and it is the combination that results in the overall flavour.

The problem is that the colder the liquid, the harder it is for these chemicals to come out of solution into the air, where they are detected by the sensory cells in the nose. Too cold, they stay in solution, and are swallowed before they evaporate. It follows that the warmer the beer, the more flavour it will release, the colder it is, the less flavour. So cold beer=less taste.

The more complex beers brewed and served in the UK and Europe demand to be stored and served at temperatures above freezing, by design. The new breeds of non-lager American beers also demand the same. By all means serve your lagers and cheap beers at close to freezing, and enjoy the light refreshment that they offer. Beware though, that you observe and respect a beer’s nature before you hoist it out of the fridge and serve it.

Now of course, I’m obliged to come up with some actual figures, and inevitably, there’s going to be some dispute about ‘em, but many brewers and writers tend to agree that the darker and stronger the brew, the more they will benefit from slightly higher serving temps. There’s obviously some latitude, and personal preference may alter these figures, and I stress that this is just one suggestion, pulled from RealBeer.com. Feel free to disagree on the exact numbers:

Wheat beers and pale lagers at fridge temperature, 45-50°F (7-10°C)
Pale ales, English bitter, amber ales or dark lagers at 50-55°F (10-13°C)
Belgian ales, barley wines and similar strong beers at around 55°F (13°C)
Porters, stouts and other dark ales at 55-60° F (13-15°C)
Some of the stronger Belgian beers should be served close to room temperature

Now given that the average refrigerator temperature is around 45°F (7°C), you see that there’s quite a difference, especially for the stronger beers. The answer is to take some of these brews out of the fridge a while before you serve them, and for goodness’ sake, don’t pour them into a chilled glass!

Obviously no-one except the truly fanatical is going to measure the bottle temperature before opening it, but allowing the bottle to warm up for fifteen or twenty minutes won’t kill you. In fact, the anticipation will doubtless make it taste even better. After all, they do say that hunger makes the best sauce.