The Awesome Symmetry of Self-Fermentation - And How It Applies To Beer

A couple weeks ago when I announced that I will be eating only fermented food in 2014 — which I will write a book about, as an insane experiment to educate people about fermentation — one thing I promised was that I would try to learn as much as I could from the weird and wild world of food fermentation and apply it to the world of beer... and vice versa.

Well, one thing already stands out to me — in fact the first thing that truly surprised me about food fermentation. I haven't come across an exact term for this process / phenomenon, so unless someone can point the right word out, I'm calling it "self fermentation" (maybe "self inoculation" works too?) What I mean by this: in the world of food fermentation, the matter being fermented very commonly is already host to the microbes best suited to ferment it. Most foods, introduced to an anaerobic environment, will ferment themselves. The ideal bacteria best suited to those flavors and conditions are already there; the fermentation creates its own best-case scenario. It really can't get any easier.

This fascinated me when I first read about it, because it is quite foreign from how we beer brewers approach fermentation. While cleanliness is always important, sanitation with products like Star San is almost unheard of in food ferments. Is it that we brewers are extra paranoid control freaks, or is it that the world of food and booze ferments are more of a Venn diagram than a free-flowing continuum? The more I thought about the concept of self fermentation, the more it made sense. Why wouldn't the ideal bacteria already be those adapted to live on a food? Nature tends to follow a certain symmetry, and perhaps it's over-thinking our importance to assume that fermentations are meant to taste good for our benefit. We are simply reaping the spoils of a natural mini-ecosystem. An Ouroboros.

But as always, I have to come back to beer. Why doesn't beer follow this self-fermentation trend? Or, to pose a(n easily solved) riddle: can it?

The big difference between beer and other ferments is, in my opinion, complexity. And this isn't meant to sound like a beer snob putting down everything else: making beer is simply more complicated than fermenting vegetables, or even wine, mead and cider. For starters, these other fruits and vegetables can be fermented in their raw state, with very little human engineering necessary. Beer requires malting and mashing to unlock the sugars necessary for fermentation. Very few other ferments include so many factors, ingredients, and variables of process to determine the desired flavor profile. Even down to the fermentation itself: if you are fermenting vegetables, you aren't really thinking about the characteristics of the bacteria fermenting them — they're simply there, and they either do their job or they don't. Yeast seem to express a lot more versatility in their flavor profile. Therefore one strain of the generally-desirable Saccharomyces genus may create unpalatable, medicinal off flavors, while a host of others will turn out beer that is pleasantly clean and fruity, or enticingly funky and wild. When fermenting vegetables, you will end up with the right bacteria as long as you set up certain conditions for the ferment. With beer, a lack of control is more a game of chance.

So, yes, brewers are control freaks, to an extent. But this isn't a devotion to chemical-cleaning paranoia: brewers have spent thousands of years crafts hundreds of styles of beer based on the dominance of unique local strains, and now, with the ability to put those strains into vials and send them across the world, we can recreate any beer from anywhere. These strains may now be "commercial," but they were not first born in a lab — they have grown with us. The microbial landscape is a war zone (or at least a very competitive game of Risk) and we have formed alliances with a small set of Saccharomyces strains. They don't have the killswitch enzyme that their siblings in the wine world possess. They don't have the ability to drown their foes in acid, like lactobacillus. We have made a bargain with them: they will create flavors never tasted before outside of beer in return for their own exclusive playground. It is a compromise, and a small betrayal of the natives of the land. But they were all natives somewhere.

Fortunately, microbes don't hold grudges (as far as we know...), and we are able to form new alliances whenever we want, to create a totally different beer from the very same ingredients. Saccharomyces is far from the only organism to ever play a role in beer fermenations, especially if we're talking about self-fermentation. Yes, beer can self-ferment, and you've probably already solved my little riddle if you're familiar with the style of Berliner Weisse. (You should be, I just wrote about it again last week.) In fact, many old European styles rely on lactobacillus. Gose, similar to Berliner Weisse but with the addition of sea salt, is even closer to the world of food ferments. Historic farmhouse ales of Belgium and France were likely slightly sour due to the presence of lactobacillus. And that's not even getting into the rich, varied world of lambic and aged-sour beer, which relies on a slightly broader set of a organisms and a technique closer to magic than self-innoculation. (Over time, the microbes terraform the entire brewery, and brewers rely on environmental innoculation. Though one could argue that the wood in which these microbes live is itself the self-perpetuating environment... a topic for another day, perhaps.)

Sure, a lactic beer fermentation fits right in with the acidifying fermentations of vegetables and the clabbering of milk into yogurt, but there's something really awesome about a beer ferment looping back into the Ouroboros, given the added complexity of process. Barley must first be malted and mashed, and only then came fermentation begin. But the lactobacillus will return, even after the grains have been kilned, settling in and ever-ready to make the transition from solid stable food into bubbling liquid. The grains will ferment themselves... sort of. Like I said, beer is complicated. But with any food, it is incredibly interesting to view the fermentation as a magnification, a looping echo of flavors, rather than some outside alchemical magic.

Also, I call dibs on the name Ouroboros for a Berliner Weisse. My lawyers are standing by. Sorry.

Can You Pinpoint the Moment Your Tastes in Beer Changed?

Ghosts convene around the 2012 batch of Allagash Ghoulschip, haunting it with spooky souring microbes.

When you like something a lot, and you find other people who also like that thing a lot, it's easy to create a basic sense of community. Beer happens to be an exceptionally easy thing to bond over, especially if you brew it, but sometimes you want to dive a little deeper into a conversation than just listing some beers you've drank. In any passionate group of 'enthusiasts,' it's easy to kick off a conversation by asking the basic: "How did you get into this?" question.

Many people develop their love of (obsession with) beer over time, but I firmly believe that beer inspires such devotion largely because it is an acquired taste. We all have some vague story about how we got into beer, but these anecdotes and personal histories can often be long and a little tedious — maybe more fun to ramble about in person. I could write a very long blog post (I mean, longer than usual) about how I first discovered craft beer. But for all those years of developing my palate, discovering new things, and switching style allegiances, one night in particular stands out to me as the moment my tastes in beer really changed — or maybe solidified.

This was a few years ago, sometime in October, I think. One particular detail kind of nails the timeframe, and adds a nice bit of semi-irony that is perhaps the entire reason I remember this particular evening so well. Me and a few good friends were out for some beer events in NYC, and our first stop brought us to Blind Tiger, a wonderful (if perpetually-packed) beer nerd haven in the West Village. I forget what the exact nature of the event was, but I think it may have been an Allagash tap takeover. In any case, me and my friends were all about the Allagash Ghoulschip, an extremely rare one-off sour pumpkin beer thingy. It was a killer beer, and everyone at the table agreed that this sour beer thing was pretty neat. I had had sour beers many times before, and am one of those people that was hooked after one taste, but it was around this night that I finally began to pinpoint the specific flavors and nuances that I enjoyed about them. You know that moment when you suddenly find yourself able to go beyond "I sure do enjoy the flavor of this!" to being able to talk about it in specific beerwords?

As we sipped our spooky sours, I glanced over at a table near the window and observed two gentleman who just gave off an air of "knowing about beer." (They must have had particularly illustrious beards.) While everyone else in the room was busy killing these rare kegs trotted down from Allagash, these guys were drinking beer out of a can. What first seemed like sheer madness soon clarified, slightly, when the BeerPulse-reading portion of my mind recalled the significance of the cans in their hands. It was a beer from Vermont called Heady Topper, and the brewery that made it had just been wiped out by devastating floods only a few weeks prior. The brewery just happened to have opened a separate canning facility around the same time, and thus survived as a production brewery making only a single canned beer. I remember thinking at the time: "What a crazy situation, I hope those guys can rebound. I think I've heard that beer is pretty good, too." While we briefly considered getting a can, we had other destinations in mind, and continued on our way. One of my friends went back to the next day to see if they still had any cans. They didn't. It would be another year or so before Vermont really took over the world, and the potent double-thread of Alchemist / Farmstead would have me dreaming of northern-bound roadtrips, along with everyone else on the East Coast.

But this remains, mostly, the night that I decided I was obsessed with all things sour and funky. After our goblets of Ghoulschip at the Blind Tiger, we headed to Brooklyn for a sour beer night at a bar called Mission Dolores. There were five or so Flanders Redish and Oud Bruinish beers on tap, and it was this massive acid punch to the tongue — following the already impressive Allagash stuff — that led me to conclude these sour beers might just be my favorite style. Flanders Reds in particular really get me with their unrivaled balance of sweet and sour, the insane complexity brought out with hints of cherry, vanilla and oak. Where previously I had tried sours only to forget their names the next day, that was the night I tried Cuvee des Jacobins Rogue and decided it could not be the last time I had such a beer. I would be watching tap lists closely from then on. For when you gaze long into the sour, the sour also gazes into you.

Editor's Note: Okay, perhaps these anecdotes don't make for the most interesting stories ever, and this was kind of boring. Later on, I found a dollar, just right on the sidewalk. It was crazy.

Anyhow, there's something satisfying to me about being able to trace interests and obsessions in such personal detail. How often do we actually know why we like what we like? How many of the things we love were found when we were young, and those particular moments — the sparks of interest that lead to a hobby, or even a career — lost over time? Brewing is a unique hobby in that most people don't or can't get into it until they are older, and have already discarded a dozen previous hobbies from youth. It's a recipe for a passion and a hobby unlike any other.

Am I the only one with these lame memories, or can you trace your own personal history of changing tastes?

Is Craft Killing Big Beer — Not Through Sales, But Brand Status Erosion?

The last decade sure has provided journalists with some very reliable stories about the booze industry, hasn't it? Each year, the stories are pretty much the same, but since no one can quite unravel what's happening, the simultaneous growth and collapse of beer remains a fascinating economic case study.

In the last five years, craft beer has grown from 4.4 million to 7.3 million barrels produced (according to the Brewers Association), and so the story every year goes: craft shows no signs of slowing down, but maybe there'll be a bubble? Meanwhile, the big broad world of beer loses market share to wine and liquor. It makes for some interesting analysis: how is one small-but-broad niche growing so rapidly, while the over-arching industry crumbles? AdAge points to a number of culprits, everything from the economy to cold weather, but most analysis usually comes back to beer versus wine and liquor. After all, craft beer sales may rise dramatically, but still aren't a very big chunk of the overall market, whereas sales of liquor and wine together make for a massive economic juggernaut. According to Gallup, beer's lead over wine has slipped by 20 percentage points since the early 1990s.

I devised my own tentative theory a few days ago, when AdAge covered the recent National Beer Wholesalers Association annual meeting. I found a few paragraphs in that story to be very telling of the mindset of Big Beer marketers, so I'll just block quote them in full.

"At a private meeting with distributors, MillerCoors said it plans to meet that challenge with the 2014 launch of the high-end Miller Fortune, a higher-alcohol line extension. Ads will have the look and feel of liquor marketing, with messaging that "your fortune can change in an instant," according to a person at the meeting. 

But the most obvious way forward is to pay more attention to blue-collar consumers, the "most loyal drinkers of beer," MillerCoors CEO Tom Long said during a panel discussion. According to a person at the private meeting, the brewer plans to ramp up spending on Keystone Light and Miller High Life and return the brands to national TV.

While the industry has seen an explosion of brands and line extensions, Heineken USA CEO Dolf van den Brink said the pace of introductions "is not sustainable." Craft brands have flooded the market with new beers on an almost weekly basis. The activity is creating some fear that beer is becoming more like wine, in which styles are emphasized over branding. "There has to be a focus on building brands," said Bill Hackett, president of Crown Imports, whose brands include Corona."

The industrial complex has a deep-seated obsession with the concept of brands, and starting from this perspective, I think we can unravel some of the problems Big Beer is having. As the market changes, these companies just can't shake that mentality: we need premium brands, blue-collar brands; male and female-targeting brands; nostalgia brands; We must compete against "craft brands," and liquor and wine brand positioning. For every hole, there is a peg, for every consumer, there is a brand. Corporations have a very difficult time thinking any other way; understandably, as this approach has largely worked over the last hundred years. Beer has, traditionally, been driven by brands. And under this model, beer is sold much like cars, or computers, or any other industrial good. There is an economy brand, a medium-tier brand, an upscale brand, etc. The persistent attempts of macro breweries to convince people that "premium beer" is a specific type of beer is hilarious, and increasingly, kind of desperate.

But they are not exactly wrong. Many consumers do view the world, and alcohol, this way. Brands are a powerful thing. For a long time, the notion of "premium brands" was highly successful, as Big Beer was only really competing against itself, and night life establishments could position high end liquors and premium beers as roughly equivalent. Most people understand how beer works about as well as they understand how a car works, so if you keep insisting that a product is the "premium" version, they'll probably believe you. The branding model could establish its own rules, choose its own hierarchies. And for the marketers, it didn't really matter whether the "lite" category or the "premium" category was the most popular; they're all ultimately just brands.

But then craft beer came along, and, without even realizing or trying to do so, mucked up the whole hierarchy model. Sales of craft beer were insignificant at first — arguably, still are, in the general scheme of things — and nobody was really competing directly against the core brands of the big guys. But as consumers became increasingly aware of craft beer, something fundamental shifted. Craft brewers largely weren't marketing themselves, but nonetheless, managed to spread the general notion that they were making a better product. The use of "better ingredients" was often touted, even if consumers didn't have any direct interest in how beer was made. Craft beer was definitely more flavorful — even if you didn't like the flavor. Craft beer experimented, got nerdy, got technical, got obscure, got specific. Big Beer did not try to fight on this turf. Big Beer was satisfied to keep playing the "drinkability" card, the "lawnmower beer" card, the "you like to party, right bro?" card. And it did hit a few homeruns with "brands" that it never expected to sell — like Blue Moon — because they themselves did not fit into the traditional marketing approach. Blue Moon proved to be a massive success for Coors, but it was not the ultimate solution Big Beer needed. Because even though the majority of consumers are never going to show interest in Cantillon, or Hill Farmstead, or chase down a bottle of Kentucky Breakfast Stout, or trade for a case of Heady Topper, almost all consumers are now aware that craft beer exists. The world has conceded, perhaps begrudgingly, that beer crafted by small-scale, passionate artisans is probably the true high end. Many of these consumers do not themselves think craft beer is "better," in that they still prefer the taste of macro brews. But they are aware of the shift, the paradigm that now exists: craft beer is the "fancy" beer. The beer that aficionados and nerds and snobs drink.

And now, I would argue, a premium beer from the big guys doesn't quite equate to a top shelf liquor or wine. No matter how "into" beer you are, how could it? Fancy bars serve craft, townie bars serve macros. High end restaurants are still comically oblivious to the rise of pricey, profitable craft beer, but now a high end restaurant just looks ridiculous for serving a $6 Heineken alongside $80 bottles of obscure wine. So what happens then? A certain type of consumer switches to liquor and wine — maybe for status, maybe for the perceived value, maybe because, with beer shifting rapidly to a perplexing realm of un-marketed, obscure-sounding words-I-don't-understand, they feel that beer in general is lost to them. Wine has always been this way. Liquor has maintained a hierarchy that is easily understood. It becomes increasingly difficult to pretend that an expensive lager is a status symbol, so if you never were in love with the taste of it to begin with, why not order something else?

Obviously, beer marketers have not come to the same conclusion as me; or if they have, they are trying to realign their world through sheer perseverance. (And to be clear, my theory is certainly not the only factor, even if it's right. Many other trends, such as health claims and economics, shift the market share of these various drinks over time). Miller will make another grab for the premium beer market soon with Miller Fortune, following the lead of some recent introductions by Budweiser. Have these brands tanked, or will they? Nah. They still do fit into a branding slot that is decades old, and will appeal to a segment of the population; a segment that just happens to be dwindling rapidly. And thus, overall beer sales shrink, seeming to lose to the superior marketing efforts of high end liquor makers and the no-marketing-required, white-collar appeal of wine. Which then inspires Big Beer to copy the marketing techniques of high end liquor even more.

So Bill Hackett, president of Crown Imports, still worries: "There has to be a focus on building brands." But what happens when the notion of brands continues to erode, driven by a craft beer market that, like wine, pushes styles and regions and rating systems to the front of the conversation? We live in a world where, upon Googling for Budweiser's new Black Crown brand, the very first result is an influential review site that allows this premium beer a rather dismal 66 out of 100 rating. Most people may never glance at a word of those reviews, or care what they say, but this loud and immediate condemnation of quality can't be good for building luxury brand status.

How Many Hop Varieties Are in the Best IPAs? - A Statistical Analysis

Would you be surprised to learn that historic 1800's IPAs were generally single hop beers? 

Obviously, IPA brewing has changed a lot since then, but even as we're relearning how super-hopped and overcharged those original beers were, it's worth remembering that those IPAs were also usually SMaSH (Single Malt and Single Hop) beers, with East Kent Goldings defining the style for many decades. Was that because EKG was perceived as so clearly superior to the other varieties available at the time, or because they didn't have all the hundreds of exciting hop varieties we have today? 

Today, IPA recipe formulation is a very different story, with so many options and combinations of flavor-groups. People are brewing great IPAs with every strategy imaginable, to be sure, but with certain varieties so prized and expensive, you want to know you're using them to the best of their abilities. You want your IPA to stand out from the rest, without growing overcomplicated and muddled. It didn't take me long to start forming my own opinions about how many different hops to use, and in what kinds of recipes. But I wanted to see what others are doing — how the highest rated IPAs tend to fit together. And how do imperial IPAs differ in their formulation? 

After many hours of research, I present to you a short statistical analysis of the number of different hop varieties in the world's highest rated IPAs. To avoid bias, I simply used the top 20 IPAs and Imperial IPAs on both Beer Advocate and Rate Beer (minus duplicates). While rating sites are imperfect, this at least gives a healthy cross-section of notable IPAs that you'll have a good chance of being familiar with. So, let's dive in.

Beer Advocate Top 20 IPAs
1. New England - Fuzzy Baby Ducks IPA -  1* (Citra) 
2. Hill Farmstead - Susan - 3*a (Citra, Simcoe, Riwaka)
3. Tree House Brewing - Julius - 3*d
4. Ballast Point - Sculpin IPA - 8*c
5. Alpine - Nelson - 1*a (Nelson Sauvin)
6. Societe - The Pupil - 3*e (Nelson Sauvin, Citra, Centennial)
7. Alpine - Duet IPA  - 2*a (Amarillo, Simcoe)
8. Surly Brewing - Wet -  3*a (Columbus, Citra, Simcoe)
9. Fat Heads - Head Hunter IPA - 4*a (Columbus, Simcoe, Centennial)
10. Boneyard - RPM IPA - 6*e
11. Maine Beer - Lunch -  4*a (Warrior, Amarillo, Centennial, Simcoe)
12. La Cumbre - Elevated IPA - 7*e (-see special footnote)
13. Surly - Furious - 4*a (Warrior, Ahtanum, Simcoe, Amarillo)
14. Minneapolis Town Hall - Masala Mama - 6*a (Amarillo, Cascade, Centennial, Mt. Hood, Citra, EXP 342)
15. Russian River - Blind Pig IPA - 6** (CTZ, Chinook, Amarillo, Cascade, Centennial, Simcoe)
16. Lawson's Finest - Triple Play IPA - 3*a (Citra, Simcoe, and Centennial)
17. Foothills Brewing - Jade - 3*a (Pacific Jade, Cascade, Citra)
18. Alpine - O'Brien's IPA - N/A
19. Tired Hands - St.Oner -  3*a (Citra, Mosaic, and Simcoe)
20. Good People - Hitchhiker - 3*a (Simcoe, Columbus, Cascade)

RateBeer Top 20 IPAs (minus repeats)
1. AleSmith - IPA - 5*c (Columbus, Simcoe, Amarillo, Cascade, Chinook)
2. Bells - Two Hearted Ale - 1*a (Centennial)
3. Ballast Point - Sculpin IPA
4. Hill Farmstead - Susan
5. LaConner - India Pale Ale - 2*e (Warrior and Amarillo)
6. Shepherd Neame / Stone - California Double IPA - 3*a (Centennial, Simcoe, Target)
7. Russian River - Blind Pig IPA  
8. Hill Farmstead - Friendship and Reunion - 3*e 
9. Stone - IPA - 3*b (Centennial, Columbus, Chinook)
10. Fat Heads - Head Hunter IPA 
11. Alpine - Nelson IPA 
12. Surly - Furious
13. La Cumbre - Elevated IPA
14. Town Hall - Masala Mama IPA
15. Maine Beer - Lunch
16. Alpine - Duet  
17. Cigar City - Humidor Series IPA - 6*c (Ahtanum, Columbus, Amarillo, Cascade, Centennial, Simcoe)
18. Tröegs - Nugget Nectar Ale - 5*a (Nugget, Warrior, CTZ, Simcoe, Palisade)
19. Surly - Wet - 3*a (Citra, Simcoe, Columbus)
20. Maine Beer - Another One - 3*a (Citra, Simcoe, Cascade)

Beer Advocate Top 20 Imperial IPAs
1. The Alchemist - Heady Topper - 6*c (hop extract, Simcoe, Apollo, Columbus, Amarillo, Centennial)
2. Russian River - Pliny The Younger - 6*c (Simcoe, Centennial, CTZ, Amarillo, Chinook, Warrior)
3. Russian River - Pliny The Elder - 6*b (Simcoe, CTZ, Amarillo, Centennial, Cascade)
4. Alpine - Keene Idea - 1*a
5. Lawson's Finest - Double Sunshine IPA 1*a
6. Hill Farmstead - Abner - 5*a (Centennial, Chinook, Columbus, Simcoe, Warrior)
7. Kern River - Citra DIPA 3*a (Nugget, Citra, Amarillo)
8. Hill Farmstead - Ephraim - 4*a (Centennial, Chinook, Columbus, Simcoe)
9. Hill Farmstead - Double Galaxy - 1*a
10. Hill Farmstead - Society & Solitude #5 - 3*e (Motueka, 2 others)
11. Bell's - Hopslam - 6*a
12. Surly - Abrasive Ale - 2*a (Warrior, Citra)
13. Boneyard - Notorious Triple IPA - 7*e 
14. Three Floyds - Permanent Funeral - 1*f  (Citra)
15. Hill Farmstead - Double Citra - 1*a
16. Alpine - Bad Boy - N/A
17. Kern River  - Winter Ale (2012) / 5th Anniversary Ale - 1*a (Falconer’s Flight)
18. Hill Farmstead - Society & Solitude #4 - 2*a (Citra and Galaxy)
19. Columbus - Bodhi DIPA - N/A
20. Boneyard - Hop Venom Double IPA - 6*e (CO2 extract + 5 varieties)

RateBeer Top 20 Imperial IPAs (minus repeats)
1. Russian River - Pliny The Younger
2. Russian River - Pliny The Elder
3. Three Floyds - Dreadnaught - 4*c (Warrior, Simcoe, Centennial, Cascade)
4. Bell's - Hopslam
5. The Alchemist - Heady Topper
6. Hill Farmstead - Abner
7. Hill Farmstead - Ephraim
8. Hill Farmstead - Society & Solitude #5 
9. Pizza Port - Frank Double IPA - N/A
10. AleSmith - YuleSmith (Summer) IPA - N/A
11. Alpine - Exponential Hoppiness - N/A
12. Dogfish Head - 90 Minute - 3*c (Amarillo, Simcoe, Warrior)
13. Firestone Walker - Double Jack IPA - 6*a (Warrior, Columbus, Cascade, Centennial, Amarillo, Simcoe)
14. Stone - Enjoy By IPA - 11*a (Calypso, Super Galena, Simcoe, Delta, Target, Amarillo, Motueka, Citra, Cascade, Nelson Sauvin, Galaxy - see special note)
15. Lawsons Finest - Double Sunshine IPA
16. Stone - Ruination IPA - 2*c (Warrior, Centennial)
17. Surly - Abrasive Ale  
18. Hill Farmstead - Double Citra  
19. Valley Brew - Uberhoppy Imperial IPA - N/A
20. Kern River - Citra Double IPA

Source:
* = brewery website, bottle, social media
*b = clone recipe in Mitch Steele's IPA
*c = reputable clone recipe
*d = interview with brewer 
*e = direct contact with brewer
*f = other source

- According to Jeff Erway of La Cumbre, the exact hop bill for Elevated IPA may change due to hop availability. Jeff was kind enough to share the exact hop bill with me, which currently includes seven varieties: Columbus, hop extract for bittering, Zythos, Chinook, Simcoe, Nelson Sauvin, and Southern Passion.

- Stone's blog lists 11 hop varieties for Enjoy By. However, due to the nature of the beer (it's brewed on a rotating "batch specific" basis) it's not clear if these are all the hop varieties that have been used in the beer, or if all 11 are used every time. Based on comments in Mitch Steele's NHC presentation, it sounds like Enjoy By typically uses 7 varieties.

Subtracting repeats and beers that I was unable to obtain info for, we're left with 29 IPAs and 22 imperial IPAs. (If you have reliable information on any of the missing beers, please let me know in the comments). Now, a few of the brewers that I contacted directly noted their exact hop bills sometimes does change. I cannot claim that every hop bill listed above is 100% accurate, but as we're really looking for the number of hops in each beer, the figures should still tell us what we want to know. Let's punch some numbers into the old abacus, and here we are:

IPAs Featuring:
One Hop - 3 
Two Hops - 3
Three Hops - 13
Four Hops - 3
Five Hops - 2
Six Hops - 4
Seven Hops - 1
Eight Hops - 1

Imperial IPAs Featuring:
One Hops - 6
Two Hops - 3
Three Hops - 3
Four Hops - 2
Five Hops - 1
Six Hops - 6
Seven Hops - 2

While none of this information will blow the lid off the secret to crafting a perfect IPA, I think a few interesting trends can be noted. Many of the older trend-setting IPAs are those with higher numbers of different varieties — these recipes were born largely before particular hop varieties had their own following in the craft community. Sure, people knew what Cascade was, or that Centennial was real nice, but they were simply steps taken toward a great beer. Over time, as particular varieties became exceptionally scarce and sought-out by brewers, these varieties would start to become the actual selling point, rather than a key ingredient. In the last couple years, many people have sought out IPAs specifically because they used Citra, and you'll notice that many of the "low number" beers in the list feature Citra hops, or something similar and equally popular, like Galaxy or Nelson Sauvin.

One surprise in the results is how many imperial IPAs feature only one hop variety, as compared to regular IPAs. I suppose this may be that the extreme hopping expected of imperials allows that one variety to be really, really showcased. From there, the results decrease linearly until we reach 6 varieties, which is a curiously popular number of hops to use in both IPAs and imperials. Why 6 and not 5, or 7, I'm not sure, but this spike represents the other school of IPA brewing, and the more traditional method. Here, rather than focus on a specific hop flavor, brewers are focusing on a general hop characters achieved through blending — say, dank + earthy, or piney + floral, or super citrus, etc.

Many of the most popular IPAs of the last ten years have followed this "range of hop character" approach, and there are definite advantages to it. For one, it seems it would be easier to hit your target with a larger arsenal at your disposal. Say you want an imperial IPA heavy on pine and dank resin; the "classic" American IPA character. Certain hop varieties are scarce and you can't rely on them, but a blend of other varieties will get you there too. Of course, a beer focused on a single, popular hop is easier for a small 20 bbl brewery to brew, versus a brewery that must obtain enough of that hop to produce 100 bbl at a time. Or, similarly: a beer that is brewed as a one-off batch, versus an IPA that is a year-round staple. More established brewers can use their size and leverage to obtain solid contracts, but there may simply not be enough of some varieties to lean too heavily on them, and thus blending zeitgeist hops becomes a necessity. Pay attention to which breweries are brewing which sort of IPAs, and I think you'll see this played out in the results.

Tony Lawrence of Boneyard Beer in Oregon was kind enough to talk to me over the phone during what sounded like a very busy day, and indicated that he feels his recipes are focused more on quantity and timing than on particular varieties. "It's how much — how and when you use them — not so much which hops you use," he told me. Tony will take new hop varieties coming down the pipeline and work them into his recipes.

However, the maths are pretty clear when it comes to brewing a regular IPA — three seems to be the way to go, with 45% of all IPAs surveyed utilizing three varieties. This makes sense, too — imperial IPAs tend to go big and bitter and heavy on the resin, and a blend of hops will achieve that handily. But a smaller beer allows a tighter focus, and one or two hops can carry the show. Base a beer around a really characterful hop like Nelson or Simcoe, and you'll risk smudging some of its finer touches if you pair it with too much competition. Too many hops in a smaller IPA can get muddled. When cooking, you don't want to overdo the spices — use everything in the cabinet and they'll start averaging each other out, rather than adding to the flavor.

I hope this information was useful despite the small data set. Gathering all the info was a surprisingly time-consuming process, and I wish I could have tracked down complete info for every single beer. It would be interesting to extend the list to the Top 50 or even Top 100 beers, but that is an overly ambitious project for this particular blogger at the moment.

Got info on any of the beers I'm missing? Got a favorite IPA with a hop bill that you'd like to mention? Please do share!

Craft Beer Turns Into a Pumpkin at Midnight (ie July)

Earthy, over-spiced. 3/5

It's July. Humidity ravages the East Coast. Spent casings from fireworks liter the lawns of America. Most people you know are on vacation, the other half are preparing for a wedding. Exactly 50% of posts to Facebook or Twitter are people (such as myself) bitching about how hot it is. The other 50% are people taking pictures of their own feet by a pool or the beach, for some reason. Everyone is busy and chipper and trying hard to relax, and everyone smells like they're homeless.

So, July — guess what beer is just in season? If you said "pumpkin beer!", while excitedly mopping sweat from your brow, you are both weird and correct.

Pumpkin beers have become a very strange phenomenon in the brewing world. Many hate them, many love them. This is largely true of fruit and flavored beers in general, but as pumpkin beer gets a lot of specific attention a certain time each year, the style has become both an idol and a martyr, representing something larger than itself. Being that pumpkin beers were my original gateway into flavorful, craft-brewed beer, though now I hardly touch them, I find myself in a weird position whenever they come up in debate. I am both ready to defend them, yet often unable to do so, and more and more not really wanting to.

So, what's the deal with pumpkin beer?

1. Is It a Real Style?
You could make the argument that pumpkin beer isn't a real style with any pedigree in brewing history... but you could also make a convincing case that it's one of the few styles invented in America, and maybe even one of the few styles invented by the American craft beer movement. Modern American brewers brought something new into the world, and many are now ashamed of it. Personally, I think this recent American heritage is kind of cool. What makes pumpkin beer any less of a style than the dozens of others we've warped well beyond their original forms? And what law says new styles can't be born at any time? It seems to me that the qualifications for a new style would be, mostly, consistency and awareness. (If a brewer invents a new style, and no one ever drinks it, does it exist?) Pumpkin beer certainly has that — in fact, the style seems to be too well defined, if anything.

2. It's Actually Okay To Add Stuff To Beer
No one really believes in Reinheitsgebot anymore, do they? In my humble opinion, the concept behind pumpkin beers is perfectly sound. It's a concept born out of the desire to use native, local ingredients, and tailor beer to the season it's consumed in. There are plenty of styles doing similar things that just haven't landed in the perfect storm of cultural attention that pumpkin beers have, and thus, don't receive nearly the same amount of flack. The style is backed by noble intentions that mirror the very basis for craft beer — but unfortunately, it has mutated and grown over the years into something else.

3. Taking Advantage of Seasonal Whims
Seasonals are a huge money maker for many breweries — people want what's "in," and if you're looking for a break from the usual, it's far easier to go with a beer brewed for the season than just trying a random, unknown beer (speaking from the mindset of a Typical Consumer). Seasonals — pumpkin or otherwise — have a built-in marketing angle. Being extremely popular and a big money maker means these beers receive the full attention of distributors and sales people. Sadly, this is a major reason why the style now frustrates me, rather than making for a nice, "something different" in the fall months of the year. The fact is, breweries understandably want to sell as much beer as the public will buy from them, and when your pumpkin beer is hugely popular for just one or two months of the year, you find yourself in a position where you could sell much more than your brewers are able to provide in that time frame. So you brew early, and stock up on it, and get it out to the market a bit before the season. And then next year, maybe a little earlier. And the next year... well, it keeps getting more popular, and you keep having to make more, so what else can you do?

Beer bloggers are referring to this as "seasonal creep," and it's getting ridiculous. In years past, it was frustrating and bizarre to see pumpkin beers hit shelves in mid-August, with summer heat still lingering, but in 2013, we've seen them land in mid-July, right in the midst of record-breaking heat waves. It is, at this point, a running joke among beer nerds. And once November passes, is anyone buying the stragglers left on the shelf? Apparently not — at certain stores, I've spotted cases of pumpkin beer well into spring.

4. Gateway Beer
Maybe I'm just biased by my own experiences, but pumpkin beer does seem like a pretty good gateway into other flavorful craft options, and I don't see how this could be a bad thing in theory. It's not a huge leap from pumpkin beer into many other creative styles, and while they're very much in the minority, there are some brewers doing truly interesting, truly odd things with pumpkin in beer. I've seen pumpkin IPAs, pumpkin saisons, sour pumpkin beers, and Colonial-inspired recipes conjuring the kitchen-sink mentality of American settlers. They don't all work, but brewers are having some fun with the concept while luring in curious seasonal novelty seekers, and that's cool.

5. Sales Over Passion
One of the main gripes people offer about IPAs is that every brewery makes one, and they're just too ubiquitous. I agree with this lament up to a point — there isn't a problem with every brewer making an IPA, provided they are making it because they want to, and not simply to make money, or because they feel they have to have an IPA in their lineup. And it's the same with pumpkin beers, but I get the feeling much less passion is devoted to the brewing of this style than IPAs. I've heard tales of frustration from brewers who were coerced by an aggressive sales team into taking a stab at the style just to appease the years of the public demanding it. Or, in many cases, a brewer simply tries out a pumpkin recipe because they know it will be popular before really knowing whether they'll love it themselves.

I don't think it's always wrong to brew a style that you don't love yourself. Maybe you want to try to broaden your brewing horizons, or test your own preferences. Maybe you're driven to reinvent and improve upon something you don't typically care for. But just looking around and seeing what everyone else is doing is not the road to great beer (or great anything), I'd wager.

Pumpkin beers could be an interesting, once-a-year niche if they were just given some space. I love the thought of a few pumpkin beers as the weather turns cold in October; really, I love absolutely anything that reminds me of my favorite season. I love the lure of something derived from the season itself — but pumpkin beers emerging on store shelves in July shatters that illusion, and muddies the appeal. Back when I started drinking beer, only a few breweries made pumpkin beers, and a new one appearing was something to get excited about. Now, it's hard to think of a brewery that doesn't make one. Rather than having pumpkin beer to look forward to in a few months, I spend months avoiding them until finally caving and getting my yearly fill. They now feel like a looming obligation, and perhaps the most blatant sign that craft breweries are still businesses, and money still, in fact, talks.

If you scoff at their very existence, I would love to hear why, beyond "I don't like how they taste." Do you think there's any valid excuse for your local brewery to be dropping pumpkin beers in July? Leave a comment below, or call me a beer snob on Twitter at @bearflavored or on Facebook.

Lazy Beer Writers Are Ruining Craft Beer for the Rest of Us — Hops Are Just Fine

A brewer at Cantillon in Brussels adds hops to lambic... a style of beer which does not taste remotely
hoppy or bitter. Photo via Facebook.

Yesterday morning, I began skimming The Social Medias over coffee when an article titled "Against Hoppy Beers - Hops Enthusiasts Are Ruining Craft Beer for the Rest of Us" appeared on my Twitter doorstep like so much flaming poop in a paper bag. I knew it was going to be trollbait when I saw that headline, but the bait was too strong. I read it. And as I did, my blood pressure rose, the sarcastic quips and exasperated rebuttals soon piling up in my mind.

Normally, I just forget about this sort of click-bait "journalism" after a few minutes. The article — by Adrienne So, appearing on Slate.com — was intended to get people's attention, to get people talking, and it succeeded at that. Here I am, hours later, taking the time to write out this rebuttal. But this particular article bugged me more than most of the sloppy beer journalism that's sloughed off by big mainstream publications, who typically assign wine writers to elaborate on beer styles they don't even enjoy. Maybe these lazy articles are just building up over time — a crust of stale, uniformed laments. But in this case, from an author who says that she likes hoppy beers herself, it's not just the laziness or ignorance of brewing techniques that bothers me: it's the missed opportunities. Where there was an chance to open dialogue about why people like what they like, Adrienne So's Slate piece instead enters a bizarre, misguided blame game. It starts right there in the title: Hops Enthusiasts Are Ruining Craft Beer for the Rest of Us. And so the message seems to be: You should feel bad for liking what you like so much, because not everyone likes it. Sadly, this is the common thread with many of these articles. Rather than admit their tastes are simply different from others, writers too often try to cast their preferences as some fault of the thing they don't enjoy. If only IPAs tasted more like fermented grapes...

Let's peel back each layer of why this is so ridiculous, one by one.

1. First, apply this thesis to, well, anything else. Replace hops with "chocolate" and craft beer with "cupcakes." Imagine you had a friend complaining that they couldn't enjoy their blueberry lemon-swirl cupcake because chocolate cupcakes were just too popular. The horror.

2. Beyond starting with a misguided accusation, the article ultimately fails because it offers no helpful dialogue — there's no concrete, addressable problem identified, and therefore no solution. Is the author suggesting that IPA-drinkers should try to like what they like a little less? "Please stop enjoying IPAs so much"? It's hard to complain about any one style of beer being too beloved these days when we live in the most diverse era of beer styles and beer variety in history. Let's appreciate the craft beer Renaissance, rather than bitching that a couple styles are having slightly more of a Renaissance than forty other styles.

3. Again, to be clear: not everyone is required to like everything. That's fine. No one should think less of you for not enjoying hoppy beers. And this is not exclusive to hop-heads, or sour-heads, or stout-heads, or Grätzer-heads, or whatever. There are plenty of beer styles to go around, and plenty of room in the beer-world for those who don't enjoy them. Let's work on making people understand how varied beer is, rather than fearing their prejudices.

4. Sadly, the article misses the opportunity to address some issues that might be real. A complaint could be lodged about bars that lack appropriate diversity in their menu. If your taplist is almost entirely any one style of beer, and it's not some special event, sure, you'll alienate some drinkers. That's just poor planning. Likewise, most half-assed, half-craft bars are simply disappointing by nature, and likely always will be, loaded with their mass-market wheat beers. A bar with a couple old, stale IPAs is no fun for anyone, Hop Heads included. But such is life. Casting the blame on hop lovers doesn't help anything.

5. It would be absolutely legitimate to complain that some breweries put out IPAs simply because it's a popular style, because those brewers think they have to. Chances are, those IPAs aren't going to be very good. Don't brew beer you aren't passionate about — now there's a case you could make that's relevant and necessary.

6. The beer world moves fast, and so far as I can tell, diversity has usually been the result. For example: I can't think of a single brewery that makes exclusively IPAs (The Alchemist doesn't count). I'm sure there must be one or two out there at this point. However, off the top of my head, I can think of breweries focusing in plenty of other styles exclusively. Stillwater, Funkwerks, The Bruery, Logsdon Farmhouse Ales, and many others brew almost exclusively Belgian and farmhouse inspired beers, with nary a double IPA to be found. Jolly Pumpkin brews a dozen delectable sours, and bottles nothing else. Are we going to start complaining about the over-use of Belgian yeast next? It's a big, diverse market, with literally thousands of breweries in the U.S. alone. To imply that hops have some sort of monopoly can be nothing but an exaggeration.

7. The Slate article also implies that the popularity of IPAs is in jeopardy if we don't all calm down. We're scaring people. Yet all the evidence seems to point to hoppy beers growing more popular, and more accepted — how does that work, then? So far as my research has revealed, the Illuminati is not funneling millions of advertising dollars to push IPAs on the unwilling masses. The government is not giving secret tax cuts to The Alchemist to prop up Heady Topper's success. (Thanks, Obama!) If IPAs are popular, it's an organic popularity. And it's a hard-earned, underdog popularity. (Unlike, say, Blue Moon, which has a mega-corporation and millions of dollars behind it, and can afford to build artificial popularity over time by simply being everywhere). Thirty years ago, hardly anyone would touch a hoppy beer. IPAs had to fight to be accepted, much less consumed, much less popular. And now they're too popular? You think Hop Heads are just pulling your leg? Choking down bitter beers just to convince you to like them? No, the passion is genuine, and it's not going anywhere.

8. What really saddens me — the ultimate missed opportunity in starting a flamewar like this — is the effort that could have instead been spent educating people. For all its casting of blame, that silly article was the only thing hurtful to craft beer. It told people to be narrow-minded, to set up boundaries rather than broaden horizons. Don't do that. You don't have to like hoppy beers; really, it's fine. Some people will never be okay with bitterness at any level. But as with any style, not all IPAs are created equal  — you'd be amazed how much variation there can be.

The author makes the common mistake of correlating IBUs with hop flavor, even making the totally inaccurate insinuation that because the human threshold for IBUs drops off at a certain point, Hop Heads are just wasting their flavor potential on most hoppy brews. Humans do have a threshold for bitterness (around 80 to 100 IBUs), and it's true that hops provide bitterness, along with flavor. But that doesn't mean hop flavor levels out on every beer over a certain IBU level — that's not how it works, at all. This is important, Beer Writers and Mainstream Journalists of America, and I too often see it confused, so take note: hop bitterness (IBUs) and hop flavor are not the same thing. Hops provide bitterness, and hops provide flavor, and they can provide both, or one or the other. It's up to the technique and skill and preference of the brewer. The author had a great chance to lay out what makes a beer bitter, and what hops can taste like other than bitter. What do hop lovers love about hops, after all? Why is the style so popular? Those who don't understand this passion often think of IPAs as harsh, grating beers overloaded with vegetal preservatives, rather than the nuanced, fruity, exotic elixirs the rest of us enjoy. Rather than casting blame on those that enjoy them too much, one could illuminate the many ways hops can be used — clarifying that you can brew IPAs that are full of hop flavor and hardly any bitterness. Believe it or not, you might even convert a few new Hop Heads this way.

Since the author relies on anecdotal evidence, so will I: I've brewed beers that, on paper and by quantity, were exceedingly hoppy, but I brewed them in such a way that even my hop-fearing friends enjoyed them — and never once described them as "bitter" when asked. Focus on the flavor, and what brings that flavor, and you'll grow the ranks of beer lovers. When you've shown them something different, explain why it was different, and what they should look for in the future. With new hop varieties and new flavors appearing all the time, there's something for everyone. The best way to alienate people is to make them feel bad — no matter what kind of beer you, or they, enjoy.



If you enjoyed this article, please check out my exploration of what hops will taste like next.

What Will Hops Taste Like Next?

Hop descriptions are getting a little crazy.

I can't say with certainty that this is a new trend — I haven't been around long enough. In the early 2000's, were hop breeders releasing dozens of experimental hops with weird and wild descriptions? Even if they were, the hop industry wasn't set up the way it is now; internet merchants were not established, and homebrewers were not as abundant. Today, it seems, we homebrewers have the opportunity to act as beta testers for all the wonderful things happening in the beer world. It's a great time to be brewing beer.

I certainly can't imagine any other point in history when hop farmers would consider releasing a hop described as "chocolate coconut." Yet here we are.

I also don't think it's over-simplifying things too much to say that, for most of brewing history, hop flavors fell into a few limited realms. Historically, hops — Europe and the UK providing most of the world's varieties — fell into various combinations of floral, spicy, and earthy, adding up to the general sum of "hoppiness," or whatever you want to call their base flavor. These few specific flavor profiles were cultivated, and errant varieties were discarded. Again, at the risk of over-simplifying: many of those traditional, old-world hop varieties offered a similar profile with the same basic settings — those settings just being adjusted to different levels. I often describe red wine in this way (usually when explaining why it doesn't really interest me very much): a consistent base flavor, but with one knob turned down a little, another turned up a little, another knob at its medium setting, and so on. Differences tend to be subtle, as the available flavors are different shades of one color; nuanced implications of something outside itself. It's got to be hard to grow a grape that will taste like a mango. Or strawberries. Or grapefruit.

But for some reason, hops seem to have transcended the limitations of nuance, the boundaries of "tasting like what they are." I can't really think of anything else out there like hops — anything that has such a dynamic range of potential flavors. Is there another naturally-occurring flavor-creator as multi-faceted as this wonder-flower? This is why IPAs are the most popular style of craft beer right now. One of the most intriguing portions of For the Love of Hops, by Stan Hieronymus, is the chapter on hop-breeding programs, showcasing the amount of effort and time that goes into developing new varieties; the shifting emphasis (and obvious excitement) that hop farmers and researchers show today for new varieties; and the implied optimism for a future full of new and exotic flavors. Because, after all, we have only to look at the past to see how quickly these new flavors — variations on the basic, classic hop theme — came out nowhere.

Two hundred years ago, we had floral, earthy and spicy hops, mostly from those prized varieties out of Germany and England. American hops were considered inferior, with a distinct "American tang" and a flavor profile described as black currant and catty. Only in the last thirty years has the potential of American hops been embraced, much less unlocked. Cascade hit the scene, and all of a sudden the default character of hops (in the eye of the craft beer drinking public) shifted from spicy European hops to citrus and grapefruit in American pale ales. This opened up a beachhead, seemingly, and most new varieties followed in this direction, flooding the market with hops echoing variations of citrus flavors, and soon, tropical fruit, mango, peach and melon were new shades on the color wheel. Pine became a staple of American IPAs, and where once the synthesis of hop flavors suggested something herbal and flowery, of the earth, the new movement evoked dank and juicy flavors. Once we got there, with third wave hops like Simcoe, Amarillo and Citra, hop growers wasted no time in developing the fourth wave, adding new colors to the palette like lemon (Sorachi Ace), lime (various NZ hops), cherry candy (El Dorado), blueberry (Mosaic), and gooseberries and white wine (Nelson Sauvin). The IPA I brewed this last winter with Hops Direct Belma hops — enhanced by the steroid-like power of Conan yeast — tasted unbelievably like strawberries for the first two weeks. And — as briefly alluded to in For the Love of Hops — there are those rumors of a new experimental hop variety that tastes like chocolate coconut. Yep.

Of course, not every new experimental hop is going to be laser-focused on a specific new flavor; many of them are going to be subtle nuances, rather than outright flavor transformations. Nuance means that different people may have different interpretations, and if a description of a hop sounds like a crazy menagerie of characteristics, it just might be.

While I haven't tasted anything brewed with these experimental hops yet myself, it looks like we can add either chocolate, coconut or watermelon to the flavor wheel. Basically the same, right? I suppose it's also possible there are two separate varieties popping up here, one of which tastes like chocolate coconut, the other tasting like watermelon and coconut. Either way, it's interesting, and unique.

Most exciting of all? We're literally just getting started. Hop breeding programs are slow, expensive, and labor intensive propositions. Much of the research is being done in the Pacific Northwest of the United States, but old-world hop growing countries like the UK and Germany are starting to release some interesting new varieties as well. New Zealand has been pushing out some incredibly unique new hops, and the acreage devoted to hop growing in that country is quite small — I'd love to see a future where hops are one of New Zealand's main exports. Growing the same hop varieties in different countries — or even different regions within a country — will never achieve the exact same flavor, due to changes in the growing conditions. It's called "terroir," and it's hugely important to hop growing as well as wine. Simply developing breeding programs in new parts of the world will open up a new range of flavors that would have been impossible under old markets. This is why I am extremely excited for the new hop farms appearing right in my backyard, in New York (the state which was once the hop growing capital of the country, we'll be quick to remind you). New farms like Dutchess Hops won't be able to grow proprietary varieties like Simcoe, Citra, Amarillo and Mosaic (at least not for a while), but may hopefully develop new breeds of their own. Dutchess Hops has already expressed an interest in hunting down and testing out wild hops from long-defunct hop farms in the area. Another lesson from For the Love of Hops: Amarillo, one of the hottest hops out there today, was not bred intentionally, but was found just growing on a random hill.

It's impossible to imagine what the brewing-world will look like in 50 years. The ingredients that will be available to us then won't look like the list of hops we have today. There's only one thing I can guess at with certainty: it will be face-meltingly awesome.


Consider this an entry in what will be an ongoing series, "Why Beer Is Unequivocally the Pinnacle of Human Achievement."

Visiting Tired Hands Brewing Co (Ardmore, PA)

In many ways, Pennsylvania is a very strange place. Sometimes a slightly stupid place. (I'm allowed to say that because I grew up in Pennsylvania, on a farm, with twelve cats and a manure pit). This is particularly true regarding alcohol—the laws and complications regarding the sale of a simple bottle of beer in my home state are pretty mind-boggling. So when my cousin, who lives in the suburbs of Philadelphia, introduced me to the booming beer culture there a few years back, I never expected to find it so rich and varied. Sure, the whole state has had pretty healthy brewing scene for a number of years—somewhat paradoxically, considering the regulations breweries there have to deal with on their home turf. But the landscape of the greater Philly area is absolutely lousy with tiny microbreweries and brewpubs, and most of them seem... good? Variety is one thing, but the experimentation and passion I'm seeing there is something else. In a comparable area outside of NYC, we have maybe... two or three breweries? I know real estate is way cheaper down there, but Pennsylvania is kicking our asses, guys.

I still have many more brewpubs to check out in the greater Philly area, but the last couple times I visited, I find myself compelled to return to one: Tired Hands, in Ardmore, PA. Tired Hands is technically a brewpub, in that they serve food and brew their beer on premise, but do not distribute. However, it's misleading to think of Tired Hands as such, considering that a lot of brewpubs... kind of suck at beer. No, Tired Hands seems like an establishment run by restless, creative, quirky homebrewers, and I love that about them. They wear their personality and passion on their sleeve. (Tired Hands brewmaster Jean Broillet learned his craft partly at Weyerbacher—coincidentally, same as Dan Hitchcock, brewmaster at Rushing Duck and the subject of my last brewery visit). With the exception of Tired Hands' two main beers—HopHands and FarmHands, a hoppy pale ale and saison, respectively—the draft menu changes fast. In the handful of times I've been there, I have yet to see the same beer on tap twice, with the exception of their two standards. The majority of their brews are, as far as I can tell, one-offs. I'm not sure I've ever encountered another brewery with that model.

With so many new beers popping up week to week, sure, Tired Hands might risk alienating locals who like to know what to expect. But varied as their selection is, it's not at all random—every beer on tap gives a real sense of the brewery's personality. Tired Hands largely gravitates towards hoppy beers and farmhouse ales. There's a lot of overlap between those two realms, seeing as saisons can be pretty hoppy, and the brewers show a commitment to doing everything they can within that range. You can expect to find lots of single-hopped saisons, experimental saisons featuring oddball ingredients, IPAs featuring all manner of new, fruity hop varieties, oak-aged experiments, and Brett-based creations. Highlights of my recent visit included a 100% Brett-fermented pale ale brewed with yeast from Chad Yakobson at Crooked Stave—which, even more interestingly, is part of a solera project—and a pale ale called HeavenDream brewed with Meyer lemon zest and hopped with Motueka, Cascade, Galaxy and Zythos. Notably, every beer at our table of eight was basically identical in appearance until my girlfriend ordered a stout, the only "dark" option on the menu... but which was also fermented with saison yeast.

Beer Menu. Click to enlarge.

This ever-changing tap list is probably partly a symptom of Tired Hand's popularity and small capacity, but given the variety of beers you'll find there on any given week, the brewers seem committed to doing their own thing, knowing their beers will be good enough for patrons to keep up. Given the uniqueness and experimentation on display, you can tell that they're just as excited to try their new creations as fans are. I love this mindset—brewing what you want to brew, when you want, rather than what you think you have to produce to meet some antiquated notion of Market Demands. Given the recent success of other breweries operating with this mentality (coughHillFarmsteadcough), can we finally put to bed the boring notion that a brewpub won't succeed without offering a by-the-book pale ale, hefeweizen, lager and porter/stout for the unadventurous masses?

On the more technical side, I also noticed that Tired Hands hoppy beers consistently maintain a very "soft" profile, making them all brightly, subtly flavored—and probably more accessible to those who wouldn't usually go for an IPA, demonstrating that you can appeal to all sorts of drinkers while still captivating newness-seeking beer nerds like myself. I should mention that one of my friends offered a flipside to this cross-style consistency. At the time we went, there was nothing you might call aggressive on the menu; all of Tired Hands beers have a similar gentle palate — even the heavily-spiced ones and the heavily-hopped ones. It's nice having a range of easy-drinking but flavorful options, but especially in winter, you do sometimes want a beer that just punches you right in the mouth.

Continuing to buck the "brewpub" label, Tired Hand's food selections more closely resemble those of a small artisan cafe than an "appeal-to-everyone" American bar and grill. The food pairs perfectly with the beer; in fact, depending on your tastes, you might even consider it just as much of a reason to go. While a menu of cheese plates, panini, pickles, and bread may not sound like much, you'll just have to take my word for it that they're all really, really good. Cheese is sourced from local farms, and is appropriately awesome. (Note: I love cheese). The panini don't disappoint — I had the veggie option, made with green beans, which works much better than it seems it should, particularly with some of their mustard. The pickles are unique, house-made creations, but the real star of the menu is the simplest: the bread and butter. Made in-house, with their own yeast, the bread is way better than it has any right to be, and enhanced by some seriously fantastic butter — presumably locally-made as well. Topped off with sea-salt, I could tear through a platter of this bread / butter combo as a meal. Fortunately, and for a reasonable price, that's an option.

While beer and food are the most important things (in life) at any brewpub, the little details add up too. Also indicating to me that the folks behind Tired Hands just have a really awesome mindset, their artwork and beer names are perfect too. I recently wrote about ten breweries that solidify their personality with well-designed beer labels, and while Tired Hands only bottles a small handful of special releases, they do have artwork for certain beers displayed on the walls. It's quirky and odd (check out their logo on the t-shirts below), as are the names for most of their brews. Certainly, names like "Stare At Yourself In The Mirror Until You Feel A Burning Sensation," and "The Light That Spills Out Of The Hole In Your Head" might be kind of obnoxious if they were actually printed on a beer bottle in your local grocery store, but since these beers will (probably) never appear outside of the brewery, and are (possibly) only one-off brews, sure, let them have their fun. I have a soft spot for sentence-long, cryptic titles, I guess (probably my long love of post-rock bands to blame for that). Even better, it seems like a solid quarter of their beer names are Kurt Vonnegut references, and any fan of Vonnegut is a friend of mine.

Service was good every time I visited, if you're worried about that kind of thing, and the place was busy but not packed. There are two floors, and two bars, set up in a kind of rustic rural tavern style, though the place is not huge by any stretch. New beers always seem to be waiting in the wings when one taps, so there's never a reduced selection. On one visit, my friends and I sat downstairs near the bar, and eventually pestered the bartender with a number of questions — he was extremely friendly and generous. Tired Hands seems to have a great crew.

My only real complaint comes with a note of understanding: beer prices are pretty high, though I think I understand why. Tired Hands' experimental nature and Hot New Hop-focused brews require some pricey, hard-to-acquire ingredients, and they're a very small, very new operation, meaning they probably don't have much buying power (or money-saving hop contracts). They keep pretty much all their beer on the same pricing structure, which is nice. A full pint runs you $7, and that's acceptable. But an 8 ounce sample glass is $4.50, a 4 ounce sample glass is $3 dollars, and there's no option for flights. So to sample most of the beers on the menu—which of course I want to do, and you should do as well—you're going to end up paying something like $9 dollars a pint. That's a bit steeper than almost any other brewery or brewpub I can think of. But, to be fair—I can't think of any other breweries exactly like Tired Hands. In this case, it happens to be worth it.

I'm not the first person to suggest this, but Tired Hands is going to make a big splash in the next year. However, I am the first person to give Tired Hands the Bear Flavored Stamp of Approval.

My Favorite Beer Label Designs - Brewery Power Rankings 2013

For years, craft brewers just tried to earn the attention of the mainstream consumer. And for the most part, now, they've gotten it. What comes after attention? Respect. While Beer has often been looked at as the fun, unsophisticated sibling to monocle-wearing Wine, that perception is finally starting to change. And presentation is no small part of it. Labels, more than just looking cool, reflect the personality of a brewery (or brewer), and provide a window into their intentions and passions. And after all, isn't a sense of personality and individuality — more so than how many barrels you brew per year — what ultimately separates "craft beer" from "focus group formulated Beer Brand X: now with cross-demographic market synergy!"?

To celebrate those breweries that go above and beyond with their beer, wrapping it in packaging every bit as appealing as the liquid inside, here are Bear Flavored's Favorite Beer Labels and Bottle / Can Designs for 2013 (presented in alphabetical order). These are breweries with a sense of purpose and place, and the creativity to express it.

A couple ground rules:

1. The beer has to actually be in stores now, available to the general public for purchase. No conceptual designs.

2. Weight was given to breweries with many good designs across multiple beers, rather than a couple stand-out labels or one-offs.

3. Presenting pertinent information clearly on the label is a plus. 100 points for "bottled on" dates.

4. Negative 100 points for tacky sexual imagery.

5. Negative one trillion points if a label for a "blonde" style beer incorporates innuendo and sexual imagery referencing aforementioned style. I'm looking at you, Every Brewpub in America.

Alright, here we go! Let me know what you think in the comments below, and please do share any breweries or labels that you think I may have missed. What are your favorites? I'd like to make this a regular series, so there's always next year.

Anchor Brewing
San Francisco, CA
Website: www.anchorbrewing.com

Of course the first entry on my list is the one that bends my own rules a bit: Anchor earns its spot partly because of its label designs, but also because of the bottles themselves. Does Anchor have a patent on this bottle shape or something? Streamlined and unique, it's eye-catching on its own, yet no other brewery I've seen uses them. And Anchor has certainly been around long enough for everyone to notice how good this style of packaging looks. As one of the original craft brewers, Anchor put out beers 30 years ago that remain top examples of their respective style today. Their labels respect that history with understated, vintage simplicity, more like classic wine labels in their design than many of today's clipart aesthetic label designs. Anchor's annual Christmas beer ("Our Special Ale") is especially notable for its changing art year to year, each vintage designed by artist Jim Stitt.


Anchorage Brewing
Anchorage, AK
Website: anchoragebrewingcompany.com

Sometimes the best label is no label at all. Screen printed bottle labels — ie, the paint is right on the bottle; no paper — have long been the style of choice for a few nationally-known breweries, like Stone. And while I certainly enjoy Stone's designs, Anchorage Brewing, a relative newcomer to the scene, takes the cake and then bakes it up into an even bigger, badasser cake. The designs are swirling, intricate, borderline-chaotic, somewhere between a comic book and trippy gonzo art. Being printed-on, the bottles allow for some effective usage of negative space, while still jumping out at you with vivid colors. And — as is ultimately most important — the art itself is classy, creative, and beautiful. Anchorage Brewing is a one-man operation, the mastermind of brewer Gabe Fletcher, but whoever he went to for these label designs, he made the right move. And as with any attractive bottle, it helps that I love the beer inside, too.

21st Amendment
San Francisco, CA

Website: 21st-amendment.com

The first beer I can remember buying based on the coolness of the packaging alone was 21st Amendment's Back in Black IPA. (Shortly followed by Bitter American.) Packaging may not be the best reason to blind-buy a beer, but it's not the worst, either. Especially when it's so detailed and eye-grabbing, effectively utilizing the built-in extra space a full-can design allows. Even the typography on these things is top notch. A unique sixpack "sleeve" holds the beer and extends the canvass, making 21st Amendment  one of the most distinctive brands on the shelf. At the time I discovered them, "good beer in cans" was also a new concept for me — I believe 21st Amendment played an important part in pushing that whole trend, nationally speaking. They seem to be doing pretty well since that day I discovered them, to the point where I think most casual craft beer drinkers know them as "the brewery with the awesome cans." And while they may be more than that, these guys could give lessons on how to effectively grab a consumers attention.

Deschutes
Bend, OR
Website: www.deschutesbrewery.com

Via OhBeautifulBeer

You may notice a trend with many of the following breweries on my list — larger breweries with pleasingly low-key, consistent packaging on their primary year-round beers, but exceptional, unique designs for their specialty series. As a general trend, it makes sense — larger breweries have more resources, and are more likely to have defined "series," or tiers of beers. It's effective, and I have no doubt we'll begin to see this branding strategy used even more, as more breweries gain the resources for revamped label designs. Deschute's Bond Street series features labels that would stand out on any shelf, with big, vivid, eye-catching artwork, and the name of the beer cleanly incorporated into the design. But Deschute's regular lineup beers are deserving of praise, too, for some of the best "pretty painting in an oval" approach I've seen. It helps that I'm a sucker for landscapes, and Deschute's beers employ them well, with an art style that's warm and appealing without seeming kitschy and rehashed.


Hill Farmstead
Greensboro , VT
Website: www.hillfarmstead.com

I almost left Hill Farmstead off this list for fear that I was too biased by the contents inside their bottles. Was I placing Hill on here just because the brewery is, perhaps, my favorite? But the other nine decisions on the list were also influenced by the quality of the contents — these are breweries that I believe all make great beer. After more consideration, I decided that the elegant simplicity of Hill Farmstead's logo-based labels was too indicative of my ideals to overlook. Hill's bottles illustrate that which I find most important in a craft brewery, second to the quality of the beer itself: personality.

Hill recognizes the strength of his logo, and bases each label around it, changing little but the color and the name. And the names of Shaun Hill's beers also hold a lot of significance, with references to ancestors and philosophy. No cheesy puns or innuendos; these beers are literate, thoughtful, but never too clever for their own good. Shaun Hill doesn't need gimmicks to get your attention — knowing that his beer is good enough to stand on its own, he instead uses packaging to tell a story. The story of his family, his ideals, and the farm that is the namesake of the brewery. Simple, honest, and timeless.

New Belgium

Fort Collins, CO

Website: www.newbelgium.com

New Belgium's whole lineup of labels is elegant, and artistic — an impressive feat for such a large brewery with such an eclectic range of beers. With their main lineup and seasonals — their sixpack beers, in other words — the labels feature original artwork that's understated and rustic. Fitting, given the brewery's origin story and image. But with New Belgium's more experimental "Lips of Faith" series, they push label art to impressively creative lengths with wrap-around designs printed directly to the glass of the bottle. Many breweries take advantage of the larger 22 ounce format their specialty beers arrive in, but this series is particularly eye-catching with its sprawling, seamless designs that blanket the bottle.

After visiting and touring the brewery last year, New Belgium's commitment to beautiful packaging doesn't surprise me in the least — despite their now-huge size, they've remained a great company with an admirable aesthetic.

Night Shift Brewing 

Everett, MA

Website: www.nightshiftbrewing.com

Night Shift's logo absolutely dominates in the simplicity corner. If it were just an owl, it would be a cool enough logo already for its simplicity and clever ties to the brewery's name. But... it's an owl that's also a hop cone! Brilliant. And when your brewery's logo is that good, of course you're going to slap it on all your labels. More than a few points of this design recall the clean layouts that wineries favor, enhanced by their 750 ml bottle format. This type of design doesn't work for every brewer — you have to be exceptional, otherwise it's just boring. Night Shift's bottles demonstrate a marriage of unique branding with commonplace industry iconography, and beyond the cleverness, they look super duper classy. (A word I'm forced to throw out a lot in these descriptions). Taking advantage of the stripped-down super-simple look, Night Shift also manages to cram a ton of pertinent information around the corners, for which I applaud them. 

The caveat: I've never actually tasted a Night Shift beer. In fact, I've never even seen one in a store, since they are a hyper-local nanobrewery based in Massachusetts — I'm well out of their distribution range. They're one of those breweries that I've been following for a while based on the strength of their personality and obvious potential; and so, they are the only brewery on this list whose beer I have never experienced. Hopefully I'll be able to change that some day soon.

Odell Brewing

Fort Collins, CO

Website: odellbrewing.com

Vaguely-rustic woodblock images. Old-world inspired artwork. Odell's labels are another perfect example of the way to my heart — with unique, original artwork that looks beautiful on its own, and totally cohesive when viewed as a full line-up. Odell's labels manage to balance their art and their typography so that each becomes a part of the other, with the added benefit that these beers really "pop" off the shelves. It's hard to hit that sort of middle-ground — they're more complex than logo or typography-based labels, but more uniform than labels which simply change the layout for new artwork each time. The resulting coherency is impressive.

While some of the brewery's specialty releases follow their own separate aesthetic, the "Woodcut" series, in particular, stands out as equally beautiful and coherent.

Pretty Things Beer and Ale Project
Cambridge, MA
Website: www.prettythingsbeertoday.com

I guess one should expect that a brewery calling itself "Pretty Things" would take aesthetics seriously, but the consistent quality of their designs is almost unrivaled. Pretty Things opts for the original artwork angle across every beer in their lineup, giving the bottles both pleasing consistency and beautiful individuality. No amateurish clip-art here. They're certainly not the only brewery to use original artwork like this, or even this extensively, but other breweries seem to design their labels as labels — Pretty Things are seemingly designed as art. Craftsmanship and individuality are what good beer is all about, right? With their story-book charm and whimsical quirk, the aesthetic of these labels are uncannily well thought-out.


Three Floyds
Munster, IN
Website: www.3floyds.com

Three Floyds is metal, and they know it. Their labels walk the fine line between badass and dorky in a way that no other brewery I've ever encountered has managed. Generally, labels this over-the-top would strike me as... garish. They're there, they're inches away from it, and yet they're executed so brilliantly and confidently and boldly that instead, Three Floyds is just pure awesome. The flair of a comic book without the ham-fisted dialogue. The anarchy of an intricate sleeve tattoo without the regret. And it helps that their confidence is matched in the quality of their beer; Three Floyds makes some of the best stuff out there, regardless of style, and their graphic design matches this adaptability and variety. Their labels cover a number of art styles, yet each is distinctly "Three Floyds." Of course, with such a huge variety of labels, I don't love all of them — but the many that I do love, I really love.

Now if only I could track down some goddam Zombie Dust.