Palmers Brewery maintain their wet credentials

In 2001 I went round Palmers and was amazed to see that they had a cask of their now defunct Bridport Bitter set up for the workers, a survival from a different age — a wet brewery no less, something that I originally wrote about here. Visiting the brewery the other day, I asked about it, recalling my first visit, and mused that it must be long gone. How wrong I was — there in a corner, was a barrel of the brewery’s Copper Ale (fruit chews nose — is that tangerine? — grainy, chewy mouthfeel, refreshing citrus notes, dry biscuity finish), something that the staff have a drop of when work is done and there’s fat to be chewed. People aren’t on the bevy all day long but it’s nice to see a brewery think about this and also trust their people (I remember hearing of one West Country brewery that was reputed to sack anyone who touched a drop during working hours). Nice one Palmers.

South African beers out of the Castle

A couple of weeks ago I did a piece for the food magazine Scoff which goes out quarterly with the Spectator, about the small craft beer community over in South Africa. I didn’t think it was online but I came across it here so as the World Cup vuvuzelas to its end I thought it might be of interest. Scoff is a natty foodie mag usually found online but this particular issue also had Ben McFarland writing about US beer here.

A tale of two Anchors

I’ve long been a lover of Anchor Brewery’s Old Foghorn. Oh I know nit-pickers will point to American barley wines having a higher hop character than the Brit ones that still survive in the UK, but I don’t really care. For me styles are a starting point in a beer, a base from which a beer can either stay put or start moving in another direction whilst retaining its original character, but that’s by the by. What I want to pay homage to, to bow down before, to supplicate myself in awe, is Old Foghorn. And to this extent I conducted a tasting of two vintages, one I bought from Tuckers Maltings’ magnificent beer shop around 2002 or even 2001 (with a drink by date of May 04) and hosting a strength of 9.4%, while the other came into my possession a few months ago (drink by date June 2011); this one is a mere stripling at 8.2%. Others have come and gone over the years, I once had a case in, but I find them hard to resist, so the survival of the older Old Foghorn is nothing short of a miracle. I like what age does to some beers, bringing forth the complexity of malt and letting the yeast do its work. So here goes.

Old Foghorn, brewed c end 1990s/2000/2001 (?)

Top prised off, no hiss. Quiet and complacently lacking in carbonation, though there’s still enough to suggest that this is a beer if one were evaluating solely on fizz. Light chestnut brown in colour. Sweetness is reminiscent of an old Madeira, vinous, woody, fiery, roast bananas, then it has a brandy-like savour. The initial dose of alcoholic fieriness is then softened by marzipan-like cake character; there’s a creamy and smooth mouthfeel. I tried it with a chunk of Parmesan and found that it doused the saltiness of the cheese, which it in its turn teased out the sweetness of the beer, making for a delightful tango on the palate. The complexity of the beer continued as a suggestion of dried cherries also emerged on the palate. This an elegant end of the night snifter, a delight, a bittersweet fiery massage on the palate, with a peppery colonel bringing up the rear, barking out the order: drink this or be denied a great experience. This has become such a venerable old beer, elegant and restrained, decorous and scented like a bonfire of cherry wood. If you have one in your cellar open it now or maybe leave it another year or two and see what happens.

Old Foghorn, brewed c2006/07 (?)

Opened, as you’d expect, with a hiss and a swish as the beer returns into the world of the living. Also light chestnut brown in colour. In the glass an earthy woody nose, reminiscent of damp old twigs or damp woodland in autumn; the nose then develops a sweet bubblegum like character. It’s snappier on the palate than the older beer and has a creamy, bitter finish that lingers with a roistering dryness. On the palate there’s an iron-like herbal character that isn’t there on the older one while the bitterness is pretty big; there are also bright cherry-like notes. It’s not so good with the cheese, it hasn’t developed the vinous sweetness to deal with the salt and cream. A great beer on its own and maybe one for mid-evening.

Both are fantastic examples of the skill of the brewer’s art and also the effect aging has on a beer. Obviously you wouldn’t bother aging a bottle of Goose Island IPA or Bateman’s XXX, but I always love to see how some beers last (my oldest is a 1993 Hardy’s, I hardly dare to open it but I will have to one day).

There’s a photo in Michael Jackson’s Beer Companion, in the barley wine chapter, of a pint of Old Foghorn in a bar in San Francisco. It’s in a handled glass, which I always turn down if offered in a pub (straight or handle sir seems a phrase from another age, but I guess people like them in a post-modernist, ironic sense, a bit like smoking a pipe or wearing Hunter wellies at Glastonbury), but for some reason the photo has always called to me. If seen on a winter’s night I lust for an Old Foghorn. 

The Times beer supplement — read it here

Yersterday The Times published a Best of Beer supplement that featured the work of Pete Brown, Ben McFarland and myself amongst others. Once again I would hazard a claim that this supplement marked the continued interest of the nationals in beer (I did something for the the DT in April, which you can read here), and I hope it will continue. Back to The Times’ supplement — if you missed it you can read it here.

It’s tasting night at Tierney-Jones Towers

Beerwriters Guild AGM last week. Andrew Howitt is a member who lives in Brazil part of the year and wrote about some of the country’s craft beers in 1001 Beers. He emails and says do you want me to bring some beers? Yes please as both Brazil and Argentina seem to have a small but growing group of craft brewers. And so at the end of the meeting, he gets his bag out and produces a selection of goodies. Zak Avery and the Guild’s chairman Tim Hampson buzz about but I manage to get Baden Baden’s Stout Dark Ale, Colorado’s Imperial Stout plus Lust from Eisenbahn (a sort of Deus type beer). Back home at the weekend, desperate for something different I try the Imperial Stout. It’s dark in the glass, midnight at the end of the old moon; bubblegum, sweet apple, toffee and a feather-light dance of raspberry on the nose. Tasted: a rich and bittersweet confection, milk stoutish with more of an oomph than you would expect with something like Mackeson (it is 10.5% after all), creamy, good bitterness kicking in towards the end of the palate with a delicious soothing succulent finish. I found it oversweet at first, but then my palate got in line and rock and rolled with the whole ensemble, I was mightly impressed (tropical imperial stout anyone…). The next night it’s the turn of the Baden Baden Stout: smoke, soot, toffee, burnt raisins, rolled around a creamy texture with a dry, bittersweet finish. This was only 6.5% but went down with the smoothness of a drop of Crème de Cacao. The Lust sits on a shelf in the cellar, next to a five year old bottle of Deus. I await a bottle of Malheur Brut and will then institute a tasting. And while I’m on the tasting game, I also had a bottle of BrewDog’s Prototype kindly sent to me, which I also drank at the weekend. This apparently is Hardcore IPA with raspberries and aged in an Islay whisky barrel. That’s the technical stuff over with and here’s the sensory stuff. Colour is a dark blush, pretty lovely. Raspberries, iodine, aftershave and tcp on the nose (ouch!), while the palate is an intriguing mixture of luscious raspberries, then harsh iodine, soft raspberry again and then a hard rasping bitterness from the hops. Raspberry, iodine whisky and hop bitterness — I’m not sure it worked but by god it makes for an interesting beer. The raspberries give an appealing tart sourness while their sweet fruitiness helped to temper what could be a very fiery finish. There’s also a woodiness in the finish that makes me think I could be chewing raspberry canes (rather than lolloping on a Mivvi). But then I also think raspberry jam with whisky and hops in it. A work in progress, but then that’s why it’s called Prototype. Would a secondary fermentation with Brett make it even more interesting?

I’m no Robert Capa but I try

For once I thought I would let some pictures do the talking. These are four I took at Palmers in Bridport earlier this week, starting off with the mash tun, then the old mill, the open FVs (don’t you worry about bugs I ask — think of the amount of CO2 on top comes the reply, that’s enough to disperse with bugs) and finally my attempt at an arty shot of the boil with that little cubicle of light letting the world in briefly to investigate the magic of brewing. They do tours out there and then you can investigate their beers — I’m a particular fan of their Best Bitter, crisp biscuit character on the palate and a good dry finish, and Tally Ho, rich, liquorice-like, some toffee and a vinous finish. Lovely.

Moor keg conditioned beer anyone?

Karaoke drayman for a morning I am, taking an emptied cask of Revival back to its source, Moor Brewery on the sun-drenched, green-limbed glory that is the Somerset Levels in the summer (it’s a different matter in January when the low clouds and gloom hang about like a pestilence). A moment’s chat with Moor’s Justin Hawke, about something he told me about several weeks ago — keg conditioned beer. A need to get it clear in my head before writing about it, as the science of brewing sometimes eludes me (when I was at school chemistry and physics were as mysterious as the reasons why Piers Morgan is a global success). According to Justin, a call came from a Danish importer for a beer or three. No casks to be sent that far (as they are precious for all breweries) and no bottles were ready, so the Danish guy sent kegs to be filled, which would on their return have been served chilled and under gas. Hawke, prior to letting all this happen, did a trial keg of Somerland Gold, yeast in the beer, and got it served side by side with the cask version at the Queens Arms in Corton Denham. On the day, hot it was, the keg was more enjoyable went the consensus. And for the purists, please note, it was served under gas and chilled but naturally conditioned in the keg. So Hawke said to the importer that he would fill them with naturally conditioning beer, though due to a lack of finings (he likes to dispense without finings wherever commercially possible) it would be hazy. The beer went down well and requests started to come in from other countries. And then the Queens and the Devonshire Arms at Long Sutton took it. At the latter, the nearest pub to the actual brewery, Peat Porter goes down well as an alternative to Guinness. Hawke used to live in Germany and cites Keller-type beers as a similar experience. ‘As far as I can see no one is doing this,’ he says, ‘it’s a great way of getting cool naturally conditioned beer in the summer.’ This concept has been taken further in Hong Kong, where Moor’s beers have been put into kegs and the bar concerned can serve them either through a keg font or a handpump. So what’s the big deal? The beer is cooler but it’s still naturally conditioned — Hawke reports that out of about 100 CAMRA types who have tried it down the Devonshire, only a couple have grimaced and taken the righteous route. Hawke could be onto something here and I look forward to trying some soon.