Anchor historian Dave Burkhart on the story behind Zymaster No. 4.

How did Fort Ross, a nineteenth-century Russian fur-trading colony ninety miles north of San Francisco, become the name of the latest release in our Zymaster^® Series?

The answer is in the beer: Yerba Santa, wheat, and barley.

Fort Ross circa 1830

For centuries, Belgian farmers brewed beers that were uniquely local. Their farmhouse ales, which became known as saisons, were made from the grains they cultivated and the herbs they found growing wild nearby. Each was crafted from local ingredients, creating distinctly local flavors and aromas.

I had several conversations with Mark Carpenter, our brewmaster, while he was developing the recipe for our Zymaster Series No. 4: Fort Ross Farmhouse Ale™. From the beginning, of course, his basic concept for our saison was rooted in Anchor’s long tradition of making quaffable, well-balanced beers with character. As Mark’s recipe came together, though, it became apparent that the balance in our saison would not just be in its flavors and aromas but also in the sources of its ingredients.

Our farmhouse ale would be made with both wheat malt and barley malt, as is traditional. But while most of the wheat and barley would be American, we would also use quite a bit of toasted wheat malt from Belgium.

To be true to the style, we would also do what we have done only on rare occasions at Anchor. We would use a yeast other than our own. It would be a Belgian-saison-style yeast, as one would expect, but sourced locally, from a San Francisco Bay Area lab.

Yerba Santa from The Botany of Captain Beechey's Voyage, 1841

And, in addition to hops, we would use a special herb to add flavor to our farmhouse ale. A Belgian herb, of course, would have made our farmhouse ale taste Belgian. But it wouldn’t have been true to the essence of the style, since farmhouse ale is all about the wild herbs growing almost literally in the farmer’s backyard. Yerba Santa, a native California herb, seemed the perfect choice.

Named Yerba Santa (“holy herb”) by the Spanish missionaries, this perennial shrub grows wild on Sweeney Ridge to the south of us, where members of the Portolá Expedition first sighted the Bay of San Francisco in 1769. It also grows wild to the north of us, on Marin County’s Mount Tamalpais.

And it also grows wild near Sonoma County’s Fort Ross, just a couple hours’ drive up the coast from our brewery.

The Old Russian Church at Fort Ross in the early 20th century

Russia’s early presence in North America was all about its fur trade with China. Sea-otter pelts were highly prized by China’s elite, who offered the Russians tea, cloth, and porcelain in exchange for them. In 1812, in order to facilitate the Russian-American Company’s hunting of sea otters along the California coast and to support itself and Russia’s other colonies, especially Novo-Arkhangelsk (New Archangel, now Sitka, Alaska), with much-needed grain, Fort Ross was established.

One might say that except for the land and the weather, Fort Ross was the perfect place for a farm. Nevertheless, the Russians made a go of it, harvesting “bread plants” like wheat and barley with the help of the local Indians. Primitive conditions were compounded by primitive methods. Although they had a windmill—built in 1814 to grind grain into flour for bread for both Fort Ross and Sitka—reaping was done with sickles and threshing with horses, which trampled the grain to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Threshing the grain with horses in early California

Finally, in 1836, a Russian agronomist named Egor (Georgii) Leontievich Chernykh, came to Fort Ross and built a thresher. In 1841, upon Fort Ross’s abandonment by the Russians, it was listed in the inventory of items sold to John Augustus Sutter.

Fort Ross in 1843

A Russian American Company report from 1842 sums up the Fort Ross story:

“Among the most notable dispositions, executed in 1840 and 1841 in the Russian possessions in America, we cite first the abandonment of the Colony Ross, established in 1812 on the coast of New Albion. This establishment had been formed in the hope that the cultivation of fields in this part of America where the climate is less severe [than Alaska’s], would offer an easy means to provision the other colonies situated more to the north on an arid coast. At first the sea otter were found in great numbers in the vicinity of [Fort] Ross, so much so that the hunt and the commerce in pelts seemed to promise enormous economic returns.

“However, it did not turn out that way. The fields and the prairies that the Company had been able to acquire were not extensive enough. Since they were situated at an elevation considerably above the stream banks, surrounded by rocks and precipices, these fields were too difficult to access, not to speak of the proximity of the ocean. The frequent fogs on this coast would often have disastrous results on the harvest. Soon the sea otter became rare in these places and the result was that the expenses to maintain this establishment rose…to a considerable excess over the revenues…[from] the value of the pelts…and the agricultural produce.”

Fort Ross was history. But the local Kashaya people were not. The Kashaya, whose name means “expert gamblers,” had willingly and successfully gambled on providing the Russians with the land and the labor that made Fort Ross possible. They were the area’s original settlers, moving in and around it according to the seasons for thousands of years.

The purple flowers of the Yerba Santa plant

In May, just before the delicate purple flowers of the Yerba Santa began to bloom, the Kashaya would harvest this wild, native plant. Probably no plant was more valued as a medicine by the Indians of Northern California. Smoked or chewed like tobacco or brewed like tea, Yerba Santa was used to treat a variety of ailments, from asthma to headaches.

Closeup Showing the Eriodictyon, or "wooly net," on the underside of the leaves

Yerba Santa’s botanical name, Eriodictyon californicum, denotes the “wooly net” of its unusual leaves and the California origins of this perennial shrub. Our release of Zymaster No. 4: Fort Ross Farmhouse Ale™ coincides with the emergence of its beautiful but ephemeral flowers.

For San Franciscans, by the way, the best place to find Yerba Santa in the wild is along the Sweeney Ridge Trail, about fifteen miles south of the City.

The view from Sweeney Ridge

As of June 1, my most recent hike to the spot where Spanish explorers “discovered” San Francisco Bay, Yerba Santa was very much in bloom.

Sweeney Ridge Dicscovery Site (left) and Yerba Santa in bloom along the Sweeney Ridge Trail (right)

Take the Sneath Lane exit off 280 and head west on Sneath until the street ends and the trail begins. It’s a 1.8- mile hike up to the SF Bay Discovery Site. Halfway up the hill, you’ll see Yerba Santa growing on both sides of the trail.

Mark Carpenter had experience brewing with Yerba Santa and was familiar with the unique bitterness and almost hay- or alfalfa-like flavors and aroma of this uniquely Californian herb. It would provide the perfect complement to the sweetness from the malt and the fruitiness and clove-like flavors from the yeast, creating a uniquely Californian farmhouse ale.

But if neither the Russian colonists nor the Kashaya people made beer, why call our farmhouse ale Fort Ross?

The answer is indeed in the beer, because the true essence of Belgian-style farmhouse ale is not in the use of Belgian ingredients. Rather, it’s as much about the farmer as it is about the farm. Belgian farmer-brewers cleverly combined what grew on the farm with what grew around the farm to create their uniquely and wonderfully local farmhouse brews.

The farmers at Fort Ross, with the help of the Kashaya, grew wheat and barley. And what grew around their farms was Yerba Santa.

They didn’t make beer (if only they had!), but for a brief moment in California’s long history, Fort Ross was the only place on earth where Yerba Santa, wheat, and barley grew side by side.

Now you can find this botanical Troika in a bottle or on draught at your local pub!

Budem Zdorovi!

Belgian saisons were traditionally brewed by farmers during the winter months and cellared until they were served to seasonal farm workers.

Saison translates to “season” in French and was brewed in the cooler months of the year and held for consumption during the warmer summer season, often by farm workers. Once considered an endangered beer style, saison is still being produced in Wallonia by a few small artisanal breweries and has been enthusiastically adopted by American craft brewers.

From a brewing perspective, farmhouse ales have evolved from their Belgian origins and are now brewed and fermented using modern methods, with many being produced year around. Even so, most brewers try to emulate some of the classic saison profiles.

Since the original saisons were designed to be laid down for some months, they were sometimes highly hopped and had ABVs of 7% or higher to help with preservation. Each farmer had their own recipe, often including herbs and spices, giving rise to many distinct versions which are reflected in the wide range of interpretations of this style today.

Modern saisons are loosely defined as a group of Belgian pale ales that are highly carbonated, around 7% ABV, with fruity, spicy, and often tart characteristics. The color range is from pale to amber with most being in the dark yellow to orange spectrum. They may be spiced and sometimes Belgian yeast strains are employed. Pale malts are most commonly used along with wheat and some darker roasts added for color.

From an historical perspective it seems unlikely that farmhands would be furnished with several liters of strong ale as refreshment during the hot days of summer.

It has been speculated that farmhouse ales were brewed and laid down for purposes of preservation but were either diluted or blended to a lower a ABV before being consumed. The surviving commercial examples from Belgium tend to reflect the higher ABV model, as do the numerous American craft brewery offerings.

There are French versions of farmhouse ale that come from the region of France adjacent to Wallonia. Called “Biere de Garde”, or “beer to be stored,” these French farmhouse ales are very similar to their Belgian cousins in most respects because they share common origins. Even though they are often described as stylistically different, the geographic and cultural similarities of a region whose borders have wandered back and forth many times in the last five hundred years, along with the extremely broad nature of the style itself, brings them both together. Today, both styles are represented in commercial examples currently being brewed.

For the fourth offering in our Zymaster Series of special brews, Anchor Brewing has produced Fort Ross Farmhouse Ale. Named after the early Sonoma coast Russian settlement and true to its origins, we have emulated a classic Belgian farmhouse ale with a local twist. Our yeast is a local saison style and our malt bill contains barley and two types of malted wheat, one of which is a toasted Belgian variety. Our local ingredient is the indigenous plant Yerba Santa, or “Holy Herb” in Spanish, which was held to have healing powers by native Californians.

The blend of Yerba Santa and hops creates a unique bitterness that complements the clove-like flavors produced by the saison yeast, and the addition of toasted wheat malt produces a bronze color and contributes to the pleasant maltiness of the finished beer.

We hope you’ll enjoy the latest release in our Zymaster Series, and toast the “saison” with a Fort Ross Farmhouse Ale.

Ian: Where can I get a cool lab coat like the one I saw at Anchor?

Bob: Thanks for the compliment! I always feel much cooler when I put on the lab coat. Smarter too. It’s just a standard lab coat, but it’s the guy who’s wearing it and the Anchor patch that makes it truly cool. We get the lab coats from a uniform service and have them sew our patches on. You can get an Anchor patch from us at our online Steam Gear store, and you too can be cool.

Mike : Why don’t you ship Anchor brews to Australia?

Bob: Anchor is now available in Australia! Please contact our distributor Robert Oatley Vineyards for more information on where to find our beers.

Brenner: Any chance that Anchor could host homebrewing classes?

Bob: While Anchor fully supports the homebrewing community, we’re not really set up for conducting homebrewing classes on-site. Commercial brewing on our scale is so much different from homebrewing, that it would be difficult to model specific techniques or draw useful comparisons. I recommend that you join a homebrewing club and seek the advice of their members. These clubs are very good, as well as supportive and experienced in the craft. Check online with the AHA (American Homebrewers Association) for a club in your area. They are always looking for new members.

Ask Bob A Question

Do you have a question you’d like to see answered in “Ask Bob Brewer?” Submit your question in the comments below or post it on our Facebook page.

Mark Sarigianis contacted me last year with the hope that Anchor might be able to help David Johnston and his Sharp Teeth Press with the publication of Evan Rail’s extraordinary essay on Why Beer Matters. I was already familiar with Rail’s Good Beer Guide to Czech beers, which came in handy on a recent trip to the Czech Republic with the San Francisco Symphony. Rail’s a wonderful writer, whose ideas about beer are both cogent and illuminating. Why Beer Matters answers the question eloquently and provocatively. Having been involved with Anchor projects from Ninkasi, the re-creation of an ancient Sumerian beer, to Anchor California Lager®, the rebirth of California’s first genuine lager, I particularly enjoyed his reflections on beer and the passage of time.

How fitting it was, then, that SharpTeeth Press was going to use centuries-old papermaking and printmaking techniques to craft Rail’s essay into a handmade book about beer, each signature painstakingly typeset yet effortlessly elegant in its resultant beauty. And how happy we at Anchor were to be able to play at least a small role in helping David Johnston and Mark Sarigianis realize their dream.

I asked David if he’d be willing to tell this very San Francisco story of this very handsome book, which clearly demonstrates why beer matters and why books matter. I hope you enjoy it! –Dave Burkhart

David Johnston and Mark Sarigianis in the Anchor hop room

My name is David Johnston, proprietor of Sharp Teeth Press in San Francisco. Sharp Teeth Press is a young publishing and job printing company dedicated to letterpress printing, typecasting, and bookbinding of the highest quality. Our first publication in 2013 is Why Beer Matters, by beer writer Evan Rail. Evan is the foremost English-speaking expert on Czech beer culture and wrote the CAMRA Good Beer Guide to Prague. He self-published his essay and released it only as an eBook last year. Sharp Teeth Press has produced the first print edition in a deluxe letterpress format.

Book spines of Evan Rail’s Why Beer Matters

Why Beer Matters was hand sewn and bound by the press with very special paper, handmade from burlap hop sacks. Eight months ago we contacted Dave Burkhart at Anchor Brewing Company with an odd request. We needed the burlap sacks that hop cones are stored and transferred in. This was a more difficult request for a brewery than one may think. First, the vast majority of breweries in the United State use hop pellets to make their beer. These are stored in plastic containers and have a longer shelf life than whole-cone hops and thus have become an industry standard. That is, unless you are awesome, old school, and cling to the great notion that “the less processed, the better.” Such is the case for a brewery like Anchor, which uses only whole-cone hops. Here at Sharp Teeth Press, fine beer is almost as important to us as fine printing, and thus we were aware that Anchor was one of the only places to go for such a project.

Cover of Why Beer Matters, showing papers handmade from Anchor hop sacks

With the help of Pam DeLuco of Shotwell Papermill, we set out to turn burlap into paper. This entailed cutting the sacks into one-inch squares (a longer process than one might think) and then boiling the mixture with soda ash for three hours. This was done in several batches in order to get enough material to give to Pam, who then hand-made the mixture into paper at her studio. The result was a strong jute paper, which we could use to cover boards for the book, thereby literally “binding” the process of beer production and book production together. Each piece was then letterpress printed with an illustration of a hop vine by a friend of the press, Christine Dryer-Sarigianis.

The STP edition of his essay was set entirely by hand with metal type and printed on fine, archival French paper. Hand-set type is a rarity these days, and carries with it its own set of troubles and pleasures. A trained eye for proofreading is necessary. Because of spell-checking technology, which has been ubiquitous for decades, our eyes are no longer accustomed to the kind of close reading necessary to spot all potential errors. And, as can be imagined, hand setting is quite slow. As an example, let’s say the average typist can type 35 words per minute. Why Beer Matters, in contrast, was set at a rate of about two words per minute, or three hours per page. Regardless of its tribulations, however, the opportunity to immerse oneself in a text as deeply as is necessary to hand set that text is rare and enriching, allowing the typesetter to internalize the text by reading it more closely and slowly than anyone—other than the author—likely ever will.

Hand-set type

Some people argue that the first human civilizations were built up on a foundation of bread and beer-like fermented grains. At Sharp Teeth Press, we’d like to believe this is true, and we also believe that many of civilization’s greatest achievements during the past several hundred years have been made possible by the passage of information through printed media, primarily books. It is with great pleasure that we join together these two pillars of humanity, one scholarly and one gastronomical. Evan Rail points out that “Fine wine, cheese and chocolate provide material for meditative sensory evaluations, of course, but the new interest in good beer has extended the opportunities for this type of calm introspection to millions of people beyond the traditionally rarefied realms of connoisseurs and gourmets.” We invite you to share his worldly and charming opinions on beer and its importance through our first offering, a labor of love and tradition, not unlike the brewing of beer itself.

With Beer’s Good Graces,
Cheers!
Dave Johnston

Dave Johnston at the press

Why Beer Matters is for sale at SharpTeethPress.com and can be purchased for $100 plus shipping and sales tax when applicable. The proceeds of the sale of this book will help get Sharp Teeth Press a larger studio and more heavy machinery in order to produce beautiful handmade books in a generation that is growing more and more digital.

When we last heard from our heroes, Yankee Sullivan and his pet goat Jack were incarcerated, recovering from their steam-beer-induced New Year’s revelry. But alas, it was their last New Year’s eve together. Billy Sullivan passed away before the next Thanksgiving, leaving his billy goat despondent but no less thirsty, as the San Francisco Call reported on November 14, 1898:

With the passing of [William F.] “Yankee” Sullivan goes one of the city’s best known characters, and his death brings more prominently before his old associates his chief mourner—the old goat, who was his constant companion. The goat is inconsolable. When his master was sent out to the hospital he wandered around from one saloon to the other, visiting all their old haunts, and hunting among their old friends until now, failing to find his master, he has placed himself under the care of Dick Madden, in whose saloon on Broadway, the goat has often drunk not wisely but too well.

Sullivan picked up the goat when, as a kid, it was hunting for a home on Telegraph Hill. He raised it through the various stages of goatship and taught it to drink, and in return the goat bestowed upon Sullivan all the affection of a dog. It followed him everywhere, and when, as was often the case, Sullivan’s course was saloonward, the goat brushed past the swinging doors after him and lined up at the bar with the good old “boys.” He was fond of good steam beer, as was his master, and when it happened that the steam was unusually sharp and plentiful and his master was in need of assistance home, it was seldom the dissolute old animal was in a condition to offer anything more than sympathy. He even went so far on one occasion as to get himself arrested when he found his master in the hands of the police. Sullivan was apprehended for raising a disturbance while under the influence; the wagon was called and Sullivan was given a seat. It was the intention of the policemen to leave the goat, but it was not his intention to stay, so he climbed into the wagon, despite all opposition, and rode to the prison. They stalked [staked] him out on the lawn, but he made the night hideous until he was taken in and locked up with his master. Sullivan was sentenced for six months and the goat stayed at Madden’s until the expiration of the sentence, when he and Sullivan celebrated in their customary style.

It was a queer partnership—the man and his goat—both falling deeper, each among his own kind, but falling together, the only redeeming feature being the evident affection between them. Now that Sullivan is dead the goat is traveling the pace that kills. He has made his headquarters at Madden’s and still has his beer, but he takes it alone, and when he has passed his allowance he has none of the hilarity of yore, but becomes moody and morose and sleeps in a corner and perhaps wonders why his old friend has left him alone. Sullivan died at the City and County Hospital Saturday last [November 12, 1898] after an illness of six weeks.

Epilogue

So what ever happened to poor Jack? Although the details are sketchy, it appears that his adoption by San Francisco bartender Dick Madden was ultimately successful if not rehabilitative. The grief-stricken goat, a roof over his head and a bowl of steam beer under his goatee, bounced bock. A year and a half later, Madden either had a new goat or had renamed Jack “Boscow.” The latter is the likelier story, as Madden’s “Boscow” exhibited all the talents, proclivities, and animal magnetism of Sullivan’s/Madden’s “Jack.” According to the San Francisco Call, at a meeting for the Fraternal Order of Eagles in San Rafael’s Schuetzen Park (the 37-acre amusement park was founded in 1891 by marksman Philo Jacoby, for whom San Rafael’s Jacoby Street is named) on May 27, 1900:

Dick Madden was present with his famous goat “Boscow.” A number of Eagles were initiated by the festive members and were compelled to ride the animal, much to the pleasure of the onlookers. Much to the regret of his owner, “Boscow” became intoxicated. This was due to his unquenchable thirst. The goat would “butt” in every time a flock of eagles gathered at a refreshment stand. “Boscow” would make his wants known by a plaintiff [sic] “bah” and his appeal would prove irresistible.

Irresistible indeed—as irresistible as this charming, politically incorrect San Francisco story of a man and his drinking buddy billy.

In Part I of our story, we heard the San Francisco Chronicle’s account of the steam-beer-swilling San Franciscan and his steam-beer-swilling goat. The San Francisco Call reported the same story on the same day (January 2, 1898) but took more interest in their arrest than their crime:

When the law, assuming the form of an expansive policeman, stepped between Bill Sullivan and his goat, the law had reason for regret. The law simply got the wind knocked out of it.

Bill and the goat are features of life on Telegraph Hill and the fame of their mutual affection is crystalizing [sic] into one of the sweetest traditions of North Beach. They have been regarded as inseparable. Now cold, gray walls divide them. Bill is in jail and weeps to get out. The goat is out, and because of inability to get in raises the voice of lamentation.

The pair undertook to help the glad New Year drift pleasantly to position on a flood of steam beer, but they miscalculated their capacity. Soon it was observed that the twain had taken more than any well-regulated man and goat have any right to try to carry. Small boys tooted discordant notes of jubilation at them. Bill could not actively resent [resist] them, but the goat was game. He charged upon the hosts of confusion and they fled in panic. Then Bill, congratulating the prowess of his companion, became too noisy, and a policeman lifted him into a patrol wagon.

Having watched the affair with tolerable patience the goat concluded to participate. He gathered himself for a spring and he sprang. His hoofs came down in the wagon, his head struck the policeman just at the solar plexus, made him see stars, and formulate ejaculatory remarks derogatory to the goat family. The goat settled down in the wagon with every appearance of intending to stay as long as Bill did, and the policeman did not say him nay, having nothing left to say it with.

At the jail the real trouble began. The goat wanted to follow his friend inside, but by an adroit move was headed off. He is not a goat easily to be baffled. Withdrawing a few yards he lowered his horns and charged the iron door even as a battering ram the gates of Gaza. The impact jarred the door. Throughout the prison rang the sound thereof until suspicion arose that an earthquake had come to town. Again and again the goat shot himself at the door.

People who drew near from motives of curiosity didn’t stay. Soon the goat was given all the room he needed. But a jail door guarded by a large goat of morose disposition ceases to be useful. Necessity arises for opening it occasionally, and necessity knows no goats. The two-horned dilemma had to be eliminated from the situation. No police duty was ever more clear, but some have been less difficult. If the beleaguered officers endeavored to peep out straightaway the door would be charged and get ajar. When one of them actually ventured forth he felt like a gladiator entering the arena, to do or die or go to the hospital.

But the goat at last weakened a little. It had hurled itself against the hateful door so many times that experts estimated its spinal column to have been shortened materially. The police captured it and tethered it with a strong rope. Then did the goat bleat woefully, and, between whiles, eat of the restraining hemp. Plainly, the rope couldn’t last long. The uproar of the prisoner outside reached the ears of the prisoner inside and added to his other pangs that of an actual sorrow.

As a final resort two brave men led the goat away, at intervals the goat varying the programme by leading them, and cached him in a livery stable, where at last accounts he was still expressing discontent and giving utterance to grief.

And Bill, well Bill sheds tears and pines for the yesterdays when he and his beloved mate roamed in freedom among the uncanny alleys and the tin-canny heights of Telegraph Hill.

Click here for the third and final part of our story, where we learn what became of Billy and Jack.

Disclaimer: What follows is a true story, exactly as told in the San Francisco papers 115 years ago. It is literally history. We do not endorse or otherwise recommend the activities chronicled, including drinking Anchor Steam® Beer with farm animals. To paraphrase a familiar saying, what happens in 1898 stays in 1898! That said, this story is simply too good to keep to ourselves!

On January 2, 1898, the San Francisco Chronicle reported an unusual incident involving William F. “Yankee” Sullivan and his pet goat, Jack, both of whom were apparently quite fond of steam beer. What follows is the Chronicle’s account, exactly as reported 115 years ago:

William F. Sullivan, a sailor, and his billygoat, Jack, wound up their celebration of the new year’s advent by getting arrested at noon yesterday [January 1, 1898] for drunkenness. Jack is the pet of the ship on which Sullivan is an able seaman, and the two have for a long time been constant companions, ashore as well as at sea. Their tastes, too, run alike in many directions—particularly in the direction of beer.

At one stage of his existence Jack used to guide guileless sheep to the slaughter in the Butchertown shambles. [Butchertown was located where San Francisco's Bayview is today.] It was there that he acquired the liking for human society which became a fixed habit after he had ceased to be a landlubber. His love for beer also came to him when he took to the sea.

Early Friday evening [December 31] Jack and his shipmate, Sullivan, started their New Year’s spree on the water front. Every glass of steam the sailor bought he shared with Jack. They gradually worked their way uptown, and by early morning were making a series of port tacks on Policeman Harter’s beat on Powell street.

The goat was then so drunk that he could not distinguish a delicate tomato can from a musty custard pie, while the seamen’s binnacle [ship’s compass] lamps grew dimmer every minute. The oddly-mated pair managed to travel only by making short luffs from sidewalk to sidewalk. Finally they found anchorage in an alley, and the policeman decided not to disturb them.

At six bells in the morning watch goat and sailor again hove in sight on Policeman Harter’s beat, woozier than ever. They were then convoyed by a highly amused crowd. Finally the goat sat helplessly on his haunches in the middle of the sidewalk, with his head bobbing from side to side—a very picture of hopeless intoxication. He resisted all the coaxings of the sailor and would not move even for the policeman.

When the street had at last become blocked by the crowd the disgusted policeman rang for the Central Station patrol wagon.

As the sailor was being lifted into the wagon he protested vigorously against a suggestion that the goat be taken to the city pound.

“I won’t be locked up, mates, unless Jack goes to jail, too,” was his ultimatum.

Jack was laid alongside him in the wagon and is now [January 2] sleeping off his New Year’s “jag” in the Central Police Station stable, where he will remain until his shipmate’s case is disposed of on Monday.

In Part II of our story, we learn the consequences of celebrating New Year’s with a goat.

Back in the day, wood was the material that was used for the construction of beer barrels, storage vats, mash tuns, and just about every other brewery vessel except the brew kettle. This was the case with the wine and distilled spirits industries as well. In ancient times, wine was fermented, stored and transported in clay vessels known as “amphorae,” as were the original beers of Mesopotamia and Egypt. By the early centuries A.D., wood had replaced clay or terra cotta as the favored material for the manufacture of containers for the storage and transport of liquids, probably because of durability and ready access to raw materials.

The classic barrel shape was an engineering design that added strength and provided for the cinching of the bands to bind the staves together. Somewhere along the way, it was noticed that the type of wood used for the barrel contributed to the character and flavor of the contents. Since barrels were expensive and labor-intensive to make, they were used many times over, often to hold different products. Again, it was noticed that the flavor of the contents could be affected — this time by the residue of the previous inhabitant of the barrel.

The first time a new barrel is used, the nature of the wood and the length of time the product is held there will yield some character of that particular wood. If the same product is placed in the barrel time after time, there will be little if any effect on it, as the wood has yielded all that it has to offer by continuous use. Secondary uses, as in sherry barrels used to age Scotch whisky, have become industry standards for some products; primary once-only uses, as in the production of Bourbon, for others; and continuous, same-product use for still others.

Getting away from wine and whisky, which have their own extensive lore in this area, let’s move on to beer. Wood has played an important role in the brewing industry for centuries. For hundreds of years, beer was fermented in wood, aged in wood, shipped in wood, and served from wood. As previously mentioned, the wood ceases to provide anything to the product, except maybe bacterial infection (more on this later) after the initial use; and beer barrels were extensively reused. Wood is porous and notoriously difficult to clean. Beer shipped in wood has to be either consumed in short order or be preserved by heavy hop rates, high alcohol content, or both. A sort of preservation could be achieved by shipping beer that was still actively fermenting, or “cask conditioning,” an inexact methodology that depended heavily on the skills of the publican at the serving end. In any event, the use of wood in brewing was enthusiastically abandoned with the advent of metal kegs, fermenters, and storage tanks — for the most part, that is.

There were a few styles of beer that depended on a specific bacterial infection to define their character, notably the sour beer category. When an unintended bacterial infection gets into a keg, the result is spoiled beer. However, a deliberate infection may be induced to produce a specific beer style. This process has been modernized but historically came about by the reuse of infected barrels.

As the American craft beer industry blossomed, some brewers began using whisky barrels to age a few beers. The intent was to derive interesting flavors from the wood that were left over from its previous use. Since Bourbon barrels are only used once for whisky aging, they are readily available, inexpensive, and contain enough residual character to flavor the beer if it’s left there for a while. Rye whisky, rum, and even some wine barrels are being used in this way.

Now, this is not to be confused with cask conditioning in the classic sense. Whisky barrels are not designed to hold a pressurized product and cannot be used for fermenting, which produces CO₂, unless they are vented. Mostly, with a few exceptions, today’s process is really just a flavoring procedure in which a fully fermented and finished beer is held in a used barrel for a period of time. Often the brewer will simply “barrel age” one of their standard products. Other times a blend of several beers will barreled. Sometimes a special brew will be designed to take advantage of the possible flavor combinations. In all cases, the end product must be re-carbonated and is usually blended with a significant volume of unbarreled beer prior to sale.

The length of time the beer remains in the barrel can be as little as a week or two, or can be as long as a few months to a year. It just depends on the brewer, the type of barrel, and the intended result. Due to the extra time and expense involved, barrel aged beers are typically sold at a premium and are usually in short supply.

Anchor Brewing Company has been making a barrel-aged beer for several years using rye whisky barrels from our own distillery. The quantities are limited due to the fact that we generate very few used barrels. Since we control the barrels, we can fill them with beer shortly after they are emptied of whisky. The longer an emptied barrel is stored, the more it will dry out and the less character it will yield to the beer.

Our Barrel Ale, or OBA as we call it, starts with out with several of our ales that have compatible hop profiles. These ales are then proportionally blended by the brewmaster, run into the freshly emptied rye barrels, and then stored in our cellar. The length of time the beer is held there has varied, as has the blend of ales. OBA is then blended in a tank with a portion of our regular ales and allowed to re-carbonate before it is packaged. Usually available only as a very limited draught release from time to time, OBA was once packaged in magnum bottles, which were used only for special events.

A magnum of OBA and several prohibition-era whiskey bottles.

Given the creativity of today’s craft brewers and the variety of barrels available, the process has many possibilities for producing unique and interesting beers. A few breweries have gotten into this in a big way, with over a thousand barrels in use. There are even a couple of small producers that plan to offer barrel-aged products exclusively. Fortunately for those of us who enjoy these unique beers, we can look forward to barrel-aged beers from a wide variety of producers for years to come.

British merchant ships like the British East Indiaman “Warley” (above) made voyages to India, China, and other destinations throughout the British Empire in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Photo via wikipedia.org.uk.

Much of their trade was in goods from the colonies, that in turn created a strong demand for finished products exported from the British Isles. Outbound merchantmen carried cargos of all descriptions, including casks of stout and ale.

A full load of cargo aboard a British merchant ship. Photo via joyfulheart.com.

The well-known India Pale Ale, or IPA, originated as a result of this global trade. IPAs were brewed by the British. They were strong and heavily hopped, so as to survive the long ocean voyage to India. Stouts, brewed by both the British and the Irish, likewise were specially brewed strong for the export market. These export or “foreign” stouts had a much wider distribution than IPA and were tailored for specific geographic regions and climates. Every producer had their own versions, which reflected the intertwined development of stouts and porters of the day.

Traditionally, British and Irish stouts had some characteristic differences brought about by their base ingredients, brewing traditions, etc., but the export versions of both were similar. IPAs depended on a very high hop rate throughout, as well as dry hopping, for preservation. Export stout could be highly hopped, but the brewers relied on high alcohol content, and to some degree, a secondary fermentation in the cask or bottle rather than dry hopping to insure that their product survived the long voyages. ABVs were in the six to nine percent (or sometimes higher) range depending on the market.

                                 A nineteenth-century brewery. Photo via Wikipedia.org.

While Russian Imperial Stout was a mainstay of British export to the Baltic region, and London export stouts and porters found their way around the world, the story of Irish export stout is pretty much the story of Guinness.

Guinness began brewing in Dublin upon acquiring the St. James Gate brewery in 1759. Their initial products were porters and ales for the local market. They were exporting to London by the early 1800s, the West Indies and throughout the empire by 1820, and New York and beyond by 1840. During this era it was common practice for the Irish brewers to sell their products in bulk to British exporters who would then bottle it for shipment.

 
Vintage Guinness bottles. Photo via guinness.com

England became not only the export agent for Guinness, but its largest consumer as well, outselling the London porters and stouts in their home market. The Guinness “Double Extra” was the world’s favorite export stout and survives to this day. By the 1880s, Guinness had become the largest brewer in the world and was exporting to the entire British empire, Europe, the Americas, Asia, and beyond. The global reach of the British merchant fleet along with a worldwide expat population made this possible.

As time went on, the various countries established their own breweries, mostly for economic reasons, and Guinness licensed production abroad. The versions of stout produced in these offshore breweries reflected the export products that had been originally shipped from Dublin. Today, the Double Extra Stout remains popular in the Caribbean region as a classic example of Irish export stout.

Shipments of Guinness export stouts to the West Indies and the Caribbean contributed to the establishment of breweries in the region, where stouts remain popular today. Image via Wikipedia.

In modern times, tastes have changed and most consumers equate stouts with contemporary draft Guinness, which has nothing in common, except color and name, with the original products. Fortunately, the craft breweries of both the U.K. and America have revived this once hugely popular beer style and have looked back to the original recipes for inspiration.

While there are numerous interpretations of export stout today, there were also just as many as there were brewers back when. Style guidelines put forth by the Brewer’s Association (BA) and the Beer Judge Certification Program (BJCP) describe it in the broader category of “Foreign Extra Stout” which includes both the British and Irish varieties among many others. To call this a broad category is an understatement, but the common theme is that these beers came about simply as a much stronger version of the original domestic product, were very dark in color, contained bittering hops only with no aromatics, were not dry hopped, and could have either a dry finish for the Irish version or a malty or sweet finish for the British version.

For the third offering in Anchor Brewing Company’s Zymaster series of specialty brews, our Brewmaster Mark Carpenter re-created this classic style. We named it Flying Cloud San Francisco Stout after the famous 19th century clipper ship that set the world record for the shortest sailing time between New York and San Francisco in 1851. The Flying Cloud broke that record in 1854 and held it until 1989.

Mark’s export stout is somewhat of the Irish style and contains 7.4% ABV. The recipe consists of Maris Otter pale malt, two black malts, flaked barley, and Golding hops, much the same as the stouts of 200 years ago. We hope you have the opportunity to enjoy a pint of Zymaster Series No. 3: Flying Cloud San Francisco Stout, and join us in raising an Anchor to the hundreds of years of brewing tradition that gave us this rich, dark, flavorful brew.

Katie: When are hops ready to pick?

Bob: The easy answer is when they’re ripe. Hops usually ripen, if that’s the proper term, in late summer/early fall. The plant is a fast-growing perennial that dies back every year. The cones are ready for harvest when the vine, technically called a “bine,” has reached its maximum growth and the cones have a readily discernible fragrance, as well as a slightly sticky feel. They should also be harvested before the plant begins to turn brown and begins its annual die back.

Anthony: How much faster is your new plate and frame filter than the old one?

Bob: It’s not necessarily any faster than the old one because the pumps, centrifuge, and pasteurizer still run at the same speed. The big difference is that there is a lot more filter surface, which means that we can run much longer and filter more beer between filter pad changes. This saves the time it takes to shut down, change out, and restart the system in mid-run. We also eliminate the beer loss associated with priming the filter after every pad change, which can be considerable. What we have gained is greater efficiency, rather than greater speed.

Joe: What do you do with the spent grains?

Bob: A dairy farmer purchases the spent grains for use as cattle feed.

Linda: What do you do during “maintenance?” Scrubbing or mechanical?

Bob: Both. We like to keep things really clean, and we also like to keep up on routine mechanical things so we don’t have any breakdowns during operation.

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