Beer Facts

Aging Beer

Just like glassware, and serving temperature, beer has an implicit (sometimes explicit) "best by" serving date. But beer is a funky thing—there can be wiggle room. Say you don't want to (or aren't able to) serve your beer immediately. How long can you keep it? And when, if ever, should you intentionally age it? As it turns out, with beer, fresh is generally better. Most beers are brewed to be consumed fairly quickly (as in soon after they're brewed, not "chugged"). And that's because the volatile compounds that make up beer's flavor will change, and often deplete, over time, while the proteins that give it body will deteriorate, and oxidization will slowly take hold. There's also the possibility that beer in glass bottles (especially green or clear) could be skunked by exposure to light (it doesn't take much). Hop-forward beers especially are best consumed early, as the volatile hop aroma compounds will be most available sooner after brewing. But there is absolutely room in the beer world for aging. In fact, all beer can be "aged" (or really, stored) for a few months (longer when kept in the right conditions). But some beer can be aged for, well, ages—from many months to many years. Aging beer is always a slight gamble, a calculated risk that the structure and character of the beer will not only stand up to the test of time, but actually improve. And as with wine, there are a few factors that make a beer more appropriate for aging. Alcohol by volume, or ABV, is one of them. A stronger beer, that's at least 7 to 9% or above, has a better shot at maintaining some of its character (if not developing more) as it ages (higher alcohol beers tend to have more complex flavors, if only because high alcohol requires more fermentation, not to mention would be also registered as imbalanced in the final brew without other flavors). And wild beers, or beers fermented with not only traditional yeast but certain microbes associated with wild beer styles (lactobacillus, pediococcus, brettanomyces) have a better shot of improving—or evolving—with age. So what happens when a beer ages? Many things. When a beer ages successfully, yeasts still present can continue to change the character of the beer, certain flavors may dissipate, bringing other flavors center stage, and even certain positive aspects of oxidization may occur. As for the "right conditions" in which to store and/or age your beer, two elements are essential: dark and (moderate) cold. Beers like to age in creepy places: dank basements, dark garages, anywhere it's generally cool (55F is a good rule of thumb) and free of sunlight. Remember, the UV rays in sunlight can skunk your beer—or impart off-flavors—and while green and clear glass are the most susceptible, an amber glass bottle left in even a bit of sunlight over time has a good chance of being skunked. So anytime you're going to put a beer aside for a period of weeks, months, or even years, make sure there aren't any sneaky rays of sunlight creeping around. Also essential is aging and storing beers upright, as is consistency of temperature. And obviously make sure you're not storing your beer near a heat source. As tempting as it may be, don't display your beer collection over the family hearth.

Extreme Beer Styles

Sayings like "don't mess with a good thing," and "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" exist for a reason—humans kind of like to mess with good things, and fix unbroken ones. The world of beer is no exception. Over the past several decades, craft beer has planted its roots deep into the beer world. And the tree bears a bunch of fruit—modern beer consumers can count on being able to purchase an array of reliably good beer styles on a regular basis. It's a good thing, not to be messed with, right? Sort of. Craft beer has created such a healthy array of consistent beer styles that brewers are specifically able to mess with it, using their knowledge and expertise in traditional brewing methods to push the envelope a little (or a lot). The result is a category called simply "extreme." Because beer relies on the specific interactions of hops, malt, water, and yeast, there'll always be a similar backbone to the structure of any beer—extreme or otherwise. But that still leaves plenty of room to play around. So what exactly makes a beer "extreme"? Basically any beer where elements of the brewing process have been taken to an exaggerated, hyperbolic level; even to the point of creating an imbalance in flavor profile. Extreme beer isn't a new thing, either. Intrepid homebrewers—the guys who basically started the craft beer revolution—have been toying with crazy beer styles for decades now, though Sam Adams founder Jim Koch is often credited with brewing one of the first "extreme" beers, their 1994 Triple Bock which, at an unprecedented 17.5% ABV, was then the strongest beer in the world (made by partially freezing the beer in the fermenting process and harvesting some of the water, which freezes first.) A lot has changed since 1994, including the highest ABV out there. As of 2015, it's a beer called Snake Venom, a barleywine style made by the Scottish brewery Brewmeister that clocks in at an astronomical 67.5% ABV (that's higher than cask strength whiskey—and the beer is intended to be treated as such). At that amount of alcohol, most of the flavors you'd associate with a beer take a backseat to raw power. But extreme beers often sacrifice balance for glory. (There's an inherent, and friendly, competitiveness in the world of extreme beer). Take hops. American IPAs, especially West Coast IPAs, may have popularized hop-forward beers, but something like Flying Monkey's Alpha Fornication (which clocks in at 2500 IBUs, where 100 IBUs already pushes the boundaries of reasonable bitterness) seems more like a (fun) science project than a beer. Flavors can get just as extreme. In the already varied world of beer styles, brewers are playing with things like bacon, pizza, curry, even Rocky Mountain oysters into their beers. Yeast is even fair game. There have been beers brewed with 45 million year-old yeast, and beer brewed with yeast harvested from the brewer's beard (yes). While weird flavors and yeasts have their place (apparently that beard yeast beer is pretty good), from a drinker's perspective, the most important development is brewers building (less extreme) complexity into their beers—regularly barrel-ageing, tweaking flavor profiles, looking backward and forward for inspiration. Which is how you end up with beers like Great Divide's "21st Anniversary," an American wild ale aged in red wine barrels, Dogfish Head's Chateau Jiahu, a beer inspired by a Neolithic Chinese fermented beverage, or Founders "Kentucky Breakfast Stout," brewed with coffee and secretly cave-aged for a year in Kentucky bourbon barrels. Extreme lengths, yes, but sublimely drinkable results.

Wild Fermentation Beer

When beer is brewed commercially, it's most often fermented "single culture" style, which is to say, with one of two kinds of yeast: Saccharomyces cerevisiae or Saccharomyces pastorianus. The former is responsible for the ale we drink, while the latter, thanks to its ability to withstand colder temperatures, is responsible for the low-and-slow fermentation that produces lagers. This might wrap up the story of yeast and fermentation in brewing, except beer is never that simple. And that's a good thing (a great thing, really) because that leaves room for a third, slightly unpredictable kind of fermentation: the wild kind. Beer—remember, made with malt, hops, water, and yeast—wasn't always defined as such. Yeast wasn't even included in the original German Beer Purity Law (or "Reinheitsgebot," and try saying that three times fast). It was only added after Louis Pasteur figured out that it was yeast doing the fermenting; prior to that, yeast had simply been unknowingly passed on from beer to beer when brewers would start a new batch from an old one, heroically doing all the work of fermenting with no credit. But the original fermentation of beer had to have been done by ambient yeast—or yeast that simply lived in the surrounding environment wherever that first beer was brewed. As brewing developed, and was eventually regulated, yeasts like S. cerevisiae and then S. pastorianus were cultivated for their ability to develop consistently good beers. That doesn't mean brewers abandoned their wild side. Yeast strains like Saccharomyces but also Brettanomyces and wild microbes like Pediococcus and Lactobacillus are key players in wild fermentation, though today "wild" fermentation is typically controlled, with wild microbes carefully selected, cultured, and controlled as much as possible to yield a particular flavor profile. Brettanomyces, also called "Brett" in the industry, yields flavors sometimes associated with barnyard (think funk, spice, even gaminess), while Lactobacillus creates lactic acid (producing a sour taste) and Pediococcus, generally considered a contaminant, also creates lactic acid as well as something called diacetyl, which imparts welcome (or unwelcome) flavors of butter/butterscotch (think of a "butter bomb" Chardonnay). Of course, inviting wild microbes into your beer to party seems to go against the grain of most brewing practices. Brewing generally involves tons of sanitation—think gloves, hoses, a careful, consistent effort to keep unwanted microbes out of every stage of the process, especially fermentation. And wild fermentation can be done under the same controlled environment, with wild microbes in place of the classic yeasts. But some breweries are experimenting with old school fermentation, basically brewing from their own ambient environments, trying to see what kind of beers are yielded from unexpected microbial cameos. Allagash in Maine has experimented with what's called a Coolship, a tank built specifically for spontaneous fermentation, with a boldly, totally open top that allows passing microbes to breeze by and possibly drop into a vat of waiting wort. It's a gamble, sure. But that's part of the culture.

Definition Of Craft Beer

Whether you end your day with an ice cold Corona or reach for a bourbon barrel-aged stout, if you've cracked a beer anytime in the last several years, you've probably noticed a surge in the number of alternatives to macrobrews—those big commercial brewery beers like Corona, Bud, Miller Lite, etc. These alternatives make up a category called "craft beer." And while it's easy to spot the difference between Miller High Life and Dogfish Head Raison D'Etre, defining craft beer generally is a murkier (frothier?) business. The story of craft beer is the story of America's broken love affair with suds. As we've discussed[link to History of Beer], brewing is an age-old art, and actually came to this country before, well, independence, with record of the first known brewery in New Amsterdam (aka NYC) in 1612. (Of course Native Americans were not only here first, they were fermenting first, in this case an early alcoholic beverage made from corn.) As agriculture and later industrialization took hold of the young nation, so too did a love of beer and brewing. The nineteenth century saw huge growth in the number of American breweries, not to mention an influx of immigrants and other beer styles (including the German import, lager) which took an especially strong foothold). And while there was some evidence of consolidation—small breweries being absorbed into bigger ones—brewing was still a diversified industry in the nineteenth century. But by 1920, a little thing called the Temperance Movement had mutated into the great, big, federally-mandated monster known as Prohibition. And while alcohol didn't quite disappear during that time, small American breweries took a major hit. Nor did they entirely recover when Prohibition was repealed in 1933: industrialization saw even more rapid consolidation of breweries, all while lighter lager emerged as the dominant style. Brewery numbers shrinking, light lager appeal growing—bad news for variety in American beer. But then a funny thing happened. With only 45 independent breweries left in 1978 (89 total breweries), a small but enterprising group of homebrewers started brewing beer themselves, reviving styles that were no longer widely available. See, by that point, due to increases in travel and a couple World Wars, Americans had been introduced to the still robust beer drinking cultures of Europe. But when they got home, beer drinking options were extremely limited. Homebrewing - legalized by Congress in 1978 - was the answer. Of course, given the revelatory deliciousness of well-made beer, the leap from home to professional "craft" brewing didn't take long. And while folks like Fritz Maytag took over Anchor Brewing in 1965 and intrepid homebrewer Jack McAuliffe opened what is sometimes called the "first microbrewery" in 1976, the two men most commonly associated with the foundations of the craft industry are Jim Koch and Ken Grossman, aka Sam and Sierra. Yes, Sam Adams and Sierra Nevada really are two of the pillars of the craft industry. Bear with us... See, in 1978, when there were only those 45 aforementioned independent breweries, an innovative college dropout named Ken Grossman borrowed some money from friends and family to co-found the (then) 10-barrel brewery he called Sierra Nevada. Success, growth, and three decades later, you see Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in almost every refrigerated case of beer. But that doesn't mean Sierra didn't begin—or continue—as a craft brewery (basically, a smaller-output brewery that puts quality ahead of quantity, but we'll get to definitions in a minute). The same story (roughly) goes for Sam Adams (The Boston Beer Company). Jim Koch was a beer lover who, like Grossman, wanted to change what beer was available to the public, so he founded The Boston Beer Company, brewed a recipe of his great-great-grandfather's that he called "Samuel Adams Boston Lager," and hasn't looked back. Again, like Sierra, Sam Adams might not seem very "craft" at this point, given its massive presence in the beer world and generally set roster of styles, but compared to the big guys, Sam is still relatively craft—4.1 million barrels in 2014. We know what you're thinking. Can 4.1 million barrel output really be "craft"? Well, yes, though the answer's a bit more complicated. And that's because defining craft beer is hard to do. Even the craft beer advocacy group, the Brewers Association doesn't define it, but "rather leaves [that] to the beer enthusiast"—meaning you could down a can of Coors Light, crush it against your forehead, and declare it the most delicious, nuanced "craft beer" you'd ever tasted. "Craft Brewer," on the other hand, is a term that can earn a brewery certain rights, marketing cachet, and even tax breaks, so defining what qualifies as a craft brewery is pretty essential. And that's what the Brewers Association does, with three words: small, independent, and traditional. Of course, what these words refer to has actually changed over time, and for good reason: the craft industry is growing. But let's take a look: Small, for instance, used to mean a production output limited to 2 million barrels per year. By 2014, it was 6 million. And in their update, the BA added an alternative percentage measure—basically a "craft brewery" could only produce 3% of the market, meaning if the market output grows, a craft brewery can grow right along with it. Independent means basically the same thing—only 25% of a brewery can be owned by anyone not identified as a craft brewer. But traditional definitely changed in 2014, with the BA now defining it has having a "majority of its total beverage alcohol volume in beers whose flavor derives from traditional or innovative brewing ingredients in their fermentation." That last change is pretty huge, because it means not only malt but adjuncts (like rice, corn, etc., generally associated with cheap filler used by big bad macro beer companies) can be included in the ingredients of the malt bill that influence the flavor of a craft beer. This is why Yuengling now qualifies as a craft brewery—it also gives the BA access to Yuengling's bigger budget, which it may use to fight the good fight against macro beers as fights over market shares continue. Of course, the BA has its own non-financial rationalization for allowing adjunct grains into the new definition of craft brewing: "The idea that brewers who had been in business for generations did not qualify as 'traditional' simply did not cohere for many members [of the Brewers Association]. Brewers have long brewed with what has been available to them." The basic issue is growth. And Boston Beer and Sierra Nevada are perfect examples: self-styled craft breweries that found success and grew, paving the way for the myriad craft breweries that followed (there were 3,464 independent breweries in 2014). But now that the market's teeming with scores of local, idiosyncratic craft breweries, Boston Beer and Sierra seem closer to big business. Which, in a way, they are—because they've succeeded. Growth is the goal of most business, including craft. Even the BA wants to take craft beer's share of the market to 20% by 2020. The question is, when does a craft brewery stop being craft? Well, Congress may soon have something to say about it. A bill by Oregon Senator Ron Wyden proposes amending the definitions of breweries according to three levels of annual output: 2 million, 6 million, and anything above that. Those in the lowest and middle category would get the tax breaks afforded to craft breweries (the government levies a federal beer excise tax, at a lower rate for smaller breweries). Those in the highest category—which the Boston Beer Company is fast approaching at 20% annual growth—would get no tax breaks, basically equating it with the macro breweries it was founded to compete against. Confusing, yes. But the basic story is there's more beer to be had, a good problem. Whether you call a bottle of great, great grandfather Koch's Boston Lager "craft," well, that's still up to you.

Gluten-Free Beer

You may have noticed a slight surge in the amount of "gluten-free" products out there, and beer is no exception. As the demand for gluten-free products rises (due to dramatically increased awareness of issues like celiac disease and gluten sensitivity), the beer world has begun to respond with a greater selection of beers that are safe to drink. So how does gluten get into beer in the first place? And what is gluten? Gluten is a term for certain proteins found in certain cereal grains. Wheat, barley, and rye are the "big three" most associated with gluten, which is why almost all beer contains some amount of gluten—and why it may seem impossible to create a beer that is entirely gluten free. But tell the beer world something is impossible and they'll give you a beer made with millet, sorghum, corn, rice, buckwheat, fruit, or any combination thereof. Nor are they simply "traditional beer" substitutes; the selection and quality behind gluten-free variations, with breweries from Dogfish Head to Stone getting in on the gluten game (or no gluten game), is varied and rich. Of course beer lovers with any sensitivity to gluten, especially those with celiac, should read labels carefully, as different countries have different standards of what is "gluten-free." The European Union says any beer with a level of gluten at less than 20 ppm can be labeled "gluten free," and some breweries do in fact brew beers with barley (often low protein barley) and extract enough gluten to reach that threshold. The levels of gluten may be safe enough for some, but they're still unsuitable for many with higher sensitivity. For beers manufactured in the U.S., things got a bit simpler in 2014. The TTB (Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau, oh my!) ruled that any beer that has been brewed with gluten-containing ingredients may not be labeled "gluten-free," as that's too misleading and doesn't indicate if and where trace amounts of gluten remain. Instead, certain phrasing is allowed, e.g. "processed," "treated," or "crafted" to remove gluten. As for the ever-important question: how does gluten-free beer taste? Well, that varies, again depending on how much time and thought has been put into it. Sorghum, a popular gluten-free ingredient, can yield a bit too much sweetness. Meanwhile breweries often overcompensate for the lack of barley and rye, ending up with an imbalance of flavors against (at worst) a thin, watery body. But those are the major complaints, which, as demand for gluten-free beer continues to rise, should fall (we hope) by the wayside.

Beer Cocktail Guide

You'd think after brewers spend painstaking weeks and months brewing and fermenting their beers, maybe even a while aging them, we'd leave well enough alone—simply pour them into the appropriate serving glass (maybe a holy chalice?), bow in respect, and consume. Not quite. The beer world has always had a bit of a coloring-outside-the-lines vibe about it, and even the world of finely crafted beers is fair game. Which is why, as craft beer has continued its sudsy explosion, that abundance of new product has also yielded a freedom to experiment, resulting in innovations in the field of the "beer cocktail." Beer cocktails are exactly what they sound like: some style of beer mixed with other ingredients to produce a finished, balanced drink. While most traditional cocktails are made with hard liquor as a base, beer cocktails don't necessarily have to feature anything but beer. In fact, some of the earliest beer mixed drinks are just beer: the "Black and Tan" is made by pouring a pale ale or lager halfway up a pint glass and filling the rest of the glass with a porter or stout (poured over the back of a spoon so that the darker beer doesn't mix but rests on top of the lighter beer). The "Snakebite" layers lager and hard cider in exactly the same way, while the Black Velvet incorporates Champagne, the bubbly an oddly perfect bedfellow for rich stout. Liquor does eventually get into the mix with beer cocktails. Take the Boilermaker. Sure, some may not consider a Boilermaker a "cocktail" in the refined sense of the term, but in the basic sense of beer-plus-something else equals a finished drink, it fits. The something else in this case is a shot of whiskey, dropped directly into your pint, the whole thing consumed in one heroic chug session. Then there are drinks like the Michelada (beer, lime and tomato or Clamato juice, optional hot sauces), the Shandy (beer and lemonade), and the Radler (like a Shandy, swapping lemon soda for lemonade). Drinks like these are what you might call beer cocktails 1.0—simpler prototypes that endure because they're (very) good. But as craft beer and mixology have each gotten more complex, so have beer cocktails. And that isn't entirely surprising, given the array of flavors and textures beer offers a bartender. Think of the richness of a stout: coffee, toffee and toasty flavors that might play well into bourbon. Or the pine and grapefruit of an IPA, which practically beg for a chance to play side by side with juniper and citrus-forward gins. When it comes to making beer cocktails at home, your best bet is something simple—don't go out and buy a cabinet's worth of liquors, bitters, and fresh fruit to accompany your beer. Remember, beer is already brewed to have a lot going on. That's why so many early beer mixed drinks are fairly simple: complexity can sometimes turn into cacophony. Build around the flavors of your beer and you'll have a solid, so to speak, beer cocktail.

Bottle Conditioning

Bottled conditioner and bottle conditioning: the former leaves our hair silky and shiny, especially if we rinse and repeat. The latter makes our beer—some of our beer—nicely carbonated. See, beer can be carbonated one of two ways. The first is called forced carbonation, the way soda is carbonated and kind of like what you'd do with a SodaStream at home—forcing a certain amount of CO2 into the finished product until the desired level of carbonation is reached. The second way is called "bottle conditioning," which is basically re-fermentation in the bottle, often by the addition of new sugars or even extra yeast to encourage more fermentation. Because the bottle is capped, any CO2 produced will be reabsorbed into the liquid, resulting in some delightful effervescence. But because there's also still yeast in there doing its thing, bottle-conditioned beers can continue to develop flavor over time, making them suitable for aging and often yielding a slightly yeast-forward, estery flavor profile. Bottom line: forced carbonation is like soda, adding nothing to the beer's flavor profile but bubbles. Bottle conditioning is like re-starting fermentation, but this time capturing the CO2, and getting added flavor as a bonus.

Beer: Unlikely Uses And Unexpected Benefits

By now we all know the basics of how beer is made, and what it's made for. But beer has a few unexpected applications and benefits. We've all heard of the nutrition in beer, maybe sometimes as a rationalization for drinking another. But it isn't all wishful thinking. Historically, the earliest beers were consumed not just for a mild buzz but for the nutrition of a rich, unfiltered, grain-based brew. And while beer isn't quite as nutritious today, there are some power-packing holdouts. Beer (especially unfiltered beer, in which yeast is still present) can be rich in vitamins B3, B6, and folic acid (not to mention iron, protein, fiber, phosphates, and calcium). But don't go drinking your vitamins just yet: the alcohol in beer inhibits proper absorption of those B vitamins. Good news though: that same alcohol can raise your good cholesterol (HDL). There's also increasing evidence that the silicon content in beer may be helpful in the fight against Alzheimer's. And it's already shown strong evidence of helping prevent osteoporosis: hops and (pale, less roasted) barley malts contain high levels of silicon, which are not destroyed during the brewing process, and silicon is an essential factor in bone mineral density. (There's also evidence of a link between the silicon and beer and a lower instance of kidney stones, which are made up of calcium deposits.) Again, any health benefits tend to go in line with moderation. Once high levels of beer consumption are introduced, all bets are off. But this is a DIY era, so what about random household uses? Because of its acidity, beer can act as a polish. Just allow it to go flat and you can use it polish brass, copper, and other household metals as well as antique wood (always test a spot first, thanks Bob Vila!). Beer's also a good candidate for capturing flies and garden pests. Pour some beer into a small shallow container and cover it with perforated plastic wrap; flies will dive in and have a harder time buzzing out. For garden pests like slugs, just pour some beer into a container that's been dug flush into the ground, such that slugs can slug their way in but not out. Beer can also help repair brown spots in your lawn. Fear not, it's not all slugs and dirt. Beer also has some beauty applications. It's good for bathing, though more cost-effective would be to use beer as a footbath (the yeast in the beer softens skin and the alcohol is an antiseptic). But it can also make a good conditioner. Thanks to its proteins and B vitamins, you can use beer to restore some luster to your hair: just boil it to cook off the alcohol first, since that'll actually damage your hair. And warn anyone within sniffing distance that you may smell like a brewery for a few days (which could be a good or bad thing).

Hard Cider

Cider has history. In fact, beer may be more popular generally, but there's a chance cider is actually older: imagine how little it would take for an apple to fall off the tree, begin rotting, and have some ambient yeast stop by to feast on sugars and ferment alcohol. Boom: hands-free cider, ready to drink. Of course, the first known evidence of intentionally fermented cider is from around 55 B.C., when Romans marched into Kent, England, and found the locals fermenting the juice of apples into alcoholic beverage. Which is, basically, the definition of cider: while the term "cider" might refer to the juice of any pressed fruit, "hard cider" (which we often just call "cider") most commonly refers to the fermented juice of pressed apples (or pears). And it's been that way for centuries. In England, there were recorded references to specific "cider" apple varieties by the 13th and 14th centuries (the Normans had brought a few into the mix in their 1066 conquest). Nor the cider lovin' didn't stop there—it even travelled to Colonial America (where, to be fair, Native Americans had been fermenting the stuff from crabapples for a while). It's easy to understand why cider has been so historically popular. Like beer, cider provided a safe alternative to previously unsafe drinking water. And unlike beer, cider can be produced without heat, which would be required to create the wort in beer brewing. That meant anyone with some apples and time could have cider. And while it dropped off in popularity in the U.S. for a time (give or take a century or two, thanks to factors ranging from Temperance to industrialization to the introduction of, you guessed it, beer), the modern craft beer movement has inspired a similar resurgence in the world of cider. Modern cider production hasn't changed very much, either, although yeast is obviously isolated and cultivated for fermentation. And while cider apples are categorized differently from region to region, that categorization is always based on a few key elements: sugar content, acidity, and tannin levels. See, unlike a supermarket apple (think Red Delicious or Granny Smith) traditional cider apples are practically inedible—sour, bitter, astringent, depending on the type. But the high tannins that might make a bittersharp cider apple rough for chomping make it delicious for drinking. Not that all hard ciders are the same. European ciders are made from apple orchards with centuries more history, and cider-specific history, resulting in finer, dryer (low sugar) ciders. American apple production is geared far more toward sweet, bland (for cider) supermarket varieties, which is why certain American ciders lack the complexity and depth of their European cousins. But the market is catching up, with craft cider production doing everything it can to incorporate tannins, body, and a balanced acidity to American cider, and even some breweries going so far as to incorporate hops (a questionable, certainly not traditional, choice). European (especially Spanish, French, and English) ciders are the way to go for dry and earthy flavor, while American ciders are often a bit sweeter. When in doubt, it never hurts to ask, or taste.

What Are Esters

Many components both go into and come out of the production of beer. Some have slightly terrifying chemistry and/or Latin names. Esters, thankfully, is a pretty simple term, and a fairly straightforward element in beer. Basically—we mean really basically, as in please do not use this kind of explanation for say, your Cicerone exam—esters are a byproduct of fermentation that can impart a variety of fruit flavors, and sometimes some undesirable flavors, to the beer. Esters will vary depending on the type of yeast used—for instance, lager yeast and the practice of lagering (or cold storing) will intentionally produce few esters, which is why most lagers are described as tasting cleaner or crisper than ales. Since ales are fermented at warmer temperatures, with a different strain of yeast, they tend to have more esters in the finished product. Not that esters should be everywhere in beer (just like roasted malts have a place in some, but not all, beers). But the flavors of many ales, for instance the classic banana-flavor of a German Hefeweizen, owe some of their very special character to esters.

What is a Cicerone

Most people, even people who don't like wine, know what a sommelier is. Fewer people, even people who do like beer, know what a Cicerone is. And that may have to do with the fact that, in the pantheon of beer professionals, the name "Cicerone" is a little bit intimidating sounding (as opposed to say, brewer or "suds expert"). But a Cicerone is essentially no different in the world of beer than a sommelier would be in the world of wine; in fact, it's easy to remember if you just think Cicerone=crazy smart beer lover. Really, at the most basic, and most important, level, a Cicerone is just someone who knows a lot, a whole lot, about beer, and by passing two levels of exams administered by the Cicerone Certification Program, has achieved the all-important title as a result. Cicerone certification hasn't existed for as long as sommelier certifications ("Master Sommelier," "Master of Wine," etc.). The Cicerone program was created by former bio-chem major turned beer lover/professional Ray Daniels in 2007, part of an effort to bring as much expert guidance as possible to the craft beer revolution. The more good, complex beer there was on hand, the more need there was (and continues to be) for passionate, well-educated professionals to guide a maybe uninitiated public through the ever-growing selection. Cicerone isn't the only title offered by the CCP. It offers three levels of certification: Certified Beer Server (there are more of these than any level), Certified Cicerones (well over 1000 and climbing), and Master Cicerones (to show the difficulty level of these exams, only one to two people pass this level each year). The Cicerone exam evaluates five different aspects of professional beer knowledge and service: serving beer, beer styles, beer flavor and evaluation, brewing process and ingredients, and beer and food pairing. No surprise, the test lasts a whopping four hours and isn't easy to pass the first time around. However, once you do pass the Cicerone test, you're part of a select group of people entrusted with the task of guiding the public all through the expansive selection of craft beers on the market, whether at a bar (presumably a great beer bar) or restaurant, where you're often tasked with finding the right beer for the increasingly important field of beer and food pairings. The growth in popularity of the Cicerone program is just one example, but a relatively strong example, of the continued growth of the world of beer. The more people that are interested.