James Steel on Vatting Beer and Ale

Scots brewer and designer James Steel (1821-1891) addressed the topic of vatting in his Selection of the Practical Points of Brewing and Malting, and Strictures Thereon, for Brewery Proprietors (Glasgow, 1878).

He confirmed what Herbert Edwards Wright wrote somewhat later: vatting – the storing of beer in large containers, the largest, for porter, famously holding thousands of barrels – was going out of style.

As Wright did, Steel referred to a particular quality resulting from holding beer a year or more, he called it “apple and other flavours”. One must bear in mind this was before the era of reliable mechanical cooling – the beers were held basically at ambient temperature. Together with microflora resident in the wood and the brewery environment, this encouraged production of esters and other compounds imparting special flavours to beer.

Flavours resembling Wright’s pineapple and pear, and Steel’s apple, could thus distinguish beers long-stored.

Also of course, Steel’s term “fined” referred to the clarity gained by long keeping, then viewed as highly desirable for beer. The final stage of fermentation, called cleansing, rarely resulted in limpid beers. A lengthy standing would do much to clear them, especially in large vessels, although a last treatment with finings was sometimes necessary.

Steel seemed to accept the decline of vatting more readily than Wright, but did feel it useful for porter due to porter’s inherently stable character which he attributed to its highly cured malt component. He noted however the continuation of long aging at Burton on Trent for its beer, i.e., for IPA vs. Scots and other ales, and that such storage was in normal beer casks or other smaller wood – no huge vats as in London for porter. Still, this long aging did impart the aged flavour.

Bass pale ale in particular has always had an apple note, Worthington White Shield too. However imparted today, it’s still in those beers, in all forms I’ve had.

Finally, Steel approved the practice of using “fillings”, or wort, to enliven long-stored beer. The longer beer was kept, the less likely it would be fizzy on exit from the wood. Adding wort, sometimes in a partial process of fermentation, would cause a new fermentation and result in a satisfactory head when poured. You would also get a mix of fresh and aged characteristics.

Steel states that the practice was used in Dublin – brewing author Frank Faulkner confirmed it in the 1880s – and by “provincial brewers”, which would take in Scots and English brewers outside London. For London itself, Steel said “retailers” performed the work, saving the brewers the trouble.

Presumably he meant publicans, although would publicans be easily able to handle adding the quantities needed to draught porter in cask in the cellar? I am not sure adding such a thing would have been lawful, in fact. Could Steel have meant some intermediate level of trade, acting on behalf of brewers, did the work? This area needs investigation*. But there is no reason to think an experienced brewer and brewing figure (via e.g., the Steel’s masher, still used in some British breweries) would misstate such an important point.

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*Re-reading his account, it is possible he was referring to mixing old and new porter, not the part where the fillings are added.  If so, presumably the fillings were already in the old beer. The pages of Steel dealing with vatting and fillings are set out below, via HathiTrust:

 

 

 

What Vatting Was And Why It Was Done

In 1907, Herbert E. Wright issued a new edition of his A Handy Book for Brewers; Being a Practical Guide To the Arts of Brewing and Malting. An earlier edition appeared 15 years earlier, itself the outgrowth of Wright’s manual for young brewers (1877). Wright died the year the last version came out (see preface). He represents a good survey of many practical aspects of brewing in the last quarter of the 1800s.

He had brewed at the Diamond Brewery in Dover, whereof some good history can be read at this Dover-Kent historical site. He wasn’t the owner at any stage, it appears, but a company name, Herbert Wright & Co., appears next to the brewery name when the beers were entered for competition. And his name appeared on some of the labels, as can be seen below. Maybe he leased the brewery from the owner with the right to represent the beers as his output.

His multi-page comments on vatting are interesting on many counts, see here. First, he distinguishes true vatting from the later method, which was to ferment beers at high temperature and rouse them (to permit air to enter the fermenting wort). These practices had the result of producing acidic beers in a relatively short time, perfect for blending, but they lacked the “ethereal” taste of beers stored a year or two as ales and stouts used to be stored. Those flavours were clearly fruity because Wright mentions that ethyl butyrate is produced, which has a pineapple note. He also mentions ethyl acetate, which today is considered to have a pear drop flavour.

Wright confirms that the old beers were consumed, in the charming phrase, “one way” – straight with no admixture, which accords with early porter history. Acetic acid was produced (by acetobacter acting on ethanol), but Wright says the high gravity of the beers “carried” the taste. In other words, the acid notes were not objectionable as the beers had a high final gravity – rich malty taste – notwithstanding their strength, which resulted from a very high original gravity.

Wright argues old-style vatting should be continued, either to sell the beers on their own, or for superior blending especially for stout, where an “amalgamation” of flavours from blending some vatted beer with new sweet porter is desirable. This amalgamation has a “sub-acid” component he finds attractive.

This old blending practice has largely been by-passed in modern craft brewing although some breweries have been known to do it and some Belgian breweries never stopped, Rodenbach is the classic example. Lambic blending is another example although the lambic palate would have been considerably more acid than Wright’s vatted beer even one-way as he says the beer should not be sour as such.

Yesterday I tweeted an older post of mine which analyzed the likely strength of Hodgson India Pale Ale, the beer which launched the India pale genre and whose reverberations live with us to this day. I argued that in 1850, Abbott’s East India Pale Ale, successor to Hodgson’s ditto made in the same brewery, had a gravity designed to deliver 8-9% abv and maybe more. Given the country pale ale origins of the style, this is not surprising albeit the IPA style evolved later to a mean of 6-7% abv.

That mid-1800s strong Hodgson’s/Abbott’s East India Pale Ale fetched about the highest price charged for beer in the 1800s, 60 s per barrel. These were the kind of beers mentioned by Wright as being vatted for one and two years. True, the ales seem not to have been aged in bulk (vs. trade casks or other smaller containers) as porter was, but the principle is the same: development of exotic fruit characters and some acidity from long keeping in wood.

Wright doesn’t distinguish between porter, stout, pale ale, and old ale in his advice to vat the old-fashioned way. Any such beer could be long-aged provided only it had a high starting gravity and was brewed strong. In the Eltham brewing advertisement discussed in that earlier post of mine, and the Chilcott’s one in Bristol also referred to, beers of these different styles all had a top-end, and these were examples of Wright’s long-aged beers which developed this “ethereal” character. We know too sometimes brettanomyces was a result of long wood aging, which would add its own earthy or barnyard notes. A quick development of acidic beer would not have permitted the brett yeasts time to do their work.

How were strong were the old worts to be? Wright recommends as high as possible and at least 30 pounds per barrel, which is 1083 OG (390/360). This is exactly the range I calculated the Hodgson’s India beer c. 1850, producing alcohol of 8-9% abv, maybe more. Of course, the pale ales were attenuated lower than the ordinary ales meant to be aged, but still the general character discussed or implied by Wright would be the same, IMO: fruity, winy, port-like.

Final note: Wright offers no heroic/romantic explanation why vatting had largely dispappeared, nothing that is about changes in public taste. He explained it prosaically as the result of consolidation of the breweries and better financial management, i.e., to turn over the capital faster. Then why was porter long-aged in the 1700s? The brewers were hardly unsophisticated then. Alan Pryor has made a persuasive case in recent issues of the (U.K.) journal Brewery History that 1700s porter-brewers stored beer to maximize gains from favourable grain prices. When the cost of the input went up, they drew on their stocks rather than brew at a greater cost.

If he is right, what was different in the later 1800s? Perhaps grain and malt prices had stabilized by then. Or perhaps if they hadn’t, they became a relatively small part of the cost of brewing.

A good topic for someone’s doctoral study…

Note re image: image above was sourced from the Dover-Kent historical website linked in the text. All intellectual property therein or thereto belongs solely to the lawful owner or authorized user. Use believed available for educational and historical purposes. All feedback welcomed.

Romantic Czechoslovakia, 1930

A Pennsylvania Yankee Explores Bohemia

Western visitors to Bohemia and the Czech lands, from the 1700s until today, rarely omit mention of the region’s breweries and beer. Visitors were remarking on the beer even before lager emerged there (I’ll return to this later).

Especially in the past when there was no Internet, no websites such as that of U Fleku in Prague, visitors’ reports were essential for the would-be tourist. Travel guides there always were, famously Baedeker, later Michelin, later Fodor, Lonely Planet et al. But for a certain, probably upscale or literary-type market, full-length travel books were a necessary preparation for a “grand tour”.

Pennsylvania-born Robert Medill McBride specialized in this market. He was a publisher and author, long-lived (1879-1970). McBride started his career in magazine publishing and was a partner in early years with the legendary Condé Nast.

McBride also published well-known authors such as Frank Buck and James Cabell.

His 1930s travel output took in Czechoslovakia, and the crisply informative Romantic Czechoslovakia is still of interest today. He is a good contrast to an H.L. Mencken, in that he often treats of similar subject matter – the beer, food, music, architecture – but avoids verbal pyrotechnics and grand literary flourishes. As befits a general audience publisher, it’s all about, what the country is like, how to communicate (German is often useful in the western part), the hotels, what things cost. Practical yet with lively writing, perfect for his market.

In the Czech book he covers the Pilsner Urquell brewery and also offers a multi-page assessment of U Fleku. You can read the brewery tour here, a good bird’s eye although marred a bit by McBride’s denigration of the tour guide’s English. The old Anglo superiority, it comes out not infrequently in older texts.

While no beer expert, McBride gets across some good data, and the nub is, not much had changed from the set-up in 1910 which I discussed yesterday. McBride doesn’t talk about the beer itself, no taste notes, but still a good picture is offered.

Looking at the image of McBride pictured, my sense is he was not a beer man, but who knows. He gives the impression of a man about town or society figure, and if he liked alcohol perhaps his taste ran to Champagne or claret. (One shouldn’t assume a liking for any kind of drink though, McBride was a “PK” whose father was President of the American Bible Union).

Below, I include the pages on U Fleku, and the old place certainly sounds enticing. It is today a sophisticated operation, and judging from online reports, some find it too committed to tourist traffic, with related high prices, rushed service, etc. I did speak to a friend not long ago who was there last year, and he loved it.

I’m sure I’d like it too. I always smile when I read the reports of people who find places spoiled because too many tourists go. The writers are usually … tourists, but the irony eludes them. I feel I don’t have any greater right to patronize somewhere than a fellow-visitor. If it’s no fun anymore, the solution is to find somewhere new.

Fleku seems at any rate to arouse passionate opinions. Many online reports are very positive. Others less so, some quite critical. If I visit Prague again, I’ll try it, on my first visit I just didn’t have the time.

All books and reports in the end are, directory, to use a legal term. In other words, go and decide for yourself. Or go somewhere else in town, it’s not as if there isn’t lots of choice. The great thing about beer is, and this is true for a heartland like Prague or almost any burg you know today, if you don’t like what’s in front of you, in situ or on the page, try somewhere else, there is always an option. An IPA, anyway.

So now from debonair Mr. McBride in 1930:

Note re images: the first image above is from the website of U Fleku linked in the text. The second image, of Robert Medill McBride, is from his entry in Wikipedia, whence some of the information above was obtained. The images of text from his book Romantic Czechoslovakia are via HathiTrust at the link given above. All intellectual property therein or thereto belong solely to their lawful owner or authorized user. Images are believed available for educational or historical purposes. All feedback welcomed.

The Heyday of Pilsner Urquell?

In the period around WW I, Pilsner Urquell still had many 1800s production characteristics.

This article c. 1910 from the American Society of Brewing Technology (see extract below, via HathiTrust) enumerates a number of these, chosen no doubt to contrast with American practice at large breweries.

While the key elements of the palate were Moravian barley malt and Saaz hops, the high quality of which were recognized internationally at an early date, many points of the process contributed to the final palate.

The article mentions:

  • use of open coolers vs. a refrigeration system to chill hot wort
  • fermentation in small vessels, below grade in sandstone caverns
  • lagering, also underground, in wood vessels for three to four months
  • re-pitching of lagering casks after each emptying (I discussed the contribution of the incense-like pitch earlier)
  • shipment primarily in “packages”, meaning here wood casks
  • a small bottling output, pasteurized, for export to South America and Asia
  • filtration of product for “Europe”, which I think meant outside Bohemia (almost certainly unpasteurized)
  • beer krausened for “export”, perhaps meaning the U.S., Britain, and certain overseas markets, probably to ensure sufficient carbonation over the longer shipment period.

Numerous elements are not mentioned, notably decoction mashing, the relatively high final gravity of Urquell, influence of the soft Pilsen water, and details of its malting practice.

All these qualities meant for a full-flavoured, creamy, and fairly bitter drink, certainly on draft, the major way Urquell was delivered to market then.

Ever fewer American breweries were to follow such pattern. Rather, shortened lagering, injected carbonation, continued use of grain adjunct, closed fermenters, and use of metal or glass for lagering were to spell the future of American beer.

Urquell today, in contrast to 1910, uses no wood in any part of the process, and no pitch; the draft is pasteurized everywhere except for small amounts of “tank” beer, and some unfiltered beer sold mainly in Pilsen; fermenting is in enclosed cylindricals; and lagering rarely goes past five weeks.

Yet it’s still a very good beer. Was it better in 1910 when it attracted the attention of at least one master of prose style in America?

Any thoughts?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beer As Symbol of Superior Civilization

As I have mentioned earlier, Henry L. Mencken was part of a small circle of European-influenced critics and writers for whom the best traditions of Europe encompassed its finest beer. Europe here meant strictly Germany and Bohemia. I mentioned how, as late as 1928 with German instability and war clouds looming, George Jean Nathan was still writing semi-flippant pieces on the importance of Europa beer quality, and portraying the Czech Pilsner Urquell as an unchanging talisman.

This beer had an iconic importance for these men, a symbolic one in fact. It represented the height of European style and sophistication in the ostensibly unpromising subject of the citizen’s beer. Just talking about beer this way was an affront to Anglo-Yankee sensibilities, one of their intentions and something which became a lightning rod as Prohibition marched ever closer.

It would be surprising that Mencken didn’t turn his lyrical gifts to this shared interest, and he wasn’t to disappoint.  He chose his pistol in A Book Of Prefaces, written in 1917 with the war in full swing in Europe, now with America’s full involvement, of which he disapproved. The book does not address war questions – a critical stance would have been unpublishable anyway – but rather is a work of literary and social criticism.

It deals serially with three writers Mencken felt were of great importance in Anglo-American letters, people he thought un- or under-appreciated: Theodore Dreiser, Joseph Conrad, and James Huneker. The fourth “preface” was more a frontal assault on what Mencken viewed as Puritanical attitudes hobbling a freer, more original American literature and social environment. Literary and artistic modernism, with their related notions of dissent and social indiscipline (think Picasso, Futurism, Joyce) was a necessary evolution for the improvement of American culture in Mencken’s view.

(Mencken typically was contradictory, as he never developed an appreciation for jazz, for example, and let his sense of moral relativity descend to an abominable flirtation with fascism. Also, in his diaries, he takes bourgeois-sounding pains to show why he wasn’t an alcohol abuser – hardly devil may care.).

In his essay on the now almost-forgotten Huneker, he uses a tour Huneker wrote of American and mostly European cities in 1915 (New Cosmopolis) as a chance to lyricize on the importance of Urquell beer. He appropriates Huneker’s alleged fascination with Urquell’s merits as a springboard for his own similar idea. In fact, Huneker’s book (I checked) makes a few approving references to this beery topic, but nothing approaching the characteristic Wagnerian Mencken approach.

Still, Mencken needed an “excuse” to talk about the beer and evidently found one via Huneker’s manifest, and uncontroversial, liking for a consumer commodity.

Here, you can read Mencken’s typically supersonic encomium to the (certainly) great brew of Bohemia; note how it is used symbolically to mark Huneker’s supposedly superior Continental sensibility. I can’t extract just a few lines, you don’t get the full Mencken effect unless you read three pages going in this type of discussion (see at least from 185-187).

Mencken shows in this way how un-English and un-American he was. It is inconceivable anyone could write about any English, much less American beer, in this way, then but even now. It is impossible because an alcoholic stimulant, no matter how good, always will have a limited cultural value in this world. Mencken, like Huneker, admired the great achievements and high emotional quotient of European music. This affective perspective is applied to the topic of foodways, indeed you can read in the same book Mencken’s delirious approval of Huneker’s liking for Bohemian cooking.

Despite all the achievements in our food and beverage life since WW II, nothing approaches the kind of veneration Henry Mencken demonstrated in this area. As a satirist, one wonders whether he was really serious, but I think in Prefaces he was.

One can argue, given how the man ended on the fringes of American life and international morality by 1940 (his incoherent isolationism), that he didn’t get his priorities straight. However, from the point of view of modern beer criticism, his comments on Urquell anticipate some of the ways we talk about beer, and wine and whisky, today. Few modern writers though could equal a wound-up Mencken.

 

 

Mathäser’s Beer Hall in Munich

George Jean Nathan’s appraisal in 1928 of Munich and Franconian beer offerings, for which he uses the conceit of a theatre review, includes “Mathäserbrau”. I wasn’t previously aware of this name, and a brief check discloses a long history as one of Munich’s premier beer halls.

Europe After 8:15, written in 1914 by H.L. Mencken, George Jean Nathan, and Willard Wright, devotes multiple pages to it, indeed it is the centrepiece of a florid Munich “beeriad”. The book surely gives the definitive picture of the place on the eve of the First World War.

In summary, Mathaser was the resort mostly of Munich’s working and trades classes, unpretentious, with solid food, and beer of good colour – variously “red” and “dark”.

The beer, served in earthenware, was contrasted favourably with the paler beer served at Hofbrauhaus and Augustiner, probably the best known (or reputed) of the Munich beer shrines. Mencken et al. give them their due, too, and others, but seemed to approve most of Mathaser’s. They liked its bluff nature, exemplified by (almost surely) Mencken’s statement that enlisted soldiers at Mathaser’s gave their “Lizzies” a simple hug while monocled officers at Hofbrauhaus practiced “diableries” to charm the objects of their affection.

Mathaser’s met its demise some twenty years ago when converted to a multi-plex theatre, but until then it was the city’s largest “Bierstadt” with a capacity approaching an astounding 5000 people.

This Munich visitor’s page sketches some early history. After the first war, it carried on, and after the second one, too. Judging by reports from the late 40s to the end, Mathaser’s seems to have kept its essential nature although it did become linked to Lowenbrau at some point.

Some notoriety attached to it after the Armistice. The Bavarian Free State was proclaimed there by revolutionaries in 1918. Hitler is reputed to have spoken there once too albeit it was not the beer hall of the notorious putsch.

This blog page of the Potable Curmudgeon (Roger Baylor) contains excellent notes on Mathaser’s as it was not long before its closure. A number of comments to his notes add additional colour and perspective, particularly by a couple of people who worked there.

In all, one gets a feeling that its ethos of traditional beer and everything connected – the communal experience, typical foods, the music – represent an era now passed. Of course, classic beer halls continue in the city, notably Hofbrauhaus, also Paulaner’s modern premises tucked in its industrial complex, Lowenbrau’s big hall, Augustiner’s smaller one, and more. Hopefully they will find a way to endure as a newer, international beer culture, powered by IPA and other craft ways with beer, encroaches on traditional modes.

Those halls, and England’s pubs in a different way (but not essentially), represented an older form of entertainment or diversion. Their classic era was a time of no tv, no or incipient radio, no or few mass sporting events. Socializing was outside the home: pub or church, maybe the circus once a year, the odd concert of some kind, the odd sporting event.

Mass gatherings of the type the beer halls exemplified became less attractive as “home entertainment centres” – and drinking at home, too – became ubiquitous and sophisticated. Finally, the Internet permitted a form of interaction from your own desk or hand-held device. No need to sit in serried ranks with like-minded…

It makes perfect sense that 20 years ago, Mathaser converted to a movie emporium, as movies then were at their height of public esteem. But maybe soon it will be time to switch to something else. An IPA hallen maybe…

One way or another, everything has its time, its place. Its zeit.

 

Note re images: the first image above was sourced from an historical German post card website, here. The second image was sourced from this beer coaster website. All intellectual property therein or thereto belongs solely to their lawful owner or authorized users.  Images believed available for educational and historical purposes. All feedback welcomed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Old Blonde Pils, She Ain’t What She Used To Be

Ile de Staten, Anyone?

George Jean Nathan was a long-time associate of H.L. Mencken. They founded the Smart Set, premier literary journal (belles lettres) of its day, and then the American Mercury. Nathan wrote that Mencken turned more to politics in the latter journal, which may explain his departure as co-editor not long after the magazine was founded. Nonetheless he continued to write for it as drama critic and into the 1940s.

Smart Set was a joint venture with publisher Alfred Knopf and is remembered for its witty, sparkling articles and introduction of Jazz Era writers such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Sinclair Lewis.

Nathan, a Cornell graduate, had started in general journalism and specialized in theatre reviews. This interest continued through his life, perhaps assisted by his reputation as a ladies man and boulevardier.

In The Judge, another literary and theatrical-oriented review, he gives a half-facetious review (1928) of the beer or other drinks available at theatrical locales in European cities. Such articles were of interest to Americans whose thirst was assuaged at most only by bootlegged or home-made Prohibition brews. These pieces would have been read longingly by those pining for the return of saloons and beer gardens, who had an idealized notion of the beers of the old country.

They were perhaps to be disappointed in that, a few exceptions apart, Nathan was less than impressed by the famous brews of Europe, at least as served at the theatre bars. Even the Champagne in France struck him as inferior – but not in the West End, as the English always made it their business to choose the best.

He doesn’t even mention English beer. As I wrote earlier, this is of a piece with the Mittel Europa inclinations of the New York-centric critics, many of them of Jewish, German, or other European Continental background.

I suspect that Nathan, nearing 50 when he wrote the piece below, was suffering from that malaise called – it’s not what it used to be, one that afflicts the beer-aware as they reach a certain age shall we say. In this case, it’s beer, in another’s, the taste of Beaujolais as he or she recalls it from 30 years ago. Or the steaks back then. Or Napa cabernet.

It was always better back in the day, you know. Through the history of comestibles you read this, so it must be true.

On the other hand, Nathan implies, as did Mencken and others in their circle (e.g. Carl Van Vechten, James Huneker), that Pilsner Urquell remained of Olympian quality. Even Germany, the cradle of fine lager, always had to admit the special merits of Urquell, perversely an import. The topaz nonesuch, Nathan called it.

 

The Real Adolphus Busch

 

With all the discussion of the Superbowl Budweiser ad 2017 vintage, it may be useful, for those interested in his actual life, to read this obituary which appeared in October, 1913 in The Western Brewer, a brewing trade journal. An extract is included below, via HathiTrust.

As always, reality, even in a brewing context, is sobering: he came from a well-off family; he received a “patrimony”, or inheritance, which permitted his start in business; and he retained significant links to the country of his origin, where he passed away at a castle he owned after years of a debilitating illness.

He had received a solid technical and business education both in Germany and Belgium, which clearly assisted his rise. St. Louis at the time was home to a growing number of German immigrants, and brewing was well-established. Without minimizing the challenges of moving to a new land, he wasn’t in a completely foreign environment, and didn’t arrive penniless and without support from home.

Of course too, the famed Budweiser brand emerged in 1876, when Adolphus was almost 40. Major success didn’t arrive until the 1880s when the brand rapidly expanded due exploitation of technical developments and new advertising techniques.

In the end, his success was unique to himself. Being an immigrant didn’t help it, it didn’t hurt it, in my view. He would have succeeded anywhere due to his obvious talents, energy, and determination.

Further insight on the man can be gleaned from a eulogy delivered at his funeral, printed in the same issue of the Western Brewer. You can read it here.

Note re images: the first image was sourced from this eBay listing, here. The second, from the HathiTrust link given in the text above. All intellectual property in or to the images belongs solely to their lawful owner or authorized user. Images are believed available for educational and historical purposes. All feedback welcomed.

An Impetuous Opera Star and Fine Porter

The Rescue of Isoline

Beeretseq has musical interests, but it is fair to say before today “operatic” would have connoted the style of the late Freddy Mercury, The Who’s Tommy, or the singer Meatloaf.

It came to our attention though that a star of the true opera repertoire, Maria Malibran, was fond of porter, and we looked into it anon for an historical tidbit, which was certainly found.

La Malibran was a fiery, Paris-born mezzo-soprano of Spanish blood. Her three ranges of octave and impassioned performances electrified the stages of Europe in the 1830s, a career that soared to ever-new heights before she was badly hurt in a riding accident. She died not long after, in September, 1836, at only 28.

Malibran found, as many have before and since, that London porter has stimulating and reviving qualities. In fact, the brand she favoured has been handed to posterity: Barclay Perkins. London porter was often as black as the raven hair of Malibran, perhaps a reason she liked the drink so.

Two stories illustrate her fondness for the drink. One, in Frederick Crowest’s A Book Of Musical Anecdote, Vol. 2 (1878), reports that a London reviewer of the stage, Henry Berkeley (pronounced so the “Ber” sounds like “her”) was introduced to her at Drury Lane.

Berkeley had mentioned in his notices that she seemed unduly attached to London porter. This boded a chill or fiery meeting between them, not in other words of the air-kissing type common in arts and entertainment. However, as Crowest reports, Malibran both disarmed and countered the starchy writer by running to him arms extended and crying:

“Oh Monsieur Barclay”  – for that is how she pronounced his name – “I shall never drink another glass of Barclay and Perkins without thinking of you”.

One of her star turns before her untimely passing was in Michael Balfe’s and Alfred Bunn’s The Maid of Artois. In Musical Recollections of the Last Half-Century, Vol. 2 (1872), John Edmund Cox gives a detailed report of her being handed a pot of pewter at the beginning of the last act, a stratagem designed to prevent a debâcle caused by extreme fatigue. The account stresses the strenuous nature of the production and that she was taxed to the limit by the first two scenes. Another account states she unwisely performed that morning in another play to earn an extra fee, which caused the fatigue in question.

At intermission she implored for a pot of porter, and it was arranged to be handed her at a point the audience wouldn’t notice as the last act opened. She was given it in a pewter pot, no doubt her favoured Barclay and Perkins, and in short it enabled a bravura finale which brought the house down. For later performances, she arranged that one of the players, who wore a calabash (gourd) around his neck, would proffer her the gourd to refresh herself, and of course it was filled with the same London porter.

One may doubt whether Malibran took the drink simply for its restorative powers; she seems in fact to have been a porter connoisseur, as Cox states she considered the drink never so nice as when conveyed in pewter. A number of reports of the time insist on the special qualities of pewter in this regard. There is, too, her choice of Barclay Perkins, always amongst the most reputed of the London porters.

She was one of the boys, so to speak.

I have a pewter pint, purchased for a few pounds in 1990 from a Davy Wine Bar in London. Tonight, I’ll fill it with London porter – I have some – and listen to this performance of a Balfe cantata written for Malibran in 1836. (The vibrant performance is by Manuela Custer). Maybe it will summon Malibran’s shade, if so we’ll trade notes, both beer and performance. Je tiens à vous, Madame.

 

 

Bilder Aus Schöner Zeit

The title is the caption of some drinking notes the author and critic H.L. Mencken included in one of his Prejudices books. A six-volume series from the 1920s, it presented essays on politics, literature, and society. The German means portrait of a lovely time, or era.

A selection of the essays was published in 1958 by author James Farrell. It was reprinted at least once, and the pieces are amongst Mencken’s most remembered writings.

Short as it is, the Bilder provides a capsule of memorable evenings out in pre-Prohibition America. Pabst’s “very dark” Kulmbacher is memorialized. So is musty ale in Washington, the ditto at Keen’s steakhouse in New York, different American forms of lager, Chianti in New York, a gin-and-vermouth cocktail, and much else.

The beer was often “got down”, as Mencken would put it, at sessions of the Saturday Night Club. This was a group of friends – doctors, professors, professional musicians, writers – who met to drink beer and often to play music. An image of the group c. 1914, drinking from lidded steins in Baltimore hotel, is preserved in the Maryland Digital Archives. Mencken is at the far left.

The Herr Abner referred to ran the Abner-Drury brewery in Washington. The way Mencken refers to him suggests the brewery’s pilsner rivalled Mencken’s king of beers, the true pilsner of Bohemia. Abner’s beer was probably Royal Pilsen, which appeared after Repeal for a time. Generally, Mencken was lukewarm on American lager and therefore, those he mentioned must have been particularly good. He didn’t omit Michelob, a rich all-malt beer which, as I have speculated earlier, must have tasted close to fine Czech lager.

Even in these brief notes, the Mencken humour surfaces. He mentions “twenty or thirty” Bass Ale nights, and then “five or six hundred” pilsner nights, showing where his brewing sympathies lay, but also a glimmer of his well-known anti-“Anglomania”.

It’s the same, or more so, when he mentions “two or three hot scotch” nights, as Scotch whisky came low on his totem of libations.

In this vein, beer is barely mentioned in the London chapter of his book Europe After 8:15, although Mencken gives English ale a partial compliment by likening its “acrid grip” to a fine Munich bock. George Sala used the same term, acrid, about 60 years earlier to describe London porter in a gin palace. I’d guess Mencken knew that reference and reprised it. In any case, and in this light, acrid suggests simply very bitter from English hops, not anything spoiled or sour. It is indeed not a surprise English beer had this character then – some of it still does.

I wonder what Mencken would think of the restored, and then some, American beer scene of today. He might, first, express surprise the Republic still exists, as in a 1930s article he projects that it will “blow up” (meaning simply, dissolve or end) within 100 years. As a firm supporter of all-malt beers from Bavaria and Bohemia, I think he would find many of the tastes favoured today, in his inimitable words, like “hot acids and lye”. But everyone’s bilder is relative to time, space, and taste – maybe even the curmudgeon of Baltimore would allow that.

Note re image: The image above is from the Washington, D.C. paper beer label pages at www.chosi.org, here.  All intellectual property therein or thereto belongs solely to its lawful owner or authorized user. Use believed available for educational and historical purposes. All feedback welcomed.