The great brewing name of Whitbread survives today, but as a different business from its origins. Today, the company, a listed concern based in London, focuses on hotels (Premier Inns), coffee shops (Costa), and a range of branded restaurants and a few family-style pubs.

Brewing was sold off in 2001 to what is now Anheuser Busch InBev. Whitbread sold its once-vaunted pub portfolio as well but kept its beer brands. If any beers still bear the name in Britain they are produced under licence by other breweries.

(For a clear account of how most of the major brewers of Britain after WW II spun-off their plants and pub estates, see this 2005 article in Brewery History by Pat Saunders).

But until the early 2000s the name Whitbread meant beer and brewing prowess and an extensive pub network in England – for many it still does.

We write this post for those “many”.

Whitbread issued or sponsored a number of company histories over its long existence, which began with Samuel Whitbread and two partners in 1742.

Earlier, we had an off-and-on series discussing brewery and distillery company histories. We’ll return to the subject today to consider the one issued by Whitbread Brewery in 1935. (The publication date is not stated in the book but various factors point to it).

In this period, Whitbread was still a potent force in brewing albeit the porter that powered the company’s rise was largely replaced by other types of beer.

As for businesses anywhere in any period, they like to keep in touch with their customers, and breweries especially given their intimate link with the consuming public.

The book in question was probably sold at the shop on exit from a tour at Chiswell Street, London or given to pub landlords, suppliers of materials, and other trade connections.

What is the equivalent today? Probably glossy pdfs linked to company websites or in their Facebook pages. Facebook itself serves as a kind of ongoing “story” for many companies, Instagram too.

The business “story” of our time – as in “we tell our story” –  existed no less in a former day, but in less continuous form.

You can read Whitbread’s Stanley Baldwin-era story, Whitbread’s Brewery, here, stored in University of Glasgow archives. As for most analogous accounts it used good paper and included well-chosen photo- and other illustrations.

Still, a “luxe” tone was avoided, appropriately as the Depression was still operative and these histories were written mostly for a non-technical audience. They tended to balance technical discussion (unavoidable) with a layman’s perspective, Whitbread’s book no less.

The tone is even, “quiet” yet assured: a typical example of English public writing in this period. One may contrast it with the brash American commercial style of the late 1800s, or the chatty-technocrat business prose of the 1950s-1960s.

We like especially Whitbread’s three pages on the Royal Visit by King George and Queen Charlotte in 1787, with three Princesses in tow.

Royalty had visited business works before, but this visit was a landmark in the evolution of capitalist enterprise and its relation to aristocracy and the landed estates. One sees the seeds of the current busy public program of the Royal Family.

Here is part of the account, itself excerpted from contemporary (1787) newspaper coverage:

Note the Georgian precision of language and cadence; the sentences almost dance with each other. Yet all is informative and concise, sometimes amusing. This is the obverse of today’s emotive, feverish/confessional style, but this is now, eh?

Returning to the 1930s, the pages on cooperage note the importance of Memel oak to build or repair the company’s casks, a topic I discussed recently. Good images of the casks are shown.

It is noted the work was conducted in a former porter “vat”. This could mean simply a surface area where one of the huge wood vats had stood, or perhaps a sub-floor where a large cistern once held porter.

So what were the “singularities” of the upper case – upper caste – porter served to Royal personages? One can only speculate. Perhaps it was an unusually good blend, or a particularly aged porter from the huge cisterns and vats.

Porter was made then (we know) from all-brown malt, malt that despite toasting in the kiln would convert to fermentable sugar. It was often not more than 10-15% less the equivalent weight of pale malt, so pretty good mashable stuff, with diastase intact (or enough) to produce the essential maltose for fermentation.

The porter was probably a touch phenolic without (we think) being a Bamberg forest fire in the mouth. It was probably a little fruity from yeast esters, and surely quite bitter from hops. One may see the impressive hop pockets, or elongated sacks, used in the Thirties in the book. They probably looked quite similar in George III’s time.

A porter royal for a visit no less noble. British royalty survived into the period the book was written, and endures today.

What do Princes Harry and William drink, I wonder? If they drink at all that is, I’d be nonplussed if they don’t.* Some kind of lager, probably, or any kind. Remember, aristos aren’t known for connoisseurship, that’s more a middle class or academic preoccupation.

So-called Sloanes, certainly not immune to being drunk on royalty, will drink any kind of beer, said Sloane Ranger Handbook (1982). I read the book on an airplane once, someone in the seat before me had left it. An interesting book, and I never forgot that little bit on beer.

True, “wine merchant” was among the traditional occupations of this class, the book made that clear too, but not the customers really; that was the point of the discussion and it makes sense I think.

I like Prince Harry, and am very impressed with his Invictus work. It takes conviction, courage, and good values to do that, not to mention a suitable personality, and he does it well. Few causes are more worthy.

When he gets marries I’ll raise a personal toast, in singular porter. Canadian porter though, Hazz.

Note re images: the first image above was sourced from the excellent U.K.-based Gracie’s Guide site, here.  The second image was sourced from the Wikipedia entry on Whitbread, here. Images are used for educational and historical purposes. All intellectual property in said images belongs solely to their lawful owner, as applicable. All feedback welcomed.

…………………………………….

*Nonplussed is used in its North American sense.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last night Amsterdam Brewery released the 1870 AK brewed as a collaboration with me. It’s a limited run, part of the brewery’s Adventure Brews series.

The beer is available at Amsterdam restaurant bars currently in “keg” form, and in cans at the retail shop in the main brewery in Leaside.

Last night the beer was available in cask form, served by thumb tap straight from a spiled cask (no handpump), and in keg form.

The reception was held in the main cocktail area of Amsterdam Brewhouse and Restaurant on Laird Street. Despite the area being quite spacious it was full-up without being crowded.

As I’ve discussed technical aspects of the beer in earlier posts, I’ll focus here on palate. Despite the large amount of leaf hops used, the beer was not overwhelming bitter. I think the palate softened down through many weeks aging, or “keeping” in older terminology.

The reasons for this in my view are, the relatively short boiling time (one hour), the relatively low alpha acid values of the English hops used compared to many varieties today, and the multi-stage addition of the hops. Had they all been added at the beginning of the boil stage, for example, or the boil increased by 50% or 100%, the bitterness factor probably would have been more pronounced.

Even with Fuggles dry-hopping – the keg received one week’s treatment in the dish-bottomed conditioning tank – the beer, while full of English hop character, showed an integrated palate. The hops and malt interleaved to create a kind of unity.

The keg version seemed a touch more hop-forward, tending more to IPA as one brewer put it. The canned will be similar to the keg.

This may be down to the different contact of the hops and beer in both forms, or perhaps too the sugar priming added to the cask. All this said, I didn’t find the two forms that different. If anyone lets the keg or canned version warm up and decarbonate, they will be very similar.

Finings were not used for the cask-conditioned form, hence a turbid look but it didn’t taste “yeasty” at all. The quality of the hops and malt came through strongly which was one of the goals of the brewing.

As a 5.2% beer, it suited perfectly a reception that lasted two hours. Had it been a c. 7% IPA the beer would have intoxicated too fast over that time. Being a medium-gravity style, it worked perfectly to refresh or for a session, just as it would have in the pub or household of the 1800s.

The main difference with modern English bitter was not having the toffee-sweetish edge of caramel malt, and being (certainly) more hoppy in total character. In this respect, 1870 AK reminded me of American pale ales and IPAs that don’t use crystal malt, not used in English brewing in the period in question.

Was it radically different to any other beer I’ve ever had? Not at all, nor could that be expected as it is brewed today of course with ingredients of today albeit selected for their traditional character. It reminded me of some bitters first encountered on English visits in the 1980s, especially Young’s bitter in London, and of other beers I remember from the U.K. trips.

Some of our brewers who focus on English styles, e.g. Granite brewpub in Toronto, make beers on a similar vector.

But this is the value of historical recreation, it shows the differences and continuities.

One experienced taster said the beer had a “rustic” quality, one he thought came from the single floor-malt used. I agree with that. Although it did not taste at all like a Belgian or modern farmhouse beer or a craft cider, it reminded me that type of beverage: honest, nothing fussed over, clean, natural. This style must have been a staple of many village public houses back in the day.

Indeed despite a few large glasses the head is clear as a bell today, due to that honesty of character I think and, to the extent we could achieve it, lack of processing.

I’l try it as the weeks go forward at the Amsterdam bars, and see how it tastes in the cans I have particularly when it falls bright (or brighter).

Many thanks again to Amsterdam and especially Iain McOustra and Cody Noland (pictured) of the company’s brewing team for their dedication and skill to bring this special release to market.

 

Tim H in the comments to the last post had asked about the dry-hopping of stout and porter, pointing to some evidence it was done. Dry-hopping means adding a handful or more “dry” (unboiled) hops to the beer when barrelled or sometimes when stored in a vat or tank before barreling.

At p. 400, here, from A Textbook of the Science Of Brewing (1891) by Edward Moritz and George Morris, you will read that dry-hopping was generally not used for stout and mild ale.

The reasons are evident from the way Moritz explained the advantages of dry hopping. It was primarily for bouquet and taste in pale ale, and also to stimulate an after-fermentation for long-stored beers. Export stouts were the latter case, so that Brettanomyces yeast would consume the non-fermentable (by normal brewers yeast) dextrins and complex sugars.

In contrast, for mild ale a fresh, sweet quality was sought, with the malt to the fore. The hops play a lesser role versus the pale ale family.

Porter was increasingly sold fresh in the 1800s and correlatively maltiness was a signature, with a roasted malt flourish. I think it likely a flowery or herbal note was felt to clash with the malty character of new porter or stout and only a neutral bitterness was wanted, as say Guinness has today.

Certainly porter as handed down before the craft era, in my experience, did not have a strong hop smell and taste: Sinebrychoff Porter, Carnegie Stout, Anchor Porter, Molson Porter, the surviving U.S. regional porters, Guinness, Murphy, Beamish, Sheaf Stout, Lion Stout, the East European porters – none had a pungent hop smell from dry-hopping that I can recall.

Many of these beers survive, and remain unchanged in this regard.

It’s in tune with what Moritz wrote and he was a highly regarded brewing scientist of the era.

To my recollection Victorian brewing writer Frank Faulkner stated the same thing, or in substance. I recall as well similar statements in issues of the Journal of the Institute of Brewing.

Did some breweries diverge from a rule of thumb? Yes, Moritz himself noted this. But this was not typical, judging from his comments and other factors I’ve noted.

20th century practice is less significant as gravities had fallen. Dry-hopping can encourage stability, as Moritz noted too. Nonetheless it was only with the onset of craft that one started to see dry- or aroma-hopped porter and stout, particularly with citric New World varieties.

 

 

 

 

What is stout, what is Black IPA? The beer above, from Magnotta in Ontario – a winery, brewery, and distillery – is a Black IPA.

This style emerged in the U.S. in the last 20 years, and is a dark-coloured India Pale Ale. The idea is to retain the hoppy burst of an IPA but with a dark colour and touch of roast flavor.

If IPA was a Supermarine Spitfire with eight Browning guns, Black IPA is the night fighter version.

A stout is black, or very dark brown, beer with the same element of roasted malt or barley, but enough to lend a decided toasted or even scorched flavour, burnt cordite comes to mind. Traditionally, stout was very bitter but in a neutral way, not aromatic like some pale ale was.

Stout is still often associated with Ireland but it emerged in the 1700s in London with its brother-in-arms, porter. The expedition to Ireland was later, under British auspices when Ireland was British, that is.

Stout and porter are really the same thing, the only difference was a general tendency that porter was less strong. Stout could describe a pale beer too and did before porter emerged – meaning in other words simply a strong beer. Once porter conquered the London beer market stout meant the brown kind, and has ever since.

Some Black IPA crosses into stout territory, some leans more to the IPA encampment. It’s a no-man’s-land of beer styles, really.

Generally, the “IPA” in Black or most contemporary IPA denotes a modern American hop signature: floridly fruity, often citric, sometimes weedy or “dank”.

IPA in England, where it originated also in the Georgian era, and also in London, can be as sharply bitter – was originally – as American IPA but the hop flavour is different. English hop yards produced flavours more like garden flowers or an autumn forest.

Sometimes English IPA had an acerbic bitterness but not much aroma at all, the Burton style could be like this.

Even before craft beer mobilized, some IPA as such survived in U.K. but the pint of “bitter” still available in many English pubs is a descendant. If you want to know what English IPA was like, the closest surviving examples in English pubs today are the bitter.

Magnotta’s version of Black IPA commendably uses Ontario-grown hops. These ended by not tasting very American at all, or are used at any rate in a way to impart a neutral bitterness. Some Ontario hops are rather acerbic or dank in my experience but not here, the taste is very good and traditional.

The result is to approach more closely an English heritage, perhaps like the old Black and Tan, a mix of bitter and stout.

In general the beer is excellent, with a full malty taste. Nothing crow about it except the colour!

Magnotta has been brewing for many years now, but this beer is the best I’ve tasted from them. I hope to get out to Vaughan, ON soon, where the company is based, to revisit the range.

 

 

No, I don’t mean me, although I appreciate Bass ale – more especially its history.

In 1987, C.C. Owen wrote a scholarly article, “The History of Brewing in Burton Upon Trent”, published in the Journal of the Institute of Brewing. You can read it here.

He writes:

The Ace Hill Light pictured on the left is the latest release from the Toronto-based Ace Hill Brewery, which has its beers produced at Brunswick Bierworks in east Toronto. Although I forgot to take a picture of the poured beer, it has a notably pale colour, a la American adjunct style of the 1960s-2000s. This can be Mexican too, as stated on the label, as both are grain adjunct, light-tasting styles.

Indeed the label indicates wheat and flaked corn are used with the malt to produce a 4% abv beer.

The Mexican reference may point as well to the light lemony tang in the beer. I don’t think there is a citrus addition (not sure), it’s probably from the hops blend.

Ace Hill always had stylish packaging and imagery but this new can outdoes anything that came before, it must be the most attractive in Canada and maybe anywhere. The company has been astute to identify a market few small breweries exploit: craft light.

How is it craft? Well, it is produced in small amounts clearly, it may be unpasteurized (not sure again at time of writing), and it actually has a full flavour. Nothing bland about it, but the tang of adjunct is there of course, that’s the style.

It should rock a few patio tables and beach coolers this summer, I have no doubt.

It’s not my preferred style, but from a business standpoint it’s a great idea and potentially has a large market. It’s a much better beer too than any of the macro brewery efforts at a light.

The Czechvar Dark pictured has a really good Dunkel flavour, but repeated tastings in the last couple of years confirm the brewery is going for a light palate. If they ramped up the taste – same taste but just more – it would be a world classic brown lager, but it’s dialled down too much.

The best way to drink it is almost shelf temperature, as this makes the taste stronger. The yeast taste comes out more too, one I find hard to describe, but you know it when you taste it. Almost yogurt-like, maybe, or buttermilk.

Anyway most Dunkel styles, certainly those I’ve tried in North America, don’t really get close to the “original”. This one, via a Czech city, does, and it’s good to investigate for that reason alone.

The LCBO brings it in real fast too, it’s just a couple of months from packaging and the super-freshness shows.

Come to think of it, consumed iced it would make a great summer beer too. It’s traditional Mitteleuropa bottle and labeling don’t encourage the idea – more Black Sea resort under greyish skies – but it would be perfect for that.

 

Pictured are two beers bearing the badge of Upper Canada.

One is still “original” in the sense it is brewed by a successor of Upper Canada Brewing Company (UC), which started in 1985. After a middling run, in 1998 its assets were bought by Sleeman Brewery in Guelph, ON. Of the line of beers UC produced, only Upper Canada Lager and Upper Canada Dark Ale are still made. Somewhat unfortunately they are priced as budget craft beers, with a dozen fetching $18.00, a pretty good buy in this Province as the beers are excellent.

Not that many people buy them though judging by the few cases I see in Beer Stores in Toronto. I think many beer fans who would enjoy them are put off by the case format (minimum purchase 12), and, strange as it sounds, low price. You have to have confidence to pay low for something good and not everyone has that, I’ll say frankly.

The new Repatriation Lager is a re-brewing of Upper Canada Rebellion Lager. It was sometimes styled in its day malt liquor, probably for legal reasons as it was always a lager, except when a (separate) Rebellion Ale was issued c. 1997.

Henderson Brewing in Toronto did the remake by permission of Sleeman, a nice gesture by Sapporo of Japan which owns Sleeman now.

Rebellion became Repatriation, a double pun only Canadians will fully understand. I’d guess Sleeman wants to retain the name Rebellion, maybe for future use or disposition, or maybe there is some other issue for Henderson to use the name, I’m not sure. (Henderson has used “Upper Canada” on the label with no issue clearly from Sleeman).

The Repatriation is a partial success in my view as its colour seems somewhat darker than I recall, see also the original pictured below from the Ratebeer page on the original beer, here. (The reviews are interesting too. They describe the colour as gold, deep yellow, mustard yellow. One mentions orange highlights).

But the colour difference is neither here nor there really. Taste is the important thing and it is close to the original but needs to be more impactful in the palate. The yeast background is correct, and the slightly fruity note, but the taste is too restrained even by 1980s standards.

I think this is a great initiative and I’d encourage Henderson to brew it again but just bring the taste profile forward.

Before I get to the Dark Ale, I want to say that Upper Canada never really hit the mark for me. It’s not that its beers were early-generation and lacking by comparison to today’s craft range as such. It’s that they never were spot on and I think that played a role in the demise of the original concern.

The Dark Ale as made by Sleeman is much better than the Upper Canada original, plain fact IMO.

The original had a distinct, almost Belgian banana note (isomer?) that seemed unusual, not English, the ostensible inspiration for the beer. Perhaps the brewery was aiming for a Trappist-like taste, some Trappist beer has that profile.

Some people of course enjoyed UC Dark Ale and more power to them, but the way it is now, it is much better: the taste is malty, quite rich, a good emulation of an “English brown” of the post-WW II era. It reminds me of what Newcastle Brown Ale used to taste like and some other of the older-style English brown ales.

As craft beer is old enough to provide its own examples for emulation, myth stories, and more, hopefully one will see more recreations and salutes. But I’m being honest to say that in general, early Ontario craft brewing did not stand tall in the brewing leagues. Other areas well exceeded it, even taking account of the milder profile craft beer then had in comparison to today.

In contrast, the brewing scene today in this province is much more accomplished, in taste not just quantity.

Still, Rebellion was a good effort, one of the best of the UC range in fact, and I’d tweak Repatriation to get it exactly right.

 

 

 

 

 

1878 and all that

Cocktails history is an occasional interest of mine. Stimulated by a discussion today with drinks historian David Wondrich on Twitter, I’ve looked into the year the Manhattan and Martinez cocktails first appear in print. Many consider the Martinez the ancestor of the Martini, or in effect the same thing, but it has a connection to the Manhattan too.

In terms of when a proper written recipe first appeared, sources on these cocktails seem to accord on 1884 via the book The Modern Bartenders’ Guide, or Fancy Drinks and how to mix Them by O.H. Byron, published that year by Excelsior Publishing House in New York. See e.g. this original edition, and page 21 where Byron states in lapidary fashion that the Martinez recipe is the same as his (two) detailed recipes for the Manhattan, but with gin used for the whiskey.

However, was Byron’s book published earlier? Consider (via HathiTrust) page 400 of Jennie June’s American Cookery Book, published in 1878. Jennie June was the nom de plume of Jane Cunningham Croly.

According to my searches, see e.g., the Catalogue Record in HathiTrust for this title, Croly/Jennie June’s American Cookery Book was first published in 1866. It appeared in numerous later editions or reprintings, including in 1878 (new edition, see preface). She published a number books dealing with female and “domestic” issues, and founded an influential womens’ club. She is remembered enough to merit the Wikipedia biography entry linked above.

Excelsior was her publisher, hence its ad in the closing pages for the (uncredited) The Modern Bartenders Guide. This Guide seems essentially the 1884 one as the drinks list in the Contents page is almost the same. “Manhattan Cocktail” duly appears in versions No. 1 and No. 2 and their actual recipes must have been the same as for the 1884 edition, ditto for the way to make the “Martinez Cocktail”.

For the Manhattan, the modern Difford’s Guide states that the first written recipe appears in O. H. Byron’s book published in 1884 and that a reference to the drink appears earlier in print, in September, 1882 in the Daily Morning Herald of Olean, NY. The latter mentions the key ingredients of a Manhattan but is not a recipe as such.

(There is other evidence suggesting an earlier origin for the drink but nothing in print to confirm it before 1882 as far as I know).

Yet, the Manhattan, in two versions, and Martinez, sans recipes but surely the same as in the 1884 book, appear ostensibly in 1878 in an ad in Jennie June’s cookery book published that year. No ad for The Modern Bartenders Guide appears in the original, 1866 edition of Jennie June’s book, or what appear to be reprintings in 1870 and 1874.

I’m wondering now if Jennie Jerome Churchill, Winston Churchill’s mother and associated in lore with the creation of the Manhattan at the Manhattan Club around 1880, has been confounded with the Jennie of the cookbook mentioned. Or is that just a coincidence?

If I’ve gone wrong, happy to be put straight, but so far I don’t see where.

Storing Beer in Non-Traditional, American Oak Becomes Fashionable

It turns out that at the late year of 2004, we can read of the wood cask history of English and other U.K. breweries. This time, it’s not in the Journal of the Institute of Brewing.

It’s not by one of the current beer or beer historical writers, not by a predecessor of the Brewers Association, not in the journal Brewery History. It’s not in the pages of a brewing technology text. It’s not from a publication of the well-known Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA), although we’re getting warm.

It’s in an issue of the quarterly magazine of the fairly obscure Society for the Preservation of Beers From the Wood (SPBW). The SPBW is a U.K. social group founded in 1963 by enthusiasts of naturally-conditioned beer. Originally the group promoted interest in beer that literally poured from wood casks, but today supports traditional (real) ale even if dispensed from metal containers (the main form of container today).

You can read the objects of SPBW here and how the group distinguishes itself from CAMRA.

In 2004 Anthony Redman wrote up the history of oak barrel use by breweries for SPBW, and most interesting his account is. He also provides an interesting bridge to the present in that it appears he was (may still be) connected to Innis & Gunn, who had recently developed a new type of oak-aged beer in Scotland.

His article appears in the SPBW magazine in four parts, in issues 88, 89, 90, and 92. The first part explains how Innis & Gunn Scottish Ale, aged in oak barrels, came onto the market. It’s the familiar story that the beer was meant originally simply to season casks to hold a William Grant whisky, but with some twists and extra background. In a sense the story goes back to the 1970s and early research experience of Russell Sharp, founder of Caledonian Brewery who earlier had worked in distilling.

Dougal Sharp, a founder of Innis & Gunn and son of Russell, worked at “Cally’s” as a brewer and came up with the recipe for what is now Innis & Gunn Original.

The second part gives some general history on use of oak barrels to hold wine and beer. The third part is the heart of the discussion, with a detailed history of the use of Memel and other oak in U.K. brewing. Some interesting information appears I’ve not read elsewhere, including that Memel wood ceased to be definitively available to British coopers in 1934, on the Persian oak supply that saved British cask plant in the 1950s, and on how the troublesome American oak was dealt with finally by lining the barrels in different ways.

Redman writes that Memel came back to the market in the 1950s but was too expensive by then. (Other sources state quality issues arose as well, some of the wood still showed effects of war damage).

Redman’s series bears an appropriately Victorian title: Some Animadversions on Beer in Wooden Casks.

Here is the page from the SPBW’s website on which past editions of its magazine are archived in pdf. So you can pull any issue mentioned to find each or all parts of the article.

Redman gives as well the detailed recipe to season casks, of any provenance, he emphasizes, in the brewery. He takes care to explain this is different from seasoning the staves at the cooperage. It means using a strong salt and soda solution to clear out the woody, vegetal smell of untreated oak, and he says, if you use oak for casks you had better do this else the beer will taste awful.

What this shows us among other things is Innis & Gunn were well-aware of how American oak was viewed historically in the British brewing industry. They knew everything we do, and probably lots more. It’s not the case that they thought American oak was a wood typically used for beer casks in the past or was on a par with other woods previously used.

Yet, almost all wood used in any form by Innis & Gunn to my knowledge is of American white oak origin. All bourbon barrels and staves certainly would be, but most rum and whisky barrels too, as most other barrels used in the spirits and wine industries. There are some exceptions to be sure, e.g., for Cognac, some French wine, but American oak is the general type used for maturing most spirits and wine today.

Innis & Gunn clearly made the business decision that a taste formerly not felt suitable for the British market could find new favour. This was probably due to the fact that ale itself had become a smallish category in the beer market: lager was the main form of beer by the 2000s.

Also, American craft brewing had introduced a wide range of new flavours in beer. Goose Island and other U.S. brewers had shown by 2004 that beer from American white oak could sell and even have cachet.

It has long been reported that William Grant distillery workers liked the beer destined for the rubbish tip after doing its work to season whisky casks. Perhaps I&G went on nothing more than this and a hunch the vanillin-tasting beer would sell.

But one thing certain is, I&G clearly understood the history here. They knew they had something novel but turned the old learning on its head, to their advantage. In this sense they really are innovators, just as, say, Fritz Maytag of Anchor Brewing was when he used the new Cascade hop as a top note in his beer in 1975.

Anthony Redman obviously was (or is) a well-trained and experienced brewing technologist. He sounds like a scientist or technical consultant, one quite familiar with the literature on beer cask history and then some. He writes well, too.

These are the concluding words to the third part of his article (issue 90), where he brings the historical picture up to date (2004):

 

 

For beer casks, Findlay liked oak wood in general. It was cheap and offered good insulation from temperature swings.

He noted: