Corned Beef – Ersatz Irish?


Where’s the Beef? Read on

The New York Times has an article by Liam Stack investigating whether corned beef is really Irish and suggesting it is more Irish-American, in particular as connected to St. Patrick’s Day. The article interviewed experts on Irish-American history and Ireland who inclined that the old sod really preferred … bacon. One person interviewed suggested corned beef in Irish-American communities could have derived from Jewish pickled brisket in New York.

Another theorizes that anti-Irish humour in the early 1900s was based on the Irish being seen as too fond of pork, hence Irish-Americans took up beef for a more all-American image.

Well, all this seems wrong to me. First, the Jews never ate pickled brisket with cabbage and potatoes, or not as far as I know. Second, corned beef in different forms (wet-pickled, dry-cured, spiced, etc.) is an old dish in England, as I discussed in an earlier blog entry. It seems unlikely a hallowed dish of English manor houses and prosperous farms would be unknown a hop and skip over the Irish Sea, particularly when Britain governed all of Ireland.

A quick check in Google Books produced these references viz. Ireland and corned beef:

  1. Fraser’s Magazine (1863), “A Fortnight in Ireland in the Lent of 1863“. Fraser’s was a reputed magazine of the Victorian era authored by a collective, the articles were not individually credited:

Both corned beef and cabbage are undoubtedly good things in their way … and I am happy to know that corned beef and cabbage are still of the first institutes of Irish cookery. You find the Irish cold corned beef in 1863, as in 1827 and 1830, on the side table of a morning, with cold chickens and tongue, grouse-pie, and those admirably cured Bath chaps which in Ireland are called pig’s faces. You also find corned beef piping hot at dinner…

Bath chap is a cured pig’s cheek, then a well-known product in different parts of Britain. Hence, albeit a pork product was also mentioned, it was listed after corned beef. The 1820s were early days for the Irish Catholic influx to America. It is unlikely newly-established Irish-Americans brought a dish largely unknown in Ireland back to the homeland on visits there and it promptly became popular.

Unquestionably, the bulk of the Irish suffered severe famine which led to the exodus mentioned. Nonetheless, the populace who still ate well knew corned beef throughout the century, per Fraser’s Magazine. This being so, there had to be a history of corned beef in Ireland, with cabbage to boot, well before 1800. Moreover this is supported is by these further references:

2. In  Ainsworth’s Magazine (1854), Matthew Lynch states in “Dublin Street-Cries“:

A corned rump of beef and cabbage is a favourite dish with all persons in Ireland – either peers or peasants. Corned beef is styled beef by the Irish people; and beef and  cabbage are looked upon as forming a splendid dish by our people.

Lynch adds that the poorest people ate bacon when they could have it – no beef. The bulk of the people who left Ireland for America possibly hadn’t regularly eaten corned beef at home, although this is far from clear, but in any case once they could afford a prized dish of the old country, they made sure to have some. This is quite different from learning the habit from other ethnicities including the Jews.

3. In a “A Walking Tour Round Ireland 1865…” W.W. Barry states:

I may observe that corned beef, mutton, and fish are rather common at the inns in Ireland, as having frequently few guests the …

Barry states the inns he frequented generally had a slow business and had to rely on salted provisions as a staple. Since he indicates commercial travellers used them, that is, salesmen on the road, it cannot be that corned beef in Ireland was a choice only of an Anglo-Irish elite or other prosperous residents as some have argued.

References #2 and #3 above post-date the start of Irish emigration to America, but none of the three sources refers to America in relation to corned beef. These sources suggest to me, together with corned beef long being known in nearby England, that Ireland had it for a long time and brought the taste to America.

This doesn’t mean everyone in Ireland ate corned beef, or even very often, but that’s different from saying it is not an Irish dish. Many Canadians rarely or never eat Canadian back bacon, but to state it is not a Canadian dish would be provocative. Dukes up.

Finally, the general eating pattern in Ireland today including for St. Patrick’s Day is neither here nor there. Eating habits change everywhere over time. But I wonder if some Irish families have stopped eating corned beef on the idea it has no Hibernian lineage, perhaps under influence from revisionist food writers.

Note re image: The image above is believed in the public domain and available for educational and historical use. It was sourced here. All feedback welcomed.




Glass Half Full

flask-311421_960_720One of the features of beer flavour, especially in lagers, I have a particular sensitivity to is dimethyl sulfide, which I’ve referred to off and on here, usually in beer reviews.

DMS as it’s termed has a cooked vegetable, sometimes over-boiled egg, taste. The term “smell of the ocean” encapsulates the idea too as seawater often has a high concentration of DMS due to its organic matter. This entry from the Oxford Companion To Beer, by brewing scientist Charles Bamforth, explains well the nature and causes of DMS in brewing.

Ales and porters are largely exempt from it. This is largely because ale malts are kilned at higher temperatures than lager malts. This neutralizes the precursor in the barley corn which creates DMS when wort is boiled. Also, ale and porter ferment at higher temperatures than lager, which tends further to inhibit DMS.

Thus, in much blonde lager, the precursor survives to the boil stage and is converted in the kettle to DMS. Some lifts off – becomes volatile and is lost to the atmosphere – in fermentation. The evolved carbon dioxide removes or flushes the compound out; however, closed fermentation systems can obviously inhibit this. Long aging of bottom-fermentation beer – lagering – used to remove the DMS as well, but less so today due to much shorter aging times and ubiquity again of enclosed tanks.

I believe the modern preoccupation to restrict as far as possible access of processed beer to oxygen, generally salutary to prevent premature oxidation, has this other effect.

DMS, in my experience, is a characteristic of most European lagers, and many craft lagers, but not all. Yeast differences play a role as well but it should be noted all lager yeasts in use around the world derive from two major strains, or so a reputed brewer once told me. This explains that the yeasts such as they are, relatively uniform, don’t impact the issue nearly as much as low temperature kilning and the other factors mentioned earlier.

Think, too, brussel sprouts and cabbage, the boiling … barley is a grain, not vegetable, but the distinction is a technical one from many viewpoints.

The Czech Pilsner Urquell, at least in the forms we get it, never shows the characteristic IMO. Some beers always show it, while for some it’s more off and on, which probably reflects irreducible processing factors caused by seasonal changes in barleys, temperature fluctuations, inconsistency of demand and thus varying storage times, and other factors.

The whole question too, is, “how much?”. In low concentrations, DMS is regarded by many brewers as part of the lager profile. Indeed some view it with favour and feel it contributes a “fresh” note to beer. At first I couldn’t understand this, but think of the seawater analogy…

I tried an experiment recently which was as striking in its simplicity as its results. I took a couple of beers in which I felt I could detect low DMS, one was Anchor Steam Beer, the other Creemore Lager. I left the can or bottle open on the kitchen counter for a couple of days, half-full. When I tried these again, the DMS taste seemed absent, especially in the Steam Beer. I believe escaping carbon dioxide carried off or expelled the DMS. It may be that lagers with higher concentrations of DMS, especially some German ones, wouldn’t react in the same way, or not quickly enough, since the beer would become sour or otherwise undrinkable for other reasons. Still, I thought the experiment noteworthy as a kind of speeded-up lagering.

DMS is detectable by some at the remarkably low concentration of 30 parts per billion. In my view, it’s just too idiosyncratic a taste to gain a mass market in North America, even allowing that the taste of drinks and foods should not be ironed into a characterless uniformity. Although most mass market brands today are rather bland, I remember the U.S. Budweiser, say, when it had a good flavour, 30-40 years ago. It never tasted of DMS, in contrast that was a “European” taste. It was the same for Coors and most of their competitors. True too of Labatt Blue in Canada. As all these beers are very clean today, the absence of DMS is even more apparent.

I’ll have to try Molson Canadian again – in that case I always thought the profile featured a hint of DMS. Perhaps it is the exception, in terms of mass acceptance I mean.

There are plenty of flavour elements to lager, the malt, hops, the yeast, to showcase to the exclusion of DMS or indeed other sulfur compounds that can appear in lager (for simplicity I am limiting discussion here to DMS). Pilsner Urquell, one of the great beers of the world and an odds-against survival of genuine 19th century brewing, shows the way. So do numerous other lagers including some craft beers. I never get DMS in Sam Adams Lager or in Blue Point Toasted Lager, for example. The absence of a sulfur hint doesn’t guarantee one will like the beer of course, but these two are good examples of reasonably widely available craft beers of quality in the general beer sense.

In France, Pelforth Blonde has a rich but exemplary clean taste in this sense, or it did, I haven’t had it lately. (Is the Blonde an ale though? Maybe that explains it). Stella Artois too although one always hopes for more character from the malt and hops. But note the success Stella has had in Canada, it’s not just promotion and marketing, it’s the beer itself.

Note re image shown: the image shown was sourced here and is in the public domain and believed available for any use. All feedback welcomed.




Back To The Future of Porter, via Michael Donovan

Fraserians_MacliseOf the many resources in the 1800s to understand the changes porter had undergone from the previous century, few are as clear and complete as Michael Donovan’s Domestic Economy, Vol. 1, published in 1830. The book formed part of The Cabinet Cyclopaedia, one of those protean Victorian efforts to compile under one roof knowledge in wide-ranging areas of science, history and culture. An informative entry in Wikipedia explains its genesis and commercial results and other influences.

These cyclopedias, predecessors of the encyclopedias which were mainstays of family education outside the school for most of the 1900s, were great resources for those hungry for learning. This was a time when few avenues existed to impart higher or technical knowledge outside the established university and professional trades framework. Scotland was a partial exception here, and increasingly North America, but I am speaking of England mainly.

Indeed the highly reputed University College London had only recently been established as an alternative to Oxford and Cambridge. The series editor, The Rev. Dionysius Lardner, lectured at University College.

Michael Donovan, 1790-1876, was an apothecary and chemist from Clare, Ireland. He clearly had a good technical background and authored other volumes in the Cyclopaedia, on food or science-related matters. The alcohol writing covered not just beer and brewing but most other kinds of drink as well as etymological and other history pertaining to alcohol. Certain drugs received treatment as well, and tobacco.

Donovan’s writing on intoxicating drinks cannot be said to have gone without criticism. In fact, a rather excoriating review appeared in Fraser’s Magazine, called Donovan the Intoxicator, and can be read here.

800px-Fraser's_Magazine_1833The review, while somewhat entertaining, is more a character assassination than a serious assessment of Donovan’s work. It is replete with quotations in foreign or dead languages, and distended footnotes. One has the sense that a Donovan without classical learning was being reproved for venturing outside his domain. There is a nasty anti-Irish tone to the essay, as well.

But even setting all this aside, it must be noted the reviewer agreed porter was an excellent drink and offered not a murmur of affront to anything Donovan wrote on the subject. If he had disagreed, he wouldn’t have forborne to inveigh, as the essay in toto makes clear. Sample line where the review disagreed with Donovan whether ale is traditional to Ireland: “At the present moment there are not three kinds of tolerable ale in the whole island; and the best of them (which is not very good), that of Fermoy, was introduced by a Scotchman”.

I will summarize Donovan’s comments on porter, which appear on pp. 88, 197-202 but also elsewhere in the volume. You need to read in full the sections on ale and porter, including his comments on storing beer in vats, to really see what he is saying about porter. It seems clear too Donovan liked to drink porter and was familiar with the Irish and London forms. His numerous comments on the palate of porter and ale show this and enhance his other remarks, as not all who wrote about porter necessarily liked or were all that familiar with the drink.

Donovan repeats the familiar statement that 1700s porter was made entirely from high dried, brown malt. He says on more than one occasion that it was near black in colour in its heyday. He states the beer was empyreumatic (smoky and burned), not sweet and full like ale. He insists that current porter (1830) was quite different from the original. While allowing that the new black malt, mixed in a small amount with pale malt, would deliver the old porter colour, he says the palate lacked the empyreumatic taste of the old porter.

The reason a smoky taste appeared in 1700s porter was that hardwood was used to kiln the malt, as I discussed on this blog a few days ago.

Donovan explains, as others have, that as malt became more costly, people looked for ways to reduce brewing costs, and finally the more efficient pale malt became the base of porter. It is more efficient since it has more usable extract from which alcohol can be made. Instead of the acerbic, sometimes sharp or sourish aged or blended porter of old, the porter of 1830 was full, sweetish, and rather like ale, he said. He adds that a mix of pale, amber and black malt can emulate the old taste to a point. Indeed in Ireland then and at least until the late 1800s, some porter used these three elements. Donovan includes his recipe for porter which uses precisely these three for the mash. It clearly was drawn from contemporary practice at Guinness or other porter-brewing in Ireland.

800px-Apothecary15thcenturyOn the surface, Donovan’s suggestion that burned sugar (caramel) would approximate the old taste seems odd. Clearly he was referring to a boiled sugar solution which had a scorched taste, not the modern confectionary caramel which may have butter and other things in it and is a sweet. In one sense though, his suggestion is not so strange, as “blown malt”, frequently used to make porter in London earlier, may well have comprised a similar burned sugar element, as I argued the other day here. English law of the day prevented use of sugar, however, which Donovan duly noted.

Donovan also expresses the view that if porter is to be aged at all, it should be in large volumes in tall vats where the bulk of the beer comes under high natural pressure. This would retard the continuation of fermentation and onset of acidity. One can infer too, I think, that oxidation would be reduced given the lower bulk-to-wood ratio as compared to standard barrels and other small containers. Modern brewers who mature stout and porter in ex-bourbon barrels and other kinds of “small wood” might reflect, unless of course the sourness that often results is wanted.

Donovan also wrote, expressing a frankness you rarely heard from contemporary brewers, that there were different reasons to age beer long in vat, but the main one was that beer brewed in winter had to be stored over summer (when you couldn’t brew stable beer in pre-refrigeration days). Is it any surprise that once refrigeration enabled beer to be brewed year round long aging went out the window?

Writing at the point when the porter of old was in living memory but the new practice had arrived to stay, Donovan’s remarks are a valuable resource to understand whence porter came and where it was going. Indeed today, our modern porter, where it is all-malt at any rate, is more or less what had come to prevail by 1830. I’d think Donovan’s fellow porter drinkers had it better than we do to the extent their porter was higher-hopped than today. Also, no raw grains or sugar was used in commercial brewing in 1830, but it occurs for many brands today. Still, in its broad lines, the new porter Donovan described can be seen as ancestor to our modern porter, particularly in the absence of a marked smoky, dry, and sometimes sourish character.

Were porter fans in 1830 better off than those in 1770? I would say, possibly. Too many sources suggest the “real” porter, at least when aged or blended as much of it was, was an austere, harsh, vinous drink – not everyone’s cup of tea pace modern fans of sour beers. I recently had a farmhouse porter in Toronto that had an appealing lactic taste, albeit nothing smoky. It got close I think to 1700s porter and was a fascinating drink but it’s a specialty within a specialty, not too many today would buy it, I think. To foreign readers, think Liefmans Goudenband with a dash of Imperial Stout added.

There you have it: back to the future of porter in 1830.

Note re images: all images are drawn from Internet sources and believed in the public domain and available for educational and historical use. All feedback welcomed.








Graham Kerr, Food TV Phenomenon


A pioneer in the area of food television is unquestionably Graham Kerr. The debonair, self-deprecating charmer of the 1960s and early 70s changed the face of tv cooking permanently. He is also a prolific writer on cooking and food, with 30 books to his credit.

Always dressed well whether casually or formally, his ever-present smile and quips kept the crowd rapt. It is a sign of his talent and appeal that a Briton who started his broadcasting career in distant New Zealand became an international food celebrity.

His award-winning Galloping Gourmet series was produced in Ottawa, Ontario from 1969-1971 after he was discovered on Australian tv as a pitchman. It launched Kerr’s enduring culinary fame. Kerr’s late wife, Trina, a former actress, produced the shows and was a key part of his success.

When the series ended they moved to California and Kerr was poised for a Julia Child-like ascendancy. A car accident and health issues for his wife set the family back for a while. Ultimately they changed direction and became born-again Christians. Kerr continued in the food and nutrition field and had good success still, focusing on healthy eating but abjuring the wine glass and racy jokes of old.

Nonetheless the later shows including on PBS did well enough, and even today, semi-retired at 82 and living near Seattle, Kerr keeps his hand in various food endeavours.

But it is the old Graham Kerr whom most will recall fondly. The Galloping Gourmet is well-remembered to the point the Cooking Channel has re-broadcast the series, as discussed in this informative blogpost by Sarah Levine.

In this Galloping Gourmet clip from c. 1970 you see him at the apogee of his success. He bounds into the kitchen holding a glass of wine, a fixture of the shows although he drank little or nothing on air despite impressions given. In this performance he does a stand-up routine to rival a professional comedian’s.

The show’s topic was recreating a beef and beer dish he had encountered at a hotel in Clifton, England. Sample quip, for a commemorative “Investiture Ale” used in the dish: “They can’t sell it so they use it for cooking”. His British accent emulations were dead-on, a recondite talent from an American point of view that did nothing to slow his career here.

As far as I know one can’t view online, if any episodes survive, his original, New Zealand television programme. It debuted in 1959, in black and white, called Entertaining With Kerr. But colour episodes of the Galloping Gourmet can be seen, at least a representative number, on youtube. They illustrate well a corner of culinary history.

Kerr wasn’t the first chef to appear on tv. James Beard may have been the first in North America, in 1946. I believe early BBC television, around 1938, featured a cookery demonstration. In Canada the Canadian chef and food author Jehane Benoit, of whom I wrote earlier, had appeared on CBC television by 1960.

But Kerr was the best of all of them, in the estimation of many. As for Julia Child he had exposure to the culinary field for years before becoming a household name, in his case in restaurants and catering. His family had owned a hotel in Sussex. He grew up in the business and his deft way with people must have come from those early years of always being “on”.

He served in the British Army in the 1950s in a catering unit, and later did similar work for the Royal New Zealand Air Force. Once established he would poke fun at himself for this. Military catering is in fact an important, ill-understood part of the culinary arts, but no one would consider it an apotheosis of military career!

Decades before Anthony Bourdain’s acclaimed food and travel series Parts Unknown, Graham Kerr was doing something similar. Indeed he set the template since many Galloping Gourmet episodes used Kerr’s filmed visits to reputed foreign restaurants as the theme, with Kerr recreating signature national dishes in Ottawa.

The Cooking Channel has placed online Kerr’s recipe featured in the Clifton, U.K. episode, you can read it here. It’s rump of beef with beer. The recipe to my mind is mostly English in origin yet with some Continental influences. The barding of meat with fat to tenderize is a French standby, not an English one or at least a modern English one. The sugar, vinegar, and herbs have a Belgian ring whereas the mushrooms and oysters sound more English.

In Kerr’s day catering and cookery were much influenced by the “Continental” style, a post-WW II construct. This entailed menu offerings blending different European traditions and offering a particular type of service and decor, especially in “international” hotels, and restaurants.

“Continental” sounds old-fashioned but the concept will come back, sole amandine, say (a fine dish).

But at bottom the Clifton way with beef and ale showed old English influences. Kerr had returned home.*

Note re image: image above was sourced from the article of Ms. Sarah Levine linked in the text. All intellectual property therein is owned solely by its lawful owner, as applicable. Used here for educational and historical purposes. All feedback welcomed.


*Note added March 22, 2018: this New York Times story on Kerr from only last year will bring his career up to date for interested readers.


The Malts In Porter And Stout


[Originally, the content below was the first section of yesterday’s post on historical brown malt. I decided to separate them to reduce the length. Also, this posting will appeal to a more general audience].

The Keynotes of Porter and Stout

The keynotes of porter and stout are, i) their dark brown-to-black colour, and ii) a taste variously described as roasted, toasted, burned, smoky. Today and since the early 1800s, porter and stout are made from a base of pale malt. A small amount of black or other roasted malt, or sometimes roasted barley or wheat (raw), is added for desired colour and flavour.

Blonde lagers, pale ales, and IPAs are made from (broadly) a similar base malt, but generally do not use the roasted malts. Where they do, it’s a very small amount for colour or minor flavour contribution.

Thus, for most beer today, a pale base malt is used. But darkish malts can also form the base, e.g., for Munich dark lager. Still, Munich malt, and the lighter, amber Vienna malt, are different from the roasted malts used for porter. They are more “luscious”, less harsh, and don’t have a bitter, roasty edge. Porters and stouts tend to have a burnt, expresso or other coffee-like signature. Munich dark lagers, as well as many brown ales, can have sweet, caramel, or drier biscuit notes. (For now I’ll leave out the special class of malts known as caramel and crystal malts although these are not unconnected I believe to the earliest brown malt).

What Kilning Does for Porter Malt

Kilning malt at high temperature (over 212 F) tends to lessen or impair enzymes resident in the barleycorn, which are needed to degrade its starch into fermentable sugar. Modern black and brown malts have no enzyme due to their high roasting temperatures – 400 F +. For modern porter, this is of no moment as the pale base malt contains enzyme in abundance. For German dark lager, the dark malt is processed and dried in a way to retain sufficient enzyme to convert itself in the mash to simple sugars and dextrin. Such malt notably can be finished off in the kiln at about 212 F, well under the range today for black malt, say.

In brewers’ parlance, any malt that is about 50 degrees Lintner (50dL) – one source goes as low as 30dL – can self-convert. Some German dunkel malt, albeit dark brown, meets that threshold. But for modern black and brown malts, the temperature of the roasting impairs the diastatic potential. Modern dark brown and black malts contribute, by contrast, their colour and flavour to porter and stout. Any starch which survived the roasting process will be converted by the ample enzyme in the pale malt.

What Mashing Does 

Mashing is the steeping of these malts, after grinding, with hot water. The drained mash is then boiled with hops to form wort, which is fermented into alcohol and CO2 gas with yeast. Mashing is necessary to convert the malt starches into shorter polymers, or simple sugars, which are susceptible of fermentation. With grape juice, you have the sugar straightaway. Same thing with apple juice, for cider. With beer, you must change a starchy mass into sugar before you can make alcohol. Mashing results in other compounds too, notably dextrin which adds body to beer but isn’t fermentable by normal beer yeast.

Malting and Mashing Permit Vital Enzymatic Action

Malting and then mashing thus activate the barley’s resident enzymes, and also contribute positive flavour effects. In malting, the grains are moistened so they partially germinate. Generally today, this takes place in open box-like structures or huge cylinders. Originally, all malt was spread and turned “on the floor”. Some still is and is considered a choice form of barley malt.

Germination starts the rootlet growing much as would occur when grains come alive in the spring in warming, damp soils.  What nature provides as nutrient for a growing plant, the brewer emulates for his own, quite different purpose. After soaking and germination, the grains are dried in a kiln – both to preserve the malt and for positive flavour effects – and can then be used in mashing and brewing.

When the dried malt is hydrated in mashing, the starches are released into solution. The activated enzymes complete the conversion of the starches to cereal sugars. If raw grains are added to the mash such as raw barley (unmalted), corn, or rice, the enzyme power of the barley malt is strong enough that it converts those grains to fermentable sugar too. Brewers use raw grains for various reasons, mainly IMO because of cost factors. There is no preliminary malting, for example, which saves on the cost. And generally, corn is cheaper than barley. Whether the taste results are equal to 100% malt beer is up to the consumer. I think all-malt beer is superior, generally.

Porter and Stout Originally Used 100% Brown Malt

Porter developed in England in the early 1700s. Until late in the 1700s, it used all-brown malt, no pale. This is attested by many sources. Brown malt was cheaper than paler malt because after higher-temperature drying to get the dark and toasted effect, some of the starch was used up, leaving less to turn into fermentable sugar and alcohol. Still, you could make a beer at an acceptable strength and affordable price. In time, people got used to the roasty, burned taste of the brown beers that came finally to be called porter and stout.

After about 1800 when all malt had gone up in price due to increased taxation, and better science gave a good handle on alcohol yields, brewers started to mix brown malt with pale malt. This permitted an overall better return than using brown malt alone. But the beer became paler, a problem ultimately solved by development in 1817 of a super-roasted form of malt, black malt.

The ability of 1700s brewers to mash all-brown malt and brew an acceptable beer was due to two things: those malts were kilned at much lower temperatures than modern roasted malts, and mashing times were very long by modern standards. Any mash, even a raw grain mash, will convert given enough time. It is not economic to do so, however, due to the extra needs for manpower and energy.

I believe the flavour of both 1700s and 1800s brown malt was more or less similar, with the blown malt subset possibly having its own signature. One must allow too that many maltsters had their own proprietary methods or made a bespoke product. In general, these malts had a hint of wood smoke flavour. It was probably stronger in the 1700s porters since the malt was unmixed with pale malt which generally was cured with some form of coal, or straw in some cases.

Beers Made With Today’s Brown Malt

Recently I discussed Black Creek Porter made in Ontario, which I understand uses a measure of brown malt. Indeed the beer tastes different than your typical pale malt + black malt/roasted barley porter. Did the brown malt taste come close to that of 1700s or 1800s brown malt? It’s impossible to say, but I believe the flavour did resemble some of those malts. The taste is woody and arbour-like, not smoky/combusted since no wood is used in the kilning, but it is still different from the expresso edge of black patent malt. Certainly the beer tasted very good and would have been enjoyed I believe by our fellow Georgian beer fanciers.

Here is a listing for a brown malt made today, by Crisp Maltings in England.


Note re image: The image above was sourced from Cork City And County, Ireland, archives, here, and is believed available for educational and historical purposes. All feedback welcomed.

New Insight Into Brown Malt And 1700s Porter

Beer_Street_-_Calle_de_la_cervezaNew Source To Understand 1700s Porter

As far as I know, no academic or other histories of porter have canvassed a 1760 book which describes in some detail the kilning of brown malt. It was by an anonymous author and published in 1760, in London. The impressive title (yet abbreviated) is The Compleat Dealer’s Assistant: Or, The Maltster’s and Mealman’s Useful Pocket Companion. The author claimed a 50 year history in the malting trade in England.

Certainly his book shows extensive experience and appears technically and historically credible in all material respects.

Other 1700s accounts exist of brown malt, e.g., by William Ellis, and Thomas Hale, but not in this detail.

In the description of brown malt, which you can read here under “Of drying Brown Malt”, The Compleat Dealer states that the “popped” form, which gets most of his attention, was one of a series of brown malts. Two other browns are also described in more summary form, these received progressively longer drying at an overall lower heat. One can infer they retained more fermentable extract, as he said brewers preferred brown malt closest to amber because, buying at the brown price, they would “run away with the profit”.

Here is a partial quotation:

Some Brewers chuse this very high blown, others in a middling way, but now (for the sake of interest) they will have it dried (if possible) as close as fine amber. I myself have blown as high as any person for chapmen in London (for making porter) in the following manner, which has given great satisfaction. The kilns are to be laid on quite thin, and when the malt has had two stirs, in about three quarters of an hour, make a large fire with good billet, well dried, slit small, and laid upon a strong iron bar across the oast hole. Let one man be employed to make up the fire, whilst two others constantly attend the kiln, to stir and keep it from burning, and relieve each other; and when your kiln has popp’d about half an hour, let the fire grow smaller and smaller till you throw off.

I read this that in the 45 minutes after the malt has been laid on, when the two stirs are done, there is no fire underneath. So that when the popping starts, it is right at the beginning. Even if that is not right, the popping phase is started much earlier than was typical of 1800s production of brown malt.

If perhaps popped brown was not the only malt for porter, it was clearly very popular, as he states he sold a lot of it to chapmen (dealers, vendors) to brew specifically for porter. He explains that this malt was placed on the kiln in a thin layer. A high fire was applied to swell the husks, i.e., as I read it again, at the beginning of the kilning and not the end as for 1800s brown malt. The popping took a half-hour, and then the fire was left to bank down for approximately two hours more. After this the malt was taken out of the kiln and would have been left to cool.

Well-dried hardwood was the fuel, which produced relatively little smoke. It is obvious some of this smoke would still get in the malt, but as other 1700s accounts make clear, porter was often long-aged in this period, which would reduce the smoke taste.

The description of brown malt production is basically similar to a number of 1800s accounts, e.g., this one by William Ford from the 1850s, except for the difference of timing when the popping was done.

The difference is significant, IMO. When newly placed on the kiln, the malt would be at its moistest. It was either moist from the maltings or in some cases wetted before being dried on the kiln, which other sources confirm. Various 1800s sources, e.g., here, suggest that the blowing or popping as it was called occurred at between 175-210 F, with the malt starting at about 90F. The lower end of that is mashing temperature. I infer the moist malt kernel would have been been caramelized with that quick initial heat, much as modern caramel malt is, to produce a viscous dark sugar.

Modern caramel malt – which is sometimes made on a kiln, not a roaster – is not diastatic: it has no enzyme content to convert starches to fermentable sugar. But it doesn’t need to be, as caramel malt doesn’t need to be mashed, or not for very long. Brown malt popped in the initial kilning stage, or blown or snapped in other usage, was probably a rough form of caramel malt. This would explain the many references in porter literature to caramel, bitter caramel, burned caramel, which gave porter its unique taste. The sugar did that but also provided, I apprehend, some converted fermentable material.

If you do the super-heating at the end of the kilning as occurred from about 1810 onwards, the barleycorns by then are much drier. While the snapping may occur, I doubt you would get any fermentable sugar production. This explains why numerous commentators of the 1800s stated brown malt wasn’t fermentable. You would still get colour contribution and some flavour. But in the 1800s, they didn’t need fermentability from brown malt. By then, it was mixed with a much larger amount of pale malt which supplied all or most of the fermentables. Black malt, newly available from 1817, would have supplied a bitter grain taste, as well.

In the 1700s, porter was still made from all-brown malt. Brown malt was always less efficient in extract than pale and amber malt since its drying at a relatively high temperature degraded part of the starch. It would have made sense to blow or pop the malt when it had the highest moisture content, to get some fermentable sugar which also contributed evidently a unique flavour to the beer.

To those who might object, that would ruin the enzyme potential straightaway, I say two things. First, good porter malt would not have needed much enzyme if it didn’t need much mashing. Second, some modern dunkel malt (German brown lager malt) finishes at 212 F and remains fully enzymatic to convert all its starches to sugar and then alcohol. Same thing with rauch malt, or smoked malt for Bamberg, Germany beer.

Finally, brewers mashed much longer for porter in the 1700s than later, including possibly the 1800s but I didn’t check this. William Ellis in the London and Country Brewer speaks of three hours in total for porter, albeit some new malt is added, the capping as it was termed. Still, that’s a long time, today most brewers can mash in one hour or half that time. The prolonged mashing assisted the low enzyme content of the malt to complete its work.

The upshot: the reversal in timing of the popping phase may be explained by the switch from all-brown malt mashing to mixed mashes benefitting from the high extract content of pale malt, and possibly as well to shorter mash times post-1800.

Some other things of note from the text: London used very little straw to kiln porter. Beer and ale in London were kilned from wood, certainly for porter, or some form of smokeless coal, e.g., culm, Welch coal, coke. Straw was available at a proper cost too far from London, in “vales” where agriculture allowed its collection from stubble.

The Compleat Dealer did admire beer made from straw-kilned malt which he called “curious”. It means, here, distinctive and high quality. But little of it was actually used to make London porter if you believe someone who started in the English malting business in 1810. I do.




A True Flavour of Porter – Black Creek Porter

IMG_20160310_173603Black Creek Historic Brewery is a tiny, draft/growler brewery in Black Creek Village, a local attraction that demonstrates how pioneers lived in Ontario in the 19th century. The brewery contracts out some of its brands for bottling, and the porter is one. For some years, according to all the buzz, it’s been brewed and bottled by Trafalgar Brewery in Oakville, ON.

The current bottling is very good. The beer clearly uses some brown malt  – I was at the brewery once in Black Creek Village and was given some to crunch in my mouth, I recall the taste – and this helps the authenticity. Brown malt was once 100% of the grist for porter, but starting in the early 1800s, pale and other malts were used to supplement the brown. Good porter can be made just with pale malt and a small amount of malt roasted black much like coffee is made. Using some brown malt though always boosts the authenticity of flavour in historical terms, all things equal.

This batch has the perfect balance of woody, lightly smoky taste from the brown malt, and yet good residual sweetness which porter should have IMO. There is good gathering bitterness in the background but of a neutral type – not aromatic and certainly not citric –  as is appropriate for real porter.

The brew also contains a malt darker than brown malt, both for colour and probably some taste contribution. The website refers to “roasted malt” for the porter, which is barley malt kilned black. But the bottle label speaks of roasted barley. Roasted barley usually means raw, unmalted barley. It’s not clear which is in the current recipe, perhaps the brewery alternates one with the other, as some English breweries used to do. I’d bet on roasted malt for the current batch, as roasted raw barley often leaves an unpleasant burned vegetable taste in my experience, and I don’t get that taste in this beer. But the flavour is excellent either way so if blackened raw barley is indeed used, I’m good with it, in this case.

I am drinking mine with just the lightest chill, it’s basically room temperature in fact – all the flavour elements shine most in this form.

I used to think I could detect a Trafalgar house taste in the contract bottlings but I don’t get that in this one. Either the current bottling is not made at Trafalgar, or Trafalgar’s house profile has evolved, or there is some other explanation. Anyway, the porter is nigh on perfect as it is.

One would hope for a similar recipe but made richer and rather stronger: a double or even Imperial porter, that is. That would be outstanding.

Finally, please note I’ve not mentioned coffee, tequila, lemon, peppers, ginger, green herbs, Mars bar or other chocolate, or other exotica. Good porter doesn’t need it and rarely is improved by any of these things, IMO to be sure.

George Martin RIP

Beatles_and_George_Martin_in_studio_1966I don’t think I’ve written about music yet, so now’s the time. The Beatles’ famed producer, George Martin, died yesterday at the age of 90.

I have been a lifelong rock and roll fan, and people who know me know of my special interest in The Who, but before them I was, and have always remained, a Beatles fan. George Martin, the London-born trained musician who produced almost all their recorded work, was a vital part of their sound. Martin studied music formally after departing the Royal Navy where he rose to officer (1943-1947) and made music and studio production his career.

A marker of many Beatles’ hits (I say as a non-musician) was the “quick-step” or marching band sound. As in Can’t Buy Me Love, say, but there are many other examples. I Want To Hold Your Hand is amongst the best known.

I think this came from Martin’s early immersion in piano and oboe studies and in general his familiarity with orchestral instrumentation and arranging. But also too, his years in the military – the parade ground is never far from the Beatles sound.

To this day, Paul McCartney leans on it, as in this single, called New, from only three years ago. Even at 70, he channelled that Beatles-march tempo sound perfectly. Martin played a lot of the keyboards on Beatles records, and other instruments. In the famous opening flourish of A Hard Day’s Night, Martin sounded a strident piano chord with Paul playing bass and other Beatles on guitar. If you listen closely you can hear it. It’s the way many symphonies start, in fact.

Here, the great Randy Bachman, of Guess Who and BTO fame, explains in his engaging way how the chord was constructed. Randy didn’t mention the piano though! But it’s there, listen closely.

The confluence of talent, drive and/or foresight in Martin, the four from Liverpool, manager Brian Epstein, and Dick James to publish the music, all made it happen. One of those rare things. I actually remember playing the music in the early 60s knowing somehow it would be for the ages.


Porridge And Memories, Both Hot

Oatmeal_(1)A few years ago, I recall reading that oats had unusual nutritive values. Not long after, I started to notice oatmeal on menus, I think Portland, OR was the first place.

Anyone reasonably familiar with Scots traditions knows that oats hold an iconic position in that country’s history. It was boiled and eaten plainly, with a wooden stick or spoon. Oats were eaten standing, too, at least the male adults ate them that way. How I know this is unclear even to me, but it’s true.

Famed English writer Samuel Johnson made the jibe that oats is a food for horses but in Scotland supports the people, rather unfair considering England had its own share dishes hardly at the edge of international fashion (broiled kidney, boiled sheep’s head, simmered tripe…).

Anyway in Canada in the 50s and 60s, porridge as we called it too, was popular. No doubt this reflected the strong Scottish element in Montreal then. In those days there was no instant oatmeal, so it was boiled long in water in the auld Scots way. In our house, we ate it with milk and some salt. Some people used sugar. We had a surfeit of sucrose in other forms: honey cake, chocolate cake, chocolate bars (Smarties, Cadbury bars, Aero bars, etc.), Quebec sugar and raisin pie, soft drinks of various kinds. So the sugar saved from the porridge pot was more a blessing than anything else, not that it didn’t keep the dentists’ chairs busy in my case, indeed to this day.

I think it was last year that Mrs. Beer Et Seq placed some porridge down for brekkie and I had a go, first time in decades. First, the taste hasn’t changed. People say you can’t go home again, but the taste of boiled oat is one of those constants. The attentions of agronomers and breeders haven’t dented the basic flavour at all, it’s the same earthy metallic taste I recall from 50 years ago. The salt now may be sel gris from Brittany, or evaporated stuffs from the Dead Sea, but it tasted like I remember.


Only, where’s my (leather) breeches, my double-zippered, fleece-lined overshoes, the No. 161 bus on Van Horne Road, Mrs. Quackenbush at Coronation School…? Where is the guy who drove his car from New York filled with Beatles and other 45s and sold them to my cousin Gary and me from the curb? His influence was long-lasting too, like the chocolate bars’, but more benign, nay salutary. Where is Morty, who owned the corner shop which sold the chocolate that kept all those dentists in clover for generations? Where is Socky, from the charming Greek-Canadian family next-door, or Butchy from down the block? Where have they all gone?


Note re images. These images were sourced here and here and are believed available for educational and historical purposes. All feedback welcomed.

Some Reviews: Beer And A Canadian Vodka

Wells Bombardier Glorious English

IMG_20160305_180553This is the export version, 5.2% abv. It’s rich, with a crystal malt signature but also good plummy notes which derive from the yeast and, I’d guess, a higher-than-usual fermentation temperature. There’s a reasonable amount of sugar used in the recipe, I’m sure, but the body is not thin and it all works well.

It’s a good example, except in a can, of English “keg beer”: pasteurized, filtered and carbonated, but made with care and to a reasonable abv. By keg beer, one means the more industrially evolved version of beer as opposed to “cask” or real ale which is unpasteurized, only roughly filtered (and not mechanically), and not charged up with CO2 gas.

The hops, at least after a few months in the tin, are somewhat subdued in aroma but quite evident in the taste. It’s English hops too, which lack the white pith hit of Yank hops from the West Coast. Some people suggest English ales can never have the impact of your typical American “hop bomb” (IPA and such).

This feeling, however, derives (IMO) from tasting current examples of beers made with English hops. On average they are less impactful than American IPA because less hops are used. If Charles Wells stuffed as much Challenger and Goldings in Bombardier as Stone puts American hops in its IPA, it would be six of one half a dozen of the other. The characteristics will still be different of course, but the impact similar. To extend the military metaphor, one’s a Tommy gun, one a Sten: take your pick.

I wonder what style Bombardier ale would have been called in 1800. Maybe an amber beer? It’s too dark for a pale ale and too rich too I think for that description. Maybe the kind of amber the Thames boatmen added gin and bitters to and called a “purl”. I’m all for gin, all for bitters, indeed together in the glass but no ale, aka the old naval drink, Pink Gin. Of that another post soon.

Three Brewers Black IPA

This is by far the best beer from this house I’ve ever had, and was tasted at the Yonge St. and Dundas location in Toronto. It lacks the yeast signature of the other beers in the range, I’d guess a California or other neutral-tasting yeast was used. The rest of the range generally have a strong Belgian/Northern French top-fermentation note.

It was rich and brimming with hop energy. The hops are American, surely, but unlike many Black IPAs the hops worked in the best possible way, strongly but with gastronomic purpose.



Wellington Russian Imperial Stout

IMG_20160303_191700A long-established craft brewery in Guelph, ON, Wellington Brewery makes a range of English-type beers, mostly. The best of them are Iron Duke, a strong ale and kind of a Burton style, and a Russian Stout. The stout’s abv is 8%, not classic 10-12% territory, but strong enough and the beer has the rich character of a classic Impy stout.

There is a particular twist to the current batch, almost a “milky” quality I can’t put my finger on. I doubt lactose would be used for an Imperial, but who knows? Anyway it is the real thing, rich and velvety and bitter a plenty in the way suitable for stout, i.e., not featuring too much aroma.

Georgian beer fanciers may have quaked to see a fine export stout served with the chipotle wings pictured, given too Hades was surely invited to consult on this particular recipe. Then too the English invented “pull’d chicken”, ancestor to the American pulled pork which can be plenty spicy, so it’s safe not to make any grand assumptions here.

Anyway the combination works very well. All combos of beer and food do in my schematic of the culinary, that is, if I like the food and I like the beer, we’ve achieved a pairing.

Polar Ice Vodka

I always have some vodka at home, but only taste it two or three times a year. Tasting for me means, on its own.  Apart from that it is good for a Bloody Mary.

This particular flask was exceptionally good. It had almost no nose but a sweetish, refined palate. I couldn’t place the background taste but I think it may be charcoal, from charcoal filtration. All vodka made in Canada must undergo charcoal filtration before sale. Just for fun, I bought another flask of Polar Ice at a different store. This one had a noticeable alcohol nose and the taste was somewhat different – not radically so, it is vodka after all, but they weren’t identical.

I’m good with this as even a super-refined distilled beverage such as vodka is still a natural product – made from grains or potatoes (in Canada). No matter what treatment they get in processing, these feedstocks change over time, yeasts may change somewhat, the temperature in fermentation or distillation will vary a bit, etc. Such differences are even more pronounced with whisky. Not every cask is the same – the type and source of oak will vary, and the mix of ages – and many other factors play into it including annual climactic variations.

Save some spirit from any distilled drink – pour into a mini bottle and close it up full to prevent air from affecting the residue. Then, compare it, neat, to your next bottle of the same brand. I doubt it will taste exactly the same, even a standard brand vs. a single barrel or small batch type.