The Best Beer in the World E-Book

Mark Dredge

• Herausgeber: Ryland Peters & Small
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 440

Beschreibung

Join award-winning beer writer Mark Dredge as he goes on a quest for the perfect pint. What's the best beer you've ever tasted? What's your favourite beer? Where can I drink your ultimate brew? These are questions that beer writer Mark Dredge is always being asked. And he doesn't have an answer… yet. This is his search for the world's best beer. Part city guide, part travelogue and part reference book, The Best Beer in the World takes you on a journey through North and South America, Europe, Asia and further afield in search of the essential bars and breweries, immersing you in the history and beer culture of each region and highlighting the key beers to try. Alongside this are the quintessential beer experiences from all four corners of the globe – whether that's searching for the best IPAs California has to offer, celebrating Oktoberfest in Brazil, downing fresh Bia Hoi on a scorching day in Hanoi or heading to Prague to drink unfiltered pilsner from the world's first lager brewery. So if you want to read interviews from London's best new craft brewers, see illustrated maps of the finest watering holes in Melbourne, understand the science of taste, unlock the secrets of beer nirvana in Portland, find out where the world's biggest beer festivals are or simply where to go for the perfect pint of Guinness in Dublin, all is explained here, along with the all-important answer to the question: what is The Best Beer in the World?

Leseprobe

Published in 2015 by Dog ‘n’ Bone Books

An imprint of Ryland Peters & Small Ltd

20–21 Jockey’s Fields     341 E 116th St

London WC1R 4BW     New York, NY 10029

www.rylandpeters.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Text © Mark Dredge 2015

Design and photography © Dog ‘n’ Bone Books 2015

The author’s moral rights have been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

A CIP catalog record for this book is available

from the Library of Congress and the British Library.

eISBN: 978 1 911026 35 8

ISBN: 978 1 909313 71 2

Printed in China

Editor: Emma HillDesigner: Eoghan O’BrienMap Illustrator: Michael HillSpot illustrations on

pages 8

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10

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62

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by Nicholas FrithPhotography Credits: See below

Commissioning editor: Pete JorgensenArt director: Sally PowellProduction controller: David HearnPublishing manager: Penny CraigPublisher: Cindy Richards

Key: T=Top, B=Bottom, L=Left, R=Right, C=Center

p4 René Mansi/Getty Images; p5 Lonely Planet/Getty Images; p6 Mark Dredge; p7 Michael Kiser/goodbeerhunting.com; p8 and 17 Vladimir Zakharov/Getty Images; pp10–15 Gavin Kingcome; p18 Josh Smith/theeveningbrews.co.uk; p19 Robert Stainforth/Alamy; p21 Camden Town Brewery; p22 Mark Harmel/Getty Images; p26 Camden Town Brewery/Getty Images; p28 (T) Mypurgatoryyears/Getty Images, (B) Sabine Lubenow/LOOK-foto/Getty Images; p29 (T) Joe Cornish/Getty Images, (BL) Pilsner Urquell, (BR) Philippe Renault/Getty Images; p30 GÄ©rard Guittot/Getty Images; p32 Emmanuel Tychon; p33 Mark Dredge; p34 Westend61/Getty Images; p35 Mark Dredge; p37 Philip Rowlands; p39 AFP/Staff/Getty Images; p41 Justin Sullivan/Staff/Getty Images; p43 Hemis/Alamy; p46 Wu Wei/xh/Xinhua Press/Corbis; p47 Lukasz Wisniewski/EyeEm/Getty Images; p48 Wu Wei/xh/Xinhua Press/Corbis; p49 Lonely Planet/Getty Images; p51 Richard l’Anson/Getty Images; p52 David Soanes Photography/Getty Images; p53 Chris Jackson/Staff/Getty Images; p55 Klug-Photo/Getty Images; pp57–61 Pilsner Urquell; p63 travelstock44/LOOK-foto/Getty Images; p64 Peter Adams/Getty Images; p66–68 Sabine Lubenow/LOOK-foto/Getty Images; p69 Mark Dunn/Alamy; p71 Allen Parseghian/Getty Images; p72 iStock; p79 Ullstein Bild/Contributor/Getty Images; p83 Jorg Greuel/Getty Images; p84 George Tsafos/Getty Images; p86 Michal Krakowiak/Getty Images; p87 Matti Niemi/Getty Images; p91 Janetteasche/Getty Images; p92 Maremagnum/Getty Images; p94 Bob Pool/Getty Images; p95 Maryo990/Getty Images; p98 Travelstock44 – Juergen Held/Getty Images; p100 iStock; p101 Ingolf Pompe/LOOK-foto/Getty Images; p102 Manfred Gottschalk/Getty Images; p104 all Mark Dredge except (CR) Budweiser/Anheuser Busch; p105 (T) Mark Dredge, (B) Justin Sullivan/Staff/Getty Images; pp107–111 (T) Budweiser/Anheuser Busch; p111 (B) Jim Heimann Collection/Contributor/Getty Images; p112 Doug McKay/HMS Group/Getty Images; p115 (T) Michael Snell/Alamy, (B) DPA Picture Alliance/Alamy; p116 Mark Dredge; p117 Eliza Snow/Getty Images; p118 SiliconValleyStock/Alamy; p119 (T) Dave Stamboulis/Alamy; pp121–131 Bloomberg/Contributor/Getty Images; p133 Pete Jorgensen; p134 Mark Dredge; p135 Terence Leezy/Getty Images; p137 Zuma Press, Inc./Alamy; p139 (T) Hemis/Alamy, (B) Anthony Pidgeon/Getty Images; p142 Mark Dredge; p148 Andrew Rowat/Getty Images; p150 Charles Cook/Getty Images; p155 Danita Delimont/Getty Images; p156 Chicago Tribune/Contributor/Getty Images; p163 Justin Sullivan/Staff/Getty Images; p166 Bruce Yuanyue Bi/Getty Images; p168 (T) Blackman’s Brewery, (B) Luis Davilla/Getty Images; p169 Mark Dredge except (TR) Albert Photo/Getty Images; p171 Jasper James/Getty Images; p172 Richard l’Anson/Getty Images; pp174– 175 Bloomberg/Contributor/Getty Images; p176 Gavin Hellier/Getty Images; p177 Mark Dredge; p179 Luis Davilla/Getty Images; p180 Mark Dredge; p181 Albert Photo/Getty Images; p182 Mark Dredge; p183 Peter Unger/Getty Images; p184 Dave Stamboulis/Contributor/Getty Images; p187–188 Dircinha Welter/Contributor/Getty Images; p190 Mark Dredge; p191 Ingolf Pompe/LOOK-Foto/Getty Images; p192 Dircinha Welter/Contributor/Getty Images; p193 DeluXe-PIX/Getty Images; pp195–196 Blackman’s Brewery; p197 Peter Harrison/Getty Images; pp198–201 Blackman’s Brewery; p205 Gerard Walker; p206 Matteo Colombo/Getty Images; p207 Chad Ehlers/Getty Images; p208 Donald Iain Smith/Getty Images; p209 Rachel Lewis/Getty Images; p210 Oliver Strewe/Getty Images; p211 LazingBee/Getty Images; p212 Ed Norton/Getty Images; p212 Birrificio Italiano; p213 Mark Dredge; pp214–218 Birrificio Italiano; p219 Marcus Richardson/Getty Images; p221 Mark Dredge

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

That Question

Is There a Best Beer in the World?

THE SEARCH STARTS AT HOME

Can I Brew the Best Beer in the World at Home?

Perfect London Beer Day

British Cask Beer

CITY GUIDE:

London

EUROPE

Trappissed in Belgium

The Beer is Sour… Cantillon

Is Guinness Really Better In Ireland?

Pilsen Strikes Gold

My Beer is Better than Your Beer!

Holiday Beer & Island Hopping in Greece

CITY GUIDES:

Dublin

Brussels

Bruges

Amsterdam

Copenhagen

Stockholm

Prague

Budapest

Berlin

Bamberg

Vienna

Munich

Rome

Milan

Barcelona

How Do You Rate It?

NORTH AMERICA

Budweiser—the King of Beers?

IPA Hunting in California

“Strong and Hoppy”

Sierra Nevada Pale Ale

Portland—In a State of Beervana

Is Vermont Hop Heaven?

The Regional IPAs of the United States

CITY GUIDES:

New York

Chicago

Boston

Denver

San Diego

San Francisco

Montreal

THE REST OF THE WORLD

Is the Best-selling Beer in the World the Tastiest?

The Freshest, Cheapest Beer in the World

The World’s Second Biggest Oktoberfest

Building Blackman’s Brewery

CITY GUIDES:

Melbourne

Sydney

The Cities of New Zealand

THE ANSWER

A Kind of Pils Pilgrimage

The Best Beer in the World

Index

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

THATQUESTION

APRIL 2015. LONDON. THE COCK TAVERN, HACKNEY. DRINKING A PINT OF CAMDEN TOWN BREWERY IHL.

Whether consciously or not, the last 10 years of drinking have been a never-ending search for the best beer I can find. When I had that first pint that made me realize that beer could be delicious—a pint of Old Growler at a beer festival in Chatham, Kent—I had no idea that my life would lead up to this point; I had no idea that as research for my third book about beer I’d end up traveling to five continents within two months, that within a year I’d drink in 20 countries, get on over 50 planes, visit more than 200 breweries, and drink in more bars than I can remember. And that’s on top of all the breweries and bars I’d visited in the five years before it. The whole thing seems completely ridiculous to me now that it’s all over and I’m sitting in my favorite local pub a few minutes from my house. In fact, it seems completely ridiculous to most people who know what I do. Which is why that question is something I’ve faced so often.

I could prepare all I wanted for the question but an answer never came out right. What answer did they want to hear? Did I say something that they’d never heard of and which meant nothing to them? Did I give them a flippant “this beer” or “my next beer” and sound like a dick (because I hate that as an answer)? Did I talk about a beer brewed by Belgian monks that’s really hard to find? Did I tell them about the amazing beers brewed in America or Italy or Australia? Did I argue that the American Budweiser could be the best because it has an amazing story and pioneering past? Is it a beer some bloke made in his garage? Is the best-selling beer the best tasting in the world? Is it a cold lager on a hot day somewhere exotic with someone special? Or did I just say the first beer that came to mind to give them an answer. Any answer?

The trouble was that I really didn’t know the answer to the question. And I really wanted to know the answer. It frustrated me that I’d been asked the same question hundreds of times and still didn’t have a response to it.

Casks of beer waiting to be delivered.

With such a respected, historic brewing tradition, could Belgium provide me with the answer to that question?

It annoyed me that all I could do was mumble and deflect the question in an awkward way (“Ah man, I don’t know, there are so many to choose from… Gosh… I had this great beer in Germany once… How about this weather? What a lovely day!).

So I went to find the answers. I traveled as far around the world as my wallet would allow, drinking all the beers I possibly could while searching for the most interesting beer stories: I lived as a monk, I spent days searching for the best-selling beer in the world, I was left speechless at the Budweiser brewery in St Louis, I sat on Vietnamese streets drinking the cheapest beer in the world, I tried to brew my own perfect beer, I went to Brazil to celebrate Oktoberfest, I chased IPAs around California, I looked at the fiercest local rivalry in the world of beer, I planned my own perfect beer day. And I did all of this so I could answer a few seemingly simple questions: What’s my favorite beer? What’s the best beer I’ve ever tasted? What’s the most important beer ever brewed? And what is The Best Beer in the World?

All I knew at the beginning of the search was that every beer was worthy of consideration and, in context, every beer had the potential to be the best. And that made this search exciting.

Now let me tell you about the best beer in the world.

I’d end up traveling to five continents within two months… within a year I’d drink in 20 countries, get on over 50 planes, visit more than 200 breweries…

DAD’S BEER: THE WORST & MOST IMPORTANT BEER IN THE WORLD

“Can I try some of your beer?” I ask, reaching a hand up toward my dad.

He passes me the stubby green bottle. I can barely fit my small hand around the wet glass. He is with my uncles and grandad. They all drink the same thing and I want to drink it, too. I might be seven years old but I want to be like the grown-ups.

I take a sip and I can still taste it now, somewhere in the farthest corner of my taste memory: icy cold, harshly fizzy, then a flavor I’ve never had before, like sucking a new penny, and then it hurts my mouth, as if it’s just been hit by a frozen metal rocket. “YUCK!” I give it back to dad and run off and play.

That’s the first beer I remember drinking.

If there was an award for worst beer in the world then it might go to “Dad’s Beer as Tasted by a Seven Year Old.” That beer is one of the most horrible-tasting things any child could ever have, worse than cough syrup, even worse than vegetables. But if there were a lifetime achievement award for the most important beer of all time then Dad’s Beer would take that prize.

Even as a little boy, seeing the adults standing around and drinking made me see some importance to the beers in their hands. I see the green bottle, something that I know is called beer, and it’s a symbol of grownupness that they all like drinking, so it must be good. So I keep asking for sips and keep giving it back with a scrunched up face saying “EURGH!”

“Why do you drink that?” I ask.

“One day you’ll like it, too,” says my dad.

He wasn’t wrong. And back then I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have foreseen that over 20 years into the future he and I would be sipping sour beers in the cellars of a dusty old Belgian brewery or that we’d be on a roadtrip up the West Coast of America, where I’m still asking the same question: “Can I try some of your beer?”

My dad and I drinking at Toronado in San Francisco during our roadtrip through California and Oregon.

IS THERE A BEST BEER IN THE WORLD?

Hill Farmstead Brewery in remote rural Vermont is considered by beer geeks to be one of the best in the world.

This is my quest to find the best beer in the world, my chance to look through the past and present of beer and see which ones stand out for their importance as well as how they taste. I chose the stories in this book based on the beers, breweries, and places that I objectively think are most interesting and relevant in a general sense, though the experiences are subjective and personal to me. It’s impossible to separate the subjectivity because what I’ve found is that it’s the experience that tends to have the biggest impact.

What I hope this book achieves is a sense of a beer’s story and history, a sense of the people who make it, and the places where we drink it, and why it all matters. Ultimately, I hope it makes you wonder what you’d say is the best beer. What do you think is the most important beer brewed? Is there one single incredible beer experience that stands out as the best you’ve ever tasted? And if you had the chance to do a similar journey, where would you go and what would you want to drink?

When people have asked what this book is about during the writing process they all asked the same thing: “have you found it yet?” My answer was always the same: “I’m still looking.” While I can now say that I have some answers, the truth is that I’ll always be looking because I love beer and I’m forever after new experiences and new flavors and I drink with the never-ending hope that the next glass of beer I drink will be better than anything I’ve had before; there’s always the chance of finding a new favorite beer or best beer.

What I hope this book achieves is a sense of a beer’s story and history, a sense of the people who make it, and the places where we drink it, and why it all matters.

THE SEARCH STARTS AT HOME

Every journey of this worldwide search begins and ends back at my flat in London, so it makes sense that before I go anywhere I want to explore the places nearest to me. This means brewing and drinking with friends in the city that I call home.

CAN I BREW THE BEST BEER IN THE WORLD AT HOME?

I want to try and brew the best beer in the world in my house. Or, more exactly, at my mate’s house because he already brews in his kitchen and has all the stuff. Plus he really knows what he’s doing. My thinking is that I can cook great food at home but can I make great beer there? Can I think up a recipe for my ideal beer, get the ingredients I need, and then actually make the beer I was dreaming of? I know I can do that with a recipe for my dinner. But beer is different. Beer feels more challenging to me.

Homebrewing is important. Since the first time someone deliberately mixed grain and water and let the sugars ferment into alcohol, beer has been brewed by people in their homes. It was once as normal—and essential—as baking bread. Brewing meant boiling water, making it safer to drink than the natural source; the grains gave calories and nourished through the day; the alcohol warmed and relaxed through the evening; plus it tasted good.

If it was once done for necessity then in more recent years it’s been done for recreation, and the revolution of craft brewing really has its heart in homebrewing; so many breweries tell the story of a homebrewer going pro—someone who refined their skills in a kitchen or shed and eventually decided to turn it into a career. What’s interesting is that amateurs are at the forefront of brewing. They don’t have commercial constraints, no financial restrictions beyond what’s in their wallet, no creative limits; they can combine ingredients in new ways and learn from it very quickly. It’s small-scale, small-cost, small-risk, but it can create superb drinks.

So I’m going to homebrew some beer and try to nail a perfect Pale Ale. It’s a style I drink often and know well. In my head I can imagine and taste what my ideal version would be like, so I want to make that. I’m also going to brew a second beer that’s best described as “experimental” because I love how homebrewers can innovate in ways that professional breweries often can’t.

To do this I need some help, which is why I’m going to the house of my good friend Chunk, who has been homebrewing since September 20, 2009. I know the exact date because he has a book with all his recipes neatly written in it. He’s that kind of detail-driven guy, which is what helps him to make some seriously excellent beers.

GETTING STARTED

We’re in Chunk’s small kitchen and on the hob is a big silver pot of water heating up. Opposite this on one of the worktops is the “mash tun”—a large plastic vessel wrapped in an insulated mat, the kind you more often see used for camping. Because he’s fastidiously precise and neat, he’s put out all of the grains into separate bowls, which he’s spread out on his kitchen counter top.

“These malts are all measured out and ready to go. That water is nearly hot enough so chuck all of that into the mash,” he says, passing over the bowls of crushed grain.

On the other side of the kitchen are three fridges. Three. The first is for food and next to this are two fridges on top of each other. One is the beer fridge, filled with bottles. Above this is his fermentation fridge—it’s where all of his homebrew goes, and he even has a special thermometer to ensure it’s at the exact temperature he needs for whatever beer is in there. Gill, his wife, is very understanding, but then she does get to enjoy a lot of good beer.

THE RECIPE

I’ve told Chunk the ingredients I want to use and the flavor profile that I would like to achieve, and he’s translated that into an actual recipe.

The grain bill for my Pale Ale is mostly Pilsner malt because I love how simple, clean, and bready it is. We’re adding Munich and Vienna malts for nutty, biscuity flavors, with the Munich also contributing some extra color. And we’re adding flaked wheat and malted oats simply because I like wheat and oats in beers and want to know how it’ll influence a Pale Ale. As a homebrewer I can make those calls.

For the hops, I’m using Czech Saaz because they give a clean, sharp bitterness to beers plus a lovely lemony, peppery, floral aroma—it’s probably my favorite hop. I’m then adding Australian Galaxy and American Citra hops, both famous for their fruitiness—I want this beer to smell like a bowl of tropical and citrus fruit.

The water that’s on the hob came from bottles bought from the supermarket. “Bottled water has the exact composition on it, which is important,” Chunk says. “It’s really hard to get accurate and detailed mineral reports on tap water, plus London water is really hard, making it difficult to adjust it to what you need it to be.” By “adjust”, Chunk is talking about adding things to the water to balance it and make it ideal for brewing this type of beer. Water composition influences the flavors of beers in different ways, so brewers—whether kitchen or industrial—need that control over this crucial element of their brew, with different beer styles working best with different water types. “All bottled waters are a bit different. This one is really soft, meaning we can more easily tweak it,” he says. “You have to add something to it to play with the balance of sulphate to chloride. For example, water high in sulphate will accentuate the bitterness, whereas if the balance is toward chloride it’ll round out the malt profile.”

The grain bill is carefully measured out before starting the brew.

“This beer is skewed to chloride for body and malt,” explains Chunk. I nod as if I know what he’s talking about but clearly he sees through my vacant look. “Water chemistry is seriously complicated!”

He’s been saying all of this while standing over the hob with a thermometer in the water. “74—we’re ready.” I ask why we’re shooting for 165˚F (74°C). “That’s based on the volume and temperature of the grain.” I look blankly back at him.

“Imagine if you’re brewing outside on a really cold day—the grain will be a different temperature to if you’re inside on a hot day. So when you add the water to it it’ll change the overall temperature of the mix and when we pour this into the grain we want it to get to 67°C.”

Chunk pours the water over the grain that I put into the mash tun and mixes it together, filling the kitchen with the sweet smell of malt. He checks the temperature: 153°F (67.2°C). Next he does something that I’ve never before seen in a brewery… He picks up the mash tun and runs into his living room. He places it under his stairs and then wraps it up like a baby in large blankets and pillows while I just stand and watch perplexed. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Insulating the mash tun,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We need to hold the temperature as constant as possible, so I just wrap it up and leave it under the stairs. It’s inevitable that the temperature will drop a degree or two but this keeps it pretty constant for an hour.”

During the mash, we’re aiming to convert all the starches in the grain into sugars. Later we’ll add yeast and that will convert those sugars into alcohol, so this conversion is important and it will happen at around 153˚F (67.2°C).

We leave the mash under the stairs, and prepare for the sparge. For this, Chunk takes 2 gallons (8 liters) of bottled water and heats it in a large pan. “We need to get to 80°C.”

“How do you know all of this stuff?” I ask.

“I guess I just learnt it. And I use brewing sof tware for the figures.” On the side he has two laptops open. I thought they were there just to play the podcast that we’re listening to, but no; there’s a special beer recipe program open. Called BeerSmith, it’s the primary resource for homebrewers, who can punch in any number of variables and get exact details on their beer. For example, put in the temperature and volume of your water plus the amount of each different grain you’re using and the program will tell you the exact color of your beer and the expected alcohol level. Change the temperature by half a degree and the whole equation shifts; add some different grains and you get something different again.

Once the water reaches 153ºF (67ºC) it’s ready to be added to the grain.

“How did you get into this in such a big way, dude?”

“My personality is that I can’t do something just a little bit. If I do something then I really get into it properly and have to understand it. I never used to drink beer but when I started I wanted to know everything about it and understand it properly. Homebrewing was kind of an obvious thing for me to do.” He’s brewed about 80 batches in five years, often changing small details, processes, or ingredients to understand how they affect the flavor.

His day job involves working in IT. “Before that, I was thinking about becoming a chef, but it’s long hours and the pay’s bad, so I went with the money. But brewing is like cooking, plus it’s great to to drink what you make and then be able to identify the ingredients in commercial beers.” To Chunk, it’s about learning and being able to nail ingredients and processes.

READY TO SPARGE?

With the hour-long mash period over and the sparge water heated up, Chunk unwraps the blankets and brings the tun back to the kitchen. “Ready to sparge?”

He lifts the lid off the mash tun and a cloud of sweet steam fills the kitchen. He pours in the 176°F (80°C) water and lets it mix in briefly while he lines up a big silver pan on the floor beneath a tap on the mash tun—the sparge water is there to help push all the liquid out. He then opens the tap and golden, sweet “wort” flows out like a fountain into the pan beneath.

I chose Czech Saaz, Australian Galaxy, and American Citra hops for my dream brew.

We’ve now got all of the important sugars from the grain and only need the liquid, which will become our beer—the spent grain is no use to us now. Or at least it wouldn’t be if we weren’t planning on a second brew… But that’s happening later.

With all the liquid strained through he lifts the pan onto the kitchen stovetop. He then does something else which makes me stop and stare in disbelief: he takes a wooden spoon and puts it into the pan: “We’ve got 11.2 liters,” he says.

“What the hell?” is all I can say as I look at the spoon, which I now see has black scratches notched into it.

“Didn’t I tell you about this spoon!?” he says, passing it to me. “I made it to measure volume. I weighed out a liter of water, put it in that pan then marked the spoon. Then I just kept on doing it all the way up the pan.” I can’t help but laugh at him. “If Gill uses this spoon when she’s cooking then I go mental!”

With the pan of wort on the hob, we turn up the heat and bring it to the boil. While this happens, Chunk gets three vacuum-packs of hops out of the freezer and we weigh out 0.8 oz (25g) of Saaz hops, which doesn’t sound like a lot but for this volume of liquid it’s a considerable amount. As the wort begins to roll into a boil, we add the hops from which bursts out a fragrant and spicy aroma, turning the brew a soupy green.

When the kitchen timer beeps to tell us that 65 minutes is up, Chunk fills his kitchen sink with cold water and places the whole pan into it: “We need to cool it down to 80°C. It’s kind of arbitrary but below 80°C is the best time to add the hops,” he says. And of course that’s not arbitrary. Neither is the amount of hops we’re adding. It’s based on Chunk reading all the brewing material he can find, then working out a consistent volume of hops for successful beers, then using BeerSmith for accuracy, and applying all of that to his own beers.

The liquid cools quickly and the rest of the hops go in, throwing out a dank, citrusy aroma to the kitchen. At this point Chunk uses a hydrometer to measure the amount of sugar we’ve extracted from the grain—the “gravity” of it. Using another equation, he combines the temperature of the liquid with the reading on his hydrometer to give him an accurate number: 1.045. Exactly what we’re aiming for to produce a beer of around 4.4% ABV.

From here we just wait for the wort to cool down before it gets transferred into the fermenter—the empty water bottles we used for the brew. When that liquid gets to 64°F (18°C) the yeast will be pitched into it.

GONZO BREWING

Ordinarily Chunk would now be mostly done, apart from some cleaning, and would open a beer. But not today because we’re doing something he’s never done before. Something very few people have probably ever done before. We’re sacking off the science, the known processes, the theory, and we’re going gonzo. And it’s now that I get three coconuts out of my bag, because I’ve always wanted to brew a beer with coconut water.

My thinking with brew two is that it’ll be a rich, dark beer loaded with coconut. Because we’re not following the usual rules, we’re not going to get to that dark beer by starting a completely new brew. Instead we’re following a centuries-old process. You see, years ago, people brewing in their homes would make a couple of different beers from one batch of grain. After they’ve mashed it, the first liquid to drain off would be rich with sugars from the grain. As more water was sparged over it, the sweetness would lessen. Separate them into two fermenters and you get one strong beer and one weak beer. We’re kind of doing that, just in reverse and with some extra stuff thrown in…

The Pale Ale we’ve just brewed will form the base of brew two. To bolster it we’re creating a small, intense mash of dark, sweet liquid flavored with coconut water and we’ll blend that into the Pale Ale. We kept the spent grain from the first brew and into that we put lots of chocolate malt for dark color and a dark chocolate flavor, then we add a grain called Carafa III, which will add color but not give it too much bitter coffee flavor. We also add more wheat and oats and 3.5 oz (100g) of dried coconut chips (because—screw it—we can). We heat water to 176˚F (80°C) and Chunk pours that into the mash tun and stirs it around. While this steeps, I carve the coconuts and pour out the sweet water, which gives us 30 fl oz (900ml) of liquid.

HANDLE WITH CARE

Hops will give a beer its bitterness. The thing with hops is that they contain acids and oil. The acids give bitterness once they isomerize (or become soluble in water), which happens after an extended boil, while the oils will give the beer aroma and flavor. However, the oils are volatile, so the longer you heat them the more likely it is that you’ll boil them away, meaning the later you add hops the more aroma you get. Typically, a beer will have multiple additions of hops in order to get bitterness plus flavor and aroma. For this recipe we’re going to boil the beer for 65 minutes, take it off the heat, and add the Galaxy and Citra hops—this should maximize the aroma from the oils.

After the grain has steeped for 15 minutes, we drain it off into another pan and bring it to the boil on the hob, adding some more hops for bitterness. About 10 minutes into the boil (we’re only shooting for about 15 minutes of boiling in total, so much shorter than you’d usually do), we pour in the coconut water, add some fresh vanilla pods (because I love vanilla), then add a lot of dark candy sugar to give it a lot more fermentable sugars to convert into alcohol (I want this to be over 6% ABV), plus this will give some dark, dried fruit flavors to the brew, like a dark Belgian beer.

Chunk drains the wort from the mash tun.

Far from the calm cleanliness of earlier, it’s now carnage in Chunk’s kitchen. Neither of us really knows what’s going on. There’s coconut and grain dust everywhere, hops on the floor, pans and spoons and thermometers in places they definitely shouldn’t be, but somehow we manage to get something resembling a second wort, all sweet and bitter and black.

Once both liquids have cooled, it’s time to fill the fermenters. After sanitizing them, which is incredibly important to avoid any unwanted flavors, and placing a funnel into the top, we take a large sieve and strain 1.3 gallons (5 liters) of the Pale Ale into one of the bottles. This leaves us a couple of liters of pale liquid to go into the other fermenter, which we top up with the dark coconut liquid to reach 1.3 gallons. Once the liquor has cooled to 64˚F (18°C), Chunk adds in the yeast and closes the door on his fermentation fridge. It’s taken about six hours but with that the brews are done.

JUDGEMENT DAY

Over the next few weeks I get regular updates on how the beers are doing. We add extra hops into the Pale Ale to give it even more aroma. The dark beer goes a little crazy and ferments further than expected, making it drier than I want, so we add lactose sugar to give body, sweetness, and richness, again just making it up as we go along. We also add more coconut chips, just because.

Three weeks after brewing, I’m back at Chunk’s house with our mates Matt, Pez, and Lee. “Is everyone ready to drink the best beer in the world?” I say confidently as Chunk starts to pour out the Pale Ale that he’s put into a mini keg.

He hands me the first glass and I’m genuinely excited: in my head this is my idea of my perfect Pale Ale; could Chunk and I translate that idea, that flavor in my mind, into a great glassful of beer?

It’s bright gold and clear enough to see through, with just a slight haze. The foam is full and white and it looks great. We all have beers and we all say “cheers” before taking a mouthful. WOW!

I wanted the beer to smell like mango, pineapple, and mandarin and I get all of that and more. It’s so fruity, almost like tropical juice. Around me everyone is making excited sounds. I look at Chunk and he’s swirling the beer around his glass, chasing those aromas, analyzing them. And he’s smiling.

I take a mouthful and that’s perfect, too. Full yet still light, there’s a hint of biscuity sweetness, a depth of juicy hops, then a dry, balanced and clean bitterness. At 4.4% ABV it’s a beer I could drink all day and it’s even better than I’d hoped for. Everyone else agrees: “Dude, when are you going to quit your job and become a brewer?!” “This is awesome! I love those hops!” “Chunk, you’re a genius.” Clearly in their praise they’ve overlooked and underestimated my own efforts in the brew, but I don’t care, because it tastes so good.

“Is everyone ready to drink the best beer in the world?”

Next we move on to brew two. I wanted, via the roundabout route we took, to get something like an Oatmeal Stout with coconut in it. As he passes around glasses of dark beer with a thick tan foam it definitely looks like I want it to…

Where last time there were “wows” of excitement, this time there are “woahs” of confusion. To me it smells like dark chocolate and coconut and it immediately makes me laugh—rarely does a beer create such an unexpected reaction like this. It’s exactly what I wanted from this beer—to be surprised by it, for it to make me smile.

“I’m not so sure about that one,” says Lee. “Me neither,” says Pez. Matt likes it better: “Ha, that’s weirdly delicious!”

Two glasses of the finished pale ale.

I think it’s amazing, though not exactly amazingly good. It’s not like any beer I’ve had before. It’s chocolaty, full-bodied and ever-so-coconutty in the silliest of ways. The others prefer the Pale Ale, and I agree, but there’s something fun about this beer that just cracks me up.

The Pale Ale is genuinely brilliant. It’s not necessarily the best beer I’ve ever tasted but it was exactly the beer I hoped we could make. The coconutty brew was weird in the best of ways and I loved that, too, but the unusual processes and tail-chasing that we did to make it happen resulted in something not quite as complete as the Pale Ale. Plus you really need to love coconut to like the beer.

THE FIRST STEPS TOWARD THE BEST BEER

Today an increasing number of people are brewing at home, where with each batch they hope they’ll get something delicious to drink with their friends. Some of these brewers do it for fun; others end up making the move to professional breweries. And that’s exciting because it’s the future of the beers we drink at home and in bars.

Chunk is a great brewer; watching him is inspiring and makes me want to brew more of my own beers. I love the challenge of coming up with recipes and seeing if I can make something great in my house. I also love how I can completely design a beer that’s exactly to my taste—I can imagine the best beer in the world and then I can try my best to make it. If I don’t get it quite right then I can try again, tweaking it until I’m satisfied. That’s the fun of the challenge and I reckon I can nail that coconut stout next time…

PERFECT LONDON BEER DAY

“You’re 25 minutes late for your own pub crawl!” shouts Matt when I finally drag myself into the pub. “And I thought you wanted to get lunch here? Why did you text Chunk to say you’ve already eaten?” Matt and Chunk are the guys I drink with every week. They’re also the ones I’ve been planning today with. The first part of that plan was simple—meet at 12 and eat a pub lunch.

Long story short: I was hungover, went to the gym, felt worse, and ate some eggs. That made me late and not hungry. It has also left me unprepared and today is an important day as I’m hoping to find the best beer in the world in my favorite city by going to my favorite pubs with my favorite people.

“It’s my day and I can do what I like! It’s important to have some spontaneity, you know. Now who wants a beer?” I ask.

We’re in The Mayflower in Rotherhithe, right on the bank of the River Thames. It’s a historically significant pub because in 1620 the Mayflower ship set off from here on its nation-establishing pilgrimage across the Atlantic. Fittingly, the dark-wood walls are covered in sea memorabilia, making it feel like an old ship. Being a romantic for starting-line stories like this, The Mayflower feels like a decent place to begin the day. Luckily for me, Matt, Chunk, and his wife Gill got here on time because it meant they got a great seat on the outside decking area that overhangs the Thames. And that’s the real reason we’re at the Mayflower: I love being by the river in London and can spend hours in its company, enchanted by it, excited by it, endlessly fascinated by the sights.

Looking west I see the sharp point of the Shard, London’s tallest building; there are the bottle green curves of the Gherkin; there are factories converted into apartments; pubs and docks and a skyline of cranes keeping the construction going. There’s so much activity and I can see both the history of the city and the shape of things to come. There are also so many stories down here, so many things have happened here during the life of the river.

Looking east and that’s the direction the Mayflower would’ve sailed—into the large width of water, starting a great adventure. And like the ship did almost 400 years ago, we’ve taken on fuel, we’ve collected passengers, and now, having finished a pale ale and some fries, today’s pilgrimage can properly begin… which means getting on a bus to Bermondsey.

THE CRAFT REVOLUTION

London is a city with a rich history of beer making and there are over 80 breweries across the capital. Despite the heritage, this surge in new brews is recent, with less than 10 of those breweries open before 2009. It’s also incredible to know that the second oldest still-active brewery in London is Meantime, which started in 1999. London is brewing itself back toward the top of the best beer cities list and by living here I’m getting to see it happen every day.

A view of the Thames looking west. The day begins at Rotherhithe, in the bottom left corner of the picture.

If there’s one thing that any beer lover should do on a Saturday in south London, it’s visit the Bermondsey Beer Mile. Beneath, or next to, railway arches going in and out of London Bridge Station, there’s a line of excellent breweries and a bottle shop, plus some cool food markets, all just south of the Thames. Conveniently within walking distance of each other, people are coming here on a Saturday and trying to drink in all of them. At the eastern end is FourPure and walking west beside the bridges you pass Partizan, The Kernel, Brew By Numbers, Anspach & Hobday, and Southwark Brewing Co.

The Kernel is where we’re going. Coming in from an industrial estate car park, where there are people spilling outside, many carrying bottles wrapped in the distinctive brown labels of the brewery, you can see through the deep arch, over a table of bottles, and down to the brewhouse at the back. It’s packed inside and standing room only—it’s like this every Saturday even though they only open for a couple of hours. Drinkers crowd the front counter, taking a close look to see what’s available: there are Pale Ales and IPAs, each named after the hops used in them; there are strong Stouts based on recipes from over a century ago; there are sour beers aged in wooden barrels. We all order Pale Ales and IPAs, the beers that The Kernel is best known for. They are American-inspired but definitely London delivered, with their appealingly hazy gold color, the smell of fruit bowls, and a full and satisfying texture. I drink a lot of these beers in London.

This kind of beer is important to me because it was these fruity, hoppy pale brews that got me excited enough about beer to want to start writing about it. These American-hopped Pale Ales were so different to the brown Best Bitters I’d been drinking, and one taste made me want to find more and know more. Without beer like this I wouldn’t do what I do now.

Bottles for sale at The Kernel Brewery.

MEMORY LANE

As we leave and walk toward London Bridge, via Brew By Numbers for a quick half of their excellent hoppy Saison, we’re joined by Pez and Sofia—two more of my favorite people to drink with. The next stop is a return to a pub that featured in my early beer biography. During university a group of us would regularly get the train into London and go on beer crawls. The Rake, near London Bridge, was our go-to pub for trying new beers at a time when there were hardly any beer bars around. After that we’d go to The Market Porter, a handsome corner pub right in the middle of London’s Borough Market. It’s well dressed in bright flowers and always busy with people crowding the streets outside cradling their beer.

Inside, soldier-like handpulls stand along the large bar top, each with a colorful clip stuck on the front to show what’s on. These are the real ales and that’s what you drink when you’re at the Market Porter. Along with tea, this is Britain’s drink, and nowhere else does it like we do it, making it a wonderful idiosyncrasy. A decade ago we’d work through as many beers as possible, learning about different styles, finding beers we loved and beers we hated—it’s where we learnt about beer.

“Remember Pete Postlethwaite’s Bitter?” “What about the time we came here then went to the German place next door for steins and it took you two hours to get home?” “I was looking at old Facebook photos the other day and saw some from in here—it’s just the same today as it was then!” “I still remember that pint of Old Growler in here—it was so good!” “Was it here we came after you pulled an allnighter to get that essay done and then almost fell asleep over there?” We rarely drink in the Market Porter anymore so it’s good to return for a pint. The next stop is somewhere we drink most weeks.

A massive part of my London life is Camden Town Brewery. I started working there in September 2011 and it was a big step for me. I’d gone from being a beer blogger and writer on the outside of the industry to having genuine influence in how a brewery was working. Being at Camden every day, I got to talk to brewers all the time, asking them questions, learning about the processes and the industry, and uncovering all the small details of running a brewery.

Every morning I’d go into work and ask the boss, Jasper Cuppaidge, why there wasn’t a bar at the brewery. To me it seemed crazy to have a space and not open it up so people could come inside and be able to drink the beer fresh. Then one day, after about five months of nagging, I arrived at work and some builders were measuring up the space.

And whether at the brewery or elsewhere in London, Camden Town’s Hells Lager is the beer I drink most of. I love Hells for how it’s been present at many momentous life events in the last few years: working at the brewery; drinking the beer the night my first book came out, which I wrote while working at Camden; it was the beer I drank while doing my best man speech at Matt’s wedding; the beer I’ve taken on numerous weekends away with friends; the beer I was drinking when I realized a 10-year relationship was over; and the first beer I put in my fridge when I moved to London and started a new life. Hells is ever-present in my life and it’s more than just a drink to me. Sitting outside the brewery, on long benches in the sun with friends, a Hells is exactly what I want. Here we’re joined by Sara, another of my best friends and Matt’s wife, plus Chris Hall, a beer-writing friend.

“Tell me again what you’re doing today?” asks Sara as she also drinks a pint of Hells.

“Attempting my perfect London beer day for the new book. I’ve basically planned my ideal drinking day and I want to see if it’s actually any good.”

“Hmm… I think my perfect drinking day would be very different to yours,” she says before others start to throw in their ideas for their perfect drinking day.

“You have to go to some classic old pubs, like Sam Smith pubs where you get cheap pints. And you need to go to a Wetherspoons pub—the ones we used to drink in at uni. And a Fuller’s pub for a pint of London Pride—that’s proper London drinking.”

“The best pub crawls just sort of happen and aren’t planned. How many great nights have we had just walking into a random bar after 10pm when we’re already drunk?”

“I think it’s the people that matter. Wouldn’t it be depressing drinking on your own all day? You want to be with friends and just get really drunk with them.”

“I’d want to go to some of my favorite pubs because you just feel at home there. I’d want a nightcap of good whiskey or gin or cocktails. I’d want to go somewhere with a good view of the city or just something interesting to look at. And fried chicken at the end, obviously.”

The Market Porter, situated in London’s best food market, Borough, is a honeypot for foodies and beer lovers.

“The best pub crawls just sort of happen and aren’t planned…”

“You know, I really like the idea of a personal pub crawl like we’re on today; going to places that have a meaning to you, and that you’ve been to loads of times already because they are important and you like them. But when I’m drunk and happy I just want to walk into places and see what happens.”

We have a few beers in the brewery, including the incredibly delicious IHL, a mega-hopped lager, and talk and laugh for a few hours. As we say bye to Pez we jump on the train and head east to Haggerston and The Fox, a big corner pub on Kingsland Road.

I’ve spent Sunday afternoons in here playing board games and eating a roast dinner, I’ve written parts of this book in here, there have been warm evenings sitting on the roof, and too many nights where I’ve got too drunk on IPA.

I live nearby, so come here often, plus it has the best beer selection in this part of town. Most of us choose Beavertown’s Gamma Ray, an American-style Pale Ale from a brewery which originated in Duke’s Brew and Cue, a barbecue restaurant just around the corner.

“This is still my favorite beer in London,” says Matt.

“Neck Oil is also pretty great. And Smog Rocket,” says Chunk.

“Have you had Smog with the ribs at Duke’s? It’s amazing!” I add, immediately aware of how hungry I am. And also how drunk I am. Somehow we’ve now been drinking for over eight hours, so with a slight giddiness in my head and sway in my legs, the next stop is for food and that means we’re going for The Best Burger in London.

Improbably, I spend more time reading about burgers than I do reading about beer. It’s a bit of an obsession. I’ve been thinking about this particular burger all week, about the soft sweet bun, the juicy beef patty, and the saltiness of the American cheese—I’m just about ready to eat my arm as we finish the 15-minute walk to The Sebright Arms, where Lucky Chip cooks the brilliant burgers. Then my phone buzzes and I see that I’ve got a voicemail message from Sofia, who cycled ahead to get a table. I play it back: “THEY’RE OUT OF BURGERS! WHAT DO WE DO?!” (I’ve since had to delete the message because the genuine distress in her voice is something I can’t handle hearing ever again.) How can they be out of burgers?! The kitchen doesn’t close for another 90 minutes! Oh my god. OH MY GOD!

You know when you leave it too late to eat and you get angry and that’s exaggerated by being hammered, and you’re empty of food and full of beer and it’s a dangerous mix? We’re all there right now. “What are we going to do?” “If I don’t eat soon I’m going to die!” “I’m starving!”

We walk to Broadway Market, perhaps my favorite street in London (I might as well carry on the favorite theme) and manage to grab some pizza, but this burgerless blip has thrown the day. It’s later than we thought and we’re all drunker than we should be. I’d been planning another bar after food, just a random pub that I’ve never been to before, but it’s too late now. And as Chris leaves us, there’s only one pub to go to at this stage of the evening.

This makes me realize that it’s the moments that matter more than the liquid in the glass.

THE LOCAL

The Cock Tavern, by Hackney Central station, is my local. It’s a very British thing to have a local. I love this place because when I walk in I feel like I’ve stepped into a second living room, especially when I’m greeted by Tim the manager. The pub is busy and there’s a smoke-like haze in the air that always seems to be here, adding to the old, worn atmosphere of the place. There’s a feeling of comfort here and that’s important in a pub; that’s what a local is. The Cock is where I come to read and write, it’s where I come for quiet pints on weekends, it’s a solace after a shitty day at work, and it’s where I usually end up late at night on Fridays and Saturdays for one more beer.

There’s a small brewery in the cellar, there’s a long line-up of hand-pulled ales and ciders, plus some great kegs of cold beer.

We get six pints and all sit around a tiny table, with Mark, Matt, and I squashed on one small bench and Gill, Sara, and Sofia opposite. We’re talking shit and laughing. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening and I don’t know what I’m drinking, but I don’t care because all that matters to me right now is being here with these guys.

Today’s crawl has taken in some classic pubs, some new pubs, a few breweries, and some places with personal significance; it has been the kind of day with friends that I love. Now it’s late and as we talk about the last 12 hours I can’t remember much of what I had to drink or how anything actually tasted. But I can remember the places, the people, and the way I felt in those moments. What this makes me realize is that it’s the moments that matter more than the liquid in the glass. And thinking back to some of the best beers I’ve ever tasted, I can tell you where I had them and who was there before I can tell you what the beer was like. Beer is great because it’s social and the best beer experiences I can have will be ones I can share with other people.

I don’t think I drank the best beer in the world today but I did drink some of my favorites and I shared them with my best friends. And now, sitting with them in the pub late at night, is a moment that I won’t forget.

Drinkers outside the Camden Town Brewery bar.

BRITISH CASK BEER

With a firm pull on the curved wooden handpump, the pale liquid pours into the glass, white foam bubbling then bursting as another pull almost fills the vessel. One final tug and the beer is placed on the bar, a gentle haze gradually easing upward and forming the beer’s foam, leaving a bright, golden pint.

A selection of cask ales from Fullers, one of London’s largest breweries, on display at the bar.

The aroma is gentle and lightly fruity, yet it’s vibrantly fresh. It’s cool against the lips, the body is soft and clean, a gentle carbonation giving it life on your tongue, pushing forward a subtle hop flavor before the malt comes through with the taste of biscuits, bread, and toast—rich yet light. Then the hops return; they are dry and bitter and leave you thirsty for more. This is what makes cask beer great.