July's Cool Fair Maiden: Berliner Weisse

In the swelter of July, as the days stretch long and the nights stay warm and muggy, we reach for replenishers, refreshers, and slakers.  A quintessential summer beverage is lemonade, which our cells recognize as a natural source of electrolytes.  A touch sweet, tart, and crisp.  It cools, it restores.  There is a beery equivalent no less able to restore on a hot day than a lemonade, but it was once nearly extinct and certainly unknown in the US: Berliner Weisse.

Among all the styles in Germany, it is one of the most celebrated.  Napoleon likened it to champagne, and writers rhapsodized about its several virtues. One florid example:

"Berlin is the city of all others where the kühle blonde ['cool fair maiden'] is obtained in the greatest perfection, and where bier-stuben offering no other beverage to their frequenters abound. The beer is drunk by preference when it is of a certain age, and in perfection it should be largely impregnated with carbonic acid gas and have acquired a peculiar sharp, dry, and by no means disagreeable flavour." (Henry Vizetelly, Berlin Under the New Empire, 1879)

Over the centuries, there have been many incarnations of this style.  In some accounts it was made with smoked malt, and over the years brewers made it a variety of different ways.  By the 1970s, the beer had become fairly debased and Berliners were adulterating it with sugary syrups.  Here's Michael Jackson describing what he found there in 1977:

"'White' is a particular misnomer for a beer which is usually drunk either red or green. However delightful they may find the beer itself, visitors from other countries are apt to be shocked by these colors, but Germans are frequently surprised at the thought of drinking a Berliner weisse without a schuss (a dash or raspberry juice) or Waldmeister (essence of woodruff)."

Unlike the red and green Berliner weisses, though, the midcentury beer was a more impressive beast--extremely lean of body, hugely effervescent and quite sharp on the tongue.  A weird beer for which the 1970s had no use--but which is exactly the kind of beer in which modern eyes again see a cool, fair maiden.  And so it has been reborn in the US in all its tiny, powerful splendor.

The Nature of the Funk
To the untrained tongue, a Berliner weisse seems all lactobacillus.  That's the bacterium that produces the sharp, slightly citric tartness you find in yogurt (hence the name).  This is what dominates the flavor of a Berliner weisse, and I have always found it to be a pure, clean note that bespoke no other souring microorganisms.   However, I first got wind of another, secret agent when I read a post by Ron Pattinson a few years ago.  When he had a chance to taste very old Berliner weisses, he found he could taste the barnyard, bone-dry brett character in them, too. 

But is brett important to the flavor profile of Berliner weisse?  I turned to Alan Taylor, my go-to source for all things German.  Alan picked up his brewing degree in Berlin and also brewed there before returning to Oregon.  He's currently at Pints, where you can find his own example of a Berliner weisse on tap now.  His answer? Brett is critical to building complexity in the style, but it does so by working with the lactobacillus.  In typical fashion, he sent along an Excel spreadsheet that had a ton of technical information detailing the differences among Berliner weisses made only with lacto, those with both lacto and brett, and those with just brettanomyces.  Alan comments:

"One of the reasons to have Brett in there early is that it helps to amplify the amount of acids and esters produced. Looking at the chart I attached, you will see that Kindl [lacto-only] has a lower pH, but doesn’t have nearly the level of acids in the beer. Brett on its own also doesn’t create the levels of the mixed pitch. [Lactobacillus and brettanomyces] synergistically create a much more complex beer."

He mentioned that, contrary to my experience, a Berliner weisse that uses a mixed pitch produces acetic acid (the type of sour compound you find in vinegar).  "The acetic brings something along the lines of a Rodenbach note to the beer, which I find appealing."  Finally, beers with brett produce more esters:

The ethyl acetate and ethyl lactate levels are significantly higher in the traditional product. Those esters are being created by the interplay of acid production from the bacteria and the Brett. converting those to esters. As you see, Brett. alone can’t create the levels that the [mixed] has.

And indeed, the mixed pitch produces five times the amount of ethyl acetate (the ester that tastes like pear or apple) and 20 times the amount of ethyl lactate (an ester that can taste vinous or like coconut).  In both cases, the esters are just at or slightly below the threshold for flavor, but their presence creates layers of depth.

I recommend heading down to Pints and getting a pour of Alan's Berliner weisse.  He began with a lactic fermentation and then did an alcohol fermentation with ale yeast.  Normally that's when he would have added the brett, but in this case he waited until after primary alcohol fermentation (for logistical reasons not worth mentioning).  Because you're looking only for ester production from the brett, it only takes four weeks to develop.  Those characteristic "brett" flavors would eventually come out--but long after it has served its primary function.  That's why it's difficult to detect it there.  I tried to focus in on the fruity aspects to attune my palate--a process that may take a few more glasses.

How Tart?
Yesterday afternoon I judged homebrew at the Portland U-Brew and Pub and we had a Berliner weisse in the flight.  The question arose: how tart should it be?  I think there is no right answer here, at least by historical standards.  The brewing methods were very different over the decades.  But if we're looking at the pre-debased 20th century examples, I think the answer is: pretty damn tart.  The chart Alan sent along put them at a pH of around 3--roughly the level of orange juice.  Because there is very little sugar in a Berliner weisse, though (unlike orange juice), that tracks as pretty tart.  (Water is 7.)  Sometimes you'll find Berliner weisses that have been made by sour mashing, and to my palate, they just don't have the pop you get with a full lactic fermentation.  After all, this is why Berliners started adding sugar syrups--it was a really tart style.

(As to Berliner weisses in which the zing comes from chemical grade lactic acid added after fermentation?  The less said the better.  At worst, lactic acid has an unnatural chemical flavor and at best it's a wholly one-dimensional note.  Because there was no fermentation, the lactic acid lacks those critical esters that give a beer depth.  You don't have to be a trained taster to detect pure lactic acid either.)

Why Bud Has Many Plants

Back in April, I reviewed Dogfish Head Festina Peche. I had purchased a bottle, intent on identifying a Dogfish product I could unconflictedly praise. The beer that poured out of that bottle was not good. My description:

The trouble began right away--it was nearly flat, even when I tried to rouse it with a tall pour. A stray bubble or two--to call them a proper bead would be overstating the point--rose languidly to the surface. The nose was faintly sour, but tinny and hollow like canned fruit, which more or less describes the beer.... [T]he final sentence of my notes: "Like a flat soda that has been sitting out in the sun for a few hours."

Over the weekend I had this same beer on tap at the Green Dragon and it was a revelation. An excellent rendition of style, light-bodied, sprightly, and more that a tad tart. Putting peach in a Berliner Weisse is an inspired move: the fruit's sugars had mostly been gobbled by yeasts; what remained was a gentle essence joined perfectly with the beer's sour. The style can be a little aggressive naked; that's why it is often dressed with a bit of sugary syrup. The peach is a better solution; it keeps the nature of the tart beer intact, but adds a summery, fresh note that softens it just enough. Dogfish Head can definitely take a bow--this is a hell of a beer.

But what then explains the difference between the bottle and the keg?

This is one of the problems with shipping your beer--once it leaves your brewery, you have no idea what happens to it. A distributor may leave it on a pallette in the sun or it may languish on the shelf of a store that rarely sells anything but Hamm's. From time to time I'll read a harshly critical description of a Rogue beer I like on BeerAdvocate--inevitably, the sampler picked up the bottle far from Oregon. Like my Festina Peche bottle, they were tasting the death of a beer, not a beer.

(This can be the brewery's fault, of course. A poor batch or poor packaging can ruin an otherwise tasty beer.)

I don't know whether Dogfish is culpable for the condition of the bottle I tried, but I sympathize with them in any case. Getting beer to Oregon (2850 miles, according to Google Maps) is no easy task. This is why Redhook opened a brewery in New Hampshire back in the 90s, and it's why Bud has them scattered all over the country. The closer a brewery is to the point of sale, the more likely it is that the beer will arrive like it left the bottling line.

I suspect there's a beeronomics post in there somewhere, but for the beer enthusiast, it's a good reminder. And I will be more charitable to Dogfish henceforth.

Fun With Beer - Berliner Weisse

I spent the waning, sunnny hours of the evening last night at the Pilsner Room enjoying a Berliner Weisse. Chris's Summer D-Lite is assistant brewer Chris Haveman's wonderful entry in the "Brewer's Share" program at Full Sail. I've enjoyed Berliner Weisses in the past, but never as they're served at the Pilsner Room--and in Berlin--with accompanying woodruff and raspberry syrup.

The style, noted for its dry, tart lactic character, is at least 400 years old and may date back to the Huguenot migration into Germany. The Huguenots were Flemish-French protestants, so could the style have passed through, say, the Zenne Valley? A hypothesis I consider with relish. In any case, the style is, for sourheads, a joy. Beers are sour in different ways; a good Berliner Weisse should be sharply tart, like a fresh lemon. They aren't punishingly or funkily sour, just tart, and therefore perfectly thirst-quenching, like a fresh lemon soda.

I have always been intrigued by this passage from Jackson, and have regretted that I'd have to go to Berlin to enjoy the experience:

"I have only ever seen the summer versions, with a dash of the herbal essence of woodruff (Waldmeister) or raspberry syrup. This is now the familiar face of Berliner Weisse.

"The syrup colors the head as well as the beer, the woodruff making for a vivid lime-cordial hue and the raspberry looking more like peach. Everyone knows the flavor of raspberry, but what about the essence of woodruff? Sampled on its own, it is heavily fragrant, with notes of hay, lemon grass, and cough drops. The herb grows in the forests around Berlin, and is also used to make a soft drink and to flavor mineral water. When Berliner Weisse is served in this way, the idea is that the drinker first tastes the sweetness of the syrup, then sense the acidity of the beer.

"Whenever I asked for a Weissbier in Berlin, the server has demanded: "Red or green?" If I have requested it without either, to sample the beer in its native state, I have sometimes been viewed as a madman. The syrups are considered necessary to moderate the intensity of the acid..."

You get something like this experience at Full Sail. Instead of--or in addition to--the query "red or green," you may hear "raspberry or marshmallow?" (Marshmallow? See below.) I wanted to taste all three variants, so I ordered the syrup on the side. My experience with the style isn't vast--there just aren't very many examples available in the US--but this version seemed like a perfect example. Berliner Weisses are not designed to be complex; they depend on the clarity of the tart note. It has to be very fresh and clean and have that citrus-like thirst-quenching quality. These beers are made with some wheat, a flavor evident particularly in the finish, but not a dominant one. All of these things describe Chris's Summer D-Lite. It's spot-on. Germans might find a beer like this too intense, but those of you who like sour beers of Belgium will find it quite approachable.

The syrups surprised me. Added to the beer, they recall some long lost fountain drink, like a phosphate. (For those who don't like to stray too far from sight of a hop, these are a distant wander to foreign land--a word to the wise.) The raspberry wasn't too weird--hold your mouth right and you could imagine a fruit lambic. But the "green" was something else. I didn't get "marshmallow" from it. There's a strong vanilla note, and something herbal behind that. Hay isn't far off, but with a tiny touch of anise. The syrups are heavier than beer, and you need to stir as you go along, or you'll end up with two fingers of weird Fanta. I recommend getting them on the side so you can add to taste. Just a touch and they add some flavor without much sweetness. Go hog wild and dump the whole thing in if you want a wild ride.

It was one of the more entertaining times I've had drinking beer in the past decade or so. Don't miss it--you'll regret it if you do. (Or end up having to go all the way to Germany. Not bad, but inconvenient.)