ATTENTION the men paid to their beer was particularly critical, and in the late 1860s and early 1870s, they realized that they needed to modernize it as they had modernized their breweries. In part, that decision was based on supply and demand. Lager’s growing popularity strained farmers’ ability to produce enough barley for the nation’s three thousand beermakers, shortages exacerbated in the early 1870s by several years of bad weather. But there was another reason to rethink traditional all-malt beer. American six-row barley, which was what most brewers used to make their malt, was exceptionally rich in protein. Lagering precipitated much of it, but dregs remained as unsightly globs that formed haze, soured the beer, and shortened the lager’s life. Put another way, the decision to brew traditional all-malt Bavarian beer using American six-row barley produced an unstable beer with a relatively short life. If brewers could eliminate excess proteins, the beer would be more stable and durable; they could ship it even longer distances and so expand their markets. And if they could brew with some grain other than barley, they would ease the stranglehold of high prices caused by crop shortages.
In the late 1860s, many American brewers began experimenting with corn in their mashing tuns. Like barley, corn is rich in starch that can be converted to sugar, but unlike barley, it contains little protein. Mixing corn into the mash added an extra helping of starch that absorbed barley’s excess proteins and, as a bonus, “stretched” the grain, much the way a cook might add pasta to a pound of hamburger to make it go farther. And thanks to mechanical reapers and better plows, corn yields were high and bushel prices low.
What sounded good on paper turned sour in practice. Corn oil infused the lager with an unctuous, rancid flavor. Brewery employees could eliminate much of the oil by grinding the corn to remove the husk and kernel, but doing so added another layer of expense to the process. And that was just one of the many puzzles of what beermakers called “adjunct” brewing, or making beer using grains other than barley. What was the best ratio of corn to barley? Should the corn be cooked separately and then added to the mash, or added at the outset and cooked with the barley? How long should it be boiled, and at what temperature? Only time and trial taught brewers how to incorporate corn into the mashing tun. Every move cost money—and when something went wrong, the entire mess had to be dumped. Put another way, the effort to keep pace with production when barley was scarce cost plenty.
Given the difficulties, adjunct-based brewing might have limped along for years before it became an integral part of the American brewery. Only some compelling reason, some irresistible benefit, could have induced brewers to expend the time and money necessary to overcome its liabilities.
In the early 1870s, the irresistible presented itself in the form of growing resistance to all-malt beer on the part of Americans themselves, as more non-Germans among them embraced lager as a nonintoxicating beverage. Brewers noticed what had not been obvious back in the 1850s, when lager’s audience consisted almost entirely of German-speaking immigrants: When it came to beer, an enormous divide separated Europeans and Americans. Germans, deck of cards or chess set in one hand and pipe in another, plunked themselves in front of a frothy mug and nursed it for hours. Americans wanted to drink —and they didn’t want to imbibe a brown broth that hit the stomach like a seven-course meal any more than they had wanted English ale.
Perhaps the difference stemmed from nothing more than scarcity and abundance: German beer culture was born and raised in a place that was overcrowded and where food was often in short supply. For centuries, Germans and other Europeans had prized beer as food—liquid bread. But the American experience relegated that idea to
In the late 1860s, many American brewers began experimenting with corn in their mashing tuns. Like barley, corn is rich in starch that can be converted to sugar, but unlike barley, it contains little protein. Mixing corn into the mash added an extra helping of starch that absorbed barley’s excess proteins and, as a bonus, “stretched” the grain, much the way a cook might add pasta to a pound of hamburger to make it go farther. And thanks to mechanical reapers and better plows, corn yields were high and bushel prices low.
What sounded good on paper turned sour in practice. Corn oil infused the lager with an unctuous, rancid flavor. Brewery employees could eliminate much of the oil by grinding the corn to remove the husk and kernel, but doing so added another layer of expense to the process. And that was just one of the many puzzles of what beermakers called “adjunct” brewing, or making beer using grains other than barley. What was the best ratio of corn to barley? Should the corn be cooked separately and then added to the mash, or added at the outset and cooked with the barley? How long should it be boiled, and at what temperature? Only time and trial taught brewers how to incorporate corn into the mashing tun. Every move cost money—and when something went wrong, the entire mess had to be dumped. Put another way, the effort to keep pace with production when barley was scarce cost plenty.
Given the difficulties, adjunct-based brewing might have limped along for years before it became an integral part of the American brewery. Only some compelling reason, some irresistible benefit, could have induced brewers to expend the time and money necessary to overcome its liabilities.
In the early 1870s, the irresistible presented itself in the form of growing resistance to all-malt beer on the part of Americans themselves, as more non-Germans among them embraced lager as a nonintoxicating beverage. Brewers noticed what had not been obvious back in the 1850s, when lager’s audience consisted almost entirely of German-speaking immigrants: When it came to beer, an enormous divide separated Europeans and Americans. Germans, deck of cards or chess set in one hand and pipe in another, plunked themselves in front of a frothy mug and nursed it for hours. Americans wanted to drink —and they didn’t want to imbibe a brown broth that hit the stomach like a seven-course meal any more than they had wanted English ale.
Perhaps the difference stemmed from nothing more than scarcity and abundance: German beer culture was born and raised in a place that was overcrowded and where food was often in short supply. For centuries, Germans and other Europeans had prized beer as food—liquid bread. But the American experience relegated that idea to
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