They line the walls of many pubs, alehouses, tap rooms, any place that caters to craft beer fans: old, encrusted bottles from fabled breweries, bottles that once contained the characteristic flavor of a time long gone. Most of the time, such bottles merely collect dust and become part of the ambience of a bar or pub. As part of clutter on a shelf, they lose the individual identity they might have had as products of specific breweries. They become collectively a symbol of brewing’s past, grounding the pub’s existence in the present with a reminder that previous generations have come to such places to enjoy camaraderie and drink.
The oldest beer would be near enough the century mark.
Yet, occasionally, a customer will single out one of the names printed on a faded label for special notice. Perhaps the bottle reminds the beholder of an earlier time, of different brands that made up the zeitgeist of beer drinkers in another generation―a particular label that was once immediately recognized as an icon. Even in those moments, however, the individual history of the bottle is lost. Why wasn’t the bottle ever thrown away to lie shattered in some dump through the years?
(Kinsley Dey)
Empty bottles that have the power to evoke clear memories of a drinking experience are rare enough. Those bottles that transcend the generations beyond the possibility of any living people to remember a taste of the beer, even rarer.
Mugs Ale House in Brooklyn, New York, is like any number of establishments with old bottles among their decorations. Such places are reminders that the craftbrew end of the beer business appeals to the love of brewing more than it does to standardized, branded tastes. After a few minutes in a good taproom, the neophyte perceives that brewing history is dear to the drinkers of a higher class of beer.
Sometimes, an old bottle has a story to tell, a story that not only sheds some light on brewing history but also on the mystique of a beer made to have an appeal long after its brewer has gone from the world. The bottle needs only the help of someone who remembers the beer it contained to articulate its history. Until the end of last year, I had no idea that I was to be one of the chosen to serve that function for a lineup of empty bottles now sitting in a display case in Mugs.
Memorable Experiences
Bill Coleman and Warren Becker, two dedicated seekers of memorable beer experiences, recently became struck with a passion for tracking down old bottles. As members of the homebrew club that meets regularly in Mugs, the Malted Barley Appreciation Society, they convinced pub owner Ed Berestecki to cordon off a section of his alehouse one afternoon for a tasting of brewing history. I was one of the writers Coleman invited to the tasting. He provided me and a few selected others the opportunity to breathe some life into what might eventually become a few forgotten, empty bottles.
In December, Coleman sent me an initial list of a little more than a dozen vintage beers that he and Becker planned to uncap―or uncork―at the tasting. A few bottles on his wish list had yet to be located. From a quick glance at the list, it was clear that this would not be the usual vintage beer tasting: It wasn’t a vertical set of vintages from a single brewery; it didn’t compile an unbroken span of years; it mixed brewing styles and defied easy classification.
The two oldest bottles on the list, which were still being shipped to Coleman at the time, contained ales brewed by Bass in 1902 and 1928. Those weren’t typos, he assured me in the message.
There are a mere handful of moments in a freelance writer’s existence when one is thankful for having made such a career decision. This was one of those, and it went straight to the top of the list of rewarding experiences.
The collection was remarkable. The only American beers were six bottles from the Ballantine brewery in Newark containing beer brewed in the 1930s and 1940s, though some were actually bottled more than a decade after they were brewed. A bottle of Okocimsky Porter from Poland had been around since the 1960s, though clearly not labeled as a vintage beer and not intended to age so long. The same was true of an Oyster Stout from Castletown Brewery on the Isle of Man, dated approximately to the ’60s.
A Guinness Foreign Stout, on the other hand, could be dated to its bottling in May 1938. John Courage 50th Anniversary Ale, brewed in 1952, and the legendary first vintage of Thomas Hardy’s Ale, 1968, joined the elders from Bass, Prince’s Ale, from 1929 and King’s Ale, which was brewed in 1902 but bottled at least three years later after having aged in wood.
The date for the tasting was set for February 10, 2001, when the oldest beer would be near enough the century mark. Coleman and Becker managed to obtain some beers to represent most of the decades of the 20th century. A few ground rules were set, including a prohibition on asking what it cost to obtain the bottles, though the tales of how each one was located and eventually procured proved enlightening.
Attending the tasting with the two hosts and Berestecki, were Jim Anderson, the publisher of Beer Philadelphia newsletter and website; Tom Baker, head brewer of Heavyweight Brewing in Ocean Township, NJ, and me.
