“Liquid Bread”
Beer, by definition, is a fermented grain beverage. Barley is the grain of choice in the Western European brewing tradition; rice is the basis of Asian beers; sorghum for African beers; corn for native American. We sensation-hungry humans have fermented just about every sugar-rich—that is, carbohydrate-rich—plant material available in our quest for the pleasures of alcohol.
The carbohydrates in grain, the basis of beer, are more complex than the carbohydrates in fruit, the basis of wine. This means that the yeasts that ferment carbohydrates (in the form of sugars) have a slightly harder time converting grain to alcohol than fruit.
As a result, beer has more residual sugars (carbs) left after fermentation than wine, more raw material that the yeast couldn’t turn to alcohol. The good news: beer is a dilute, quenching beverage that delivers a good dose of energy. The bad news: if you’re counting carbs, a serving of beer contains about 12 grams, compared to wine’s four or five and a bracing zero carbs from a measure of distilled spirits. (Since the process of distillation involves the boiling off and collecting of pure alcohol, distilled spirits leave all residual carbs behind, a fact now enthusiastically marketed by the distilled spirits marketing board.)
Suddenly, the term “liquid bread” for beer was not a happy connection.
The Big Guys Respond
Between 24 and 30 million Americans are now eating low carb. The phenomenon has affected every niche of the food industry. There are books galore, special menus at restaurants, websites and chatrooms, new lines in the frozen food department, and an upheaval in the lucrative diet business. In particular, foods that are inherently high in carbs are taking a beating. Bread and pasta producers, formerly the dietary good guys, are scrambling to come out with low-carb varieties, or to mount a defense for the “good” carbs their products contain.
Beer had adapted fairly well to the new, health conscious affect of the American consumer. Light beers—which generally contain two-thirds of the calories of their brewery’s premium brands—moved from market dud to huge success once Miller found a way to make light beer manly (“Tastes great; less filling”). The fitness fad of the eighties and nineties moved them to center stage.
By the new millennium, light beer had already grabbed nearly half the US market, becoming more of a taste preference than a method of systematic calorie control. (Hence the unintended ridiculousness of customers ordering a light beer and a plate of double nachos.) The biggest-selling brand in the United States is Bud Light, and light beers are four out of ten top-selling brands (Information Resources Inc., Nov., 2003).
However, though low in calories, the light beers were still high enough in carbs to put them on the taboo list for low-carb dieters. Some low-carb regimens permit alcohol; others do not, but a handful of breweries determined that—for those dieters who wanted to consume alcohol—there would be a beer alternative.
The first brewing company to act on its hunches and launch a low-carb beer was that giant of marketing expertise, Anheuser-Busch. In 2002, A-B chose its specialty beer division, Michelob, to be the home of a high-end, low-carb beer, Michelob Ultra. In a period of economic uncertainty and market loss for beer, the phenomenal success of Michelob Ultra became the only industry news worth talking about by 2003.
Michelob Ultra achieved about one percent of the total U.S. beer market. To put that into perspective, the entire domestic specialty beer segment amounts to between three and five percent of the market. Ultra’s one percent was huge.
Miller Brewing Company, perpetually behind the curve in recent years, realized too late that their flagship Miller Lite, the first successful light beer, was coincidentally low-ish in carbs. (Light beers are low in calories, but not necessarily low in carbs: see sidebar.) Their initial market response to Ultra’s success sounded whiney, but in recent weeks, Miller Lite’s we-were-low-carb-all-along campaign has paid off in increased sales. Consumers snapped up the old beer for a new reason.
Adolph Coors, the smallest of the Big Three, had the biggest challenge. Coors Light is the company’s best-selling brand; a low-carb Coors beer couldn’t help but cannibalize its big brother. But with A-B and Miller set to gobble the low-carb market in proportion to their overall market shares, Coors couldn’t sit back. So this spring, Aspen Edge will debut in ten states, before a national roll out by the end of 2004. Like it or not, Coors had to play.
