That’s the problem with this beer—every brewer has their own idea of saison. So to get a sense of its origins and its near-amorphous sense of being, it rewards one to travel to the province of Hainault in Belgium’s Wallonia. This is prime saison country: a landscape of flat fields upon which cattle graze and stalks of ripening corn and sheaves of wheat wave in the gentle breeze. Farmhouses dot the landscape, places where farm workers once gathered the hay, working up a thirst, which a bottle or two of home-brewed saison would quench.

Southwards across the border into France was traditionally the country of bière de garde, amber-colored and malt-accented, while here, the local beer tended to be light in color, low in alcohol and high in hops. In the years leading up to World War II, these saisons were produced towards the end of the brewing season and fermented in wooden barrels. They possessed a marked bitterness, used no added sugar and were exceedingly refreshing.

In the postwar years, saisons became stronger, drifting away from their roots. Nowadays most saisons start at a robust 5.5 percent and continue upwards. However, in the past few years the beers of the saison family (grasping a firm definition is as difficult as wrestling with a ghost) have been undergoing a new revolution. Brewers both in Wallonia and further afield have kept saison’s essential nature (refreshing, golden-amber, hoppy) but used it as a template for innovation.

Keeping to Tradition

Tourpes is a village in the middle of saison country. It is home to Brasserie Dupont, one of the most venerable of saison breweries. The 6.5 percent Saison Dupont defines the beer style for many: dry and restrained in sweetness, with a nose boosted by a resiny hoppiness. It contains no spices or herbs and Pilsner malt anchors the base with a trio consisting of Belgian, English and Slovenian hops providing the seasoning while it gets a 90-minute boil in a directly fired cooper. Fermentation is a week in enclosed flat-bottomed vessels. “They are new but based on the old traditions,” says Managing Director Olivier Dedeycker. “We want more esters produced by this equipment.”

This is followed by a week’s maturation in horizontal tanks, culminating in filtration and the addition of sugar and new yeast before it goes straight into bottles. During this period of secondary fermentation, the bottles are left for six to eight weeks. “Saison Dupont is brewed the way it was 20 years ago,” says Dedeycker. His family has owned this brewery since 1920, when they bought the farm along with the traditional brewery. The farm has long since merged into the brewery.

Dedeycker is a passionate champion of saison and has clear views on what classifies this style. “From my point of view it is a historical beer, so if you want to brew it the right way, then respect the way the beer was always brewed.” Talking further with him, it is clear he would like a saison appellation, in similar vein to the one that governs Kölsch. However, there’s just one problem. “There’s no description of the saison style,” he says.

Taking a glance around the world of saison seems to confirm his view. Some, like Dupont, eschew spices, others don’t. On a visit to Dany Prignon’s brewery at Fantôme, I was presented with his saison, dark orange and hazy, bittersweet, with hints of orange peel and star anise. “Is there coriander in it?” I asked. “I don’t remember,” said Prignon disarmingly. Some are sweet (Saison de Silly seems to have swapped the deep tones of a Burgundian earthiness I noted in 2005 for high, shrill sweet notes in its current incarnation) and others are bone dry.

A Summer Beer with Seasonal Roots

At Brasserie de Cazeau I discover another interpretation, this time with elderflowers. The village of Cazeau is north of Tournai, and close to the French border. Just like Dupont, the brewery is situated in the midst of a rural heartland, on an eighteenth-century farm complete with arched gateway. Fields of maize, wheat and potatoes (and elderflowers) surround the brewery/farm, and there are long-term plans to grow hops and barley. Until the late 1960s it was the home of a brewery run by the father of founder Laurent Agache.

ﾒMy father said I was crazy when I restarted brewing,” says Agache, “but now he is very glad I did.” His regular beers are Tournay Blonde and Noire, but for three weeks of the year, between May and June, he produces the 5 percent Saison Cazeau, a sprightly brew with real elderflower character. “The flowers are cut on the morning of a brewing day,” he says, “and then put in at the end of the boil. We use two hops which work well together with the elderflower.” I ask him why he calls it a saison. “Because it is brewed for summer,” he replies. “It is different from other saisons because it is only done seasonally, which in my opinion is what a saison should be. It would be better if saison went back to its traditional seasonal roots.”

Given the global nature of craft brewing, it is no surprise that saison is no longer confined to Wallonia. Take the vibrant and experimental craft-brewing sector in Italy. A visitor to the Piedmontese village of Piozzo, where Teo Musso weaves his magic at Le Baladin, will encounter Wayan, his light and subtle take on the style. This has 19 different ingredients, including various spices, and Musso tells me, “I make a different one every two years and contaminate the beer with lacto-bacteria and then bottle and secondary ferment.”

Further north, on the Swiss border, the restlessly experimental Beppe Vento makes Saison du Bi-Du: lemon grass, juniper berries and coriander seeds go into the boil. In Switzerland itself, Brasserie Trois Dames brew several saisons on a theme, including one that is dry-hopped and another with raspberries.

What is a Real Saison?

The saisons of American craft brewers naturally follow their own path: Victory’s 2008 V-Saison was reminiscent of a dessert wine kept in line by hops, while Boulevard Brewing’s Saison-Brett lets Brettanomyces strut its funky stuff. Such developments suggest that saison is a moveable feast, a beer style without boundaries. “That’s the 10 million dollar question: what is a ‘real’ saison?” asks Phil Markowski, author and Southampton Publick House’s brewmaster.

His Saison Deluxe is a close cousin of Dupont (pineapple and pepper on nose, flinty, creamy, honeyed and dry on palate, Long Island meets Hainault). “You could argue it is a special brew, perhaps brewed on a farm, made for a particular season, perhaps with ingredients that echo a particular time of year. They are hard to define and that is essentially the point. Saison is loose, full of individual expression, the ‘anti-style’ beer style.”

Or as Bob Sylvester at Saint Somewhere considers saison more of a brewing philosophy or process than a style. He explains “Saison Dupont has come to be the standard-bearer for saisons and while I enjoy it, I am really drawn to the more rustic and spiced versions from Pipaix [Vapeur], Fantôme and the like. These breweries were the inspiration for our Saison Athene. Is it authentic? I’d like to think so, although we get a lot of criticism here in the US for the use of chamomile, rosemary and black pepper.” He insists that the amount of spices added to the kettle is minimal and complement the esters being produced by the yeast.

“To truly grasp the spirit of Belgian brewing is to stretch the boundaries, break them even, he continues. “Most Belgian brewers scoff at brewing ‘to style.’ If everyone brewed to style there would be only one beer: bland!”

Boulevard’s Steven Pauwels broadly agrees with this philosophical approach. “We started brewing Saison-Brett out of respect for a ‘lost’ beer. Having said that, I agree that the term saison is used very loosely both in the US and in Belgium. Line up the Belgian saisons and you get a wide range of beers—sweet caramel forward, low in alcohol, to dry, spicy, fairly high-in-alcohol beers. My idea of a saison is a dry, earthy, thirst-quenching beer that you can enjoy on a hot day. Just like the traditional beer would, or could, have been.”

The Minority Brew

All this activity on the saison-brewing front is heartening, given that in the mid-1990s Michael Jackson thought that saisons might become extinct. However, the beer is still very much a minority brew in its home country. Dupont’s bestseller is its blonde ‘super saison’ Moinette, though Saison Dupont sells well in the United States, as does Brasserie Blaugies’ Saison d’Epeautre which is brewed with the spelt.

This hasn’t kept newer breweries from brewing their own adaptations. Jandrain-Jandrenouille’s IV Saison goes U.S. craft with Cascade hops, while Saison de la Senne blends a low-alcohol saison with lambic, a process that Pauwels points out would have been very traditional on farms. “I don’t think that there is any authenticity in brewing a saison with Brett as we do, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some had a tart or sour finish given that they were brewed on a farm with a high probability of Brettanomyces being present.” There are even Flemish interpretations: for instance, Glazen Toren’s magnificent Saison d’Erpe Mere.

Twenty-five years after it was first brought to the attention of the wider beer-drinking world, saison, whether Wallonian, Flemish, Piedmontese or American, remains an elusive beast. It has its perimeters, seemingly wide and forever shifting, something which allows brewers to make their own mark. However, the most heartening thing about it is that nearly 15 years after Jackson’s gloomy thoughts on its future it is very much alive. As Dedeycker remarks when I ask him about the prospects for saison’s future, “I believe that within two years the public will be interested in it again. Saison is typical for this part of Belgium and people are becoming more aware of it as more brewers join in.”

Saison: a beer for our times?

Saisons exhibited a utilitarian duality: lean enough to slake a heavy thirst, yet robust enough to fend off spoilage and revitalize the weary. Highly individualistic, saison is the quintessential artisanal brew, with loose interpretations relative to other styles. Today’s versions are more robust than the ancestors, but pay proud homage to their rustic roots. Ten years ago saison might have been considered a rare lineage of brews, but that is no longer the case. Saison production is on the upswing, from its homeland of Wallonia, Belgium, to the ever-rambunctious microbreweries of North America: a welcome and exhilarating trend for sure.

Farmer’s Market

Saison is a remnant of centuries-past, rural Belgian farmhouse ales common to French-speaking Wallonia, especially in the west, and parts of Flanders. There, softly-contoured flatlands and fields of rich, dark soil buoyed prosperous agrarian communities where wheat, oats, buckwheat, spelt and barley were cultivated and included in indigenous brews. Malting was often done on site, but raw grains were also commonly used.

Each farm or cooperative made their own distinctive brew. Often farmers shared equipment and brewhouses, and pooled resources, ideas and skill to make communal concoctions. Imagine the personalized touch. Competent brewing ensured that a bumper batch of beer could be made if one crop or another was not up to snuff, lending even more variability to the native brews.

Centuries ago, beers were spiced with locally grown or culled herbs and botanicals, referred to collectively as gruit. Naturally, this would have varied regionally or locally, based on availability or preference. A thousand years ago, hops began replacing gruit in much of continental Europe, and almost entirely by the sixteenth century. Belgian brewers, though, often used hops alongside their herbal mixtures.

As trade increased, exotic spices partially replaced locally procured botanicals. Brewers employed hops as an essential ingredient for its pleasant balancing flavor and, as importantly, antiseptic qualities. This was, after all, a beer for keeping, and liberal use of hops quashed microbial invaders and infused that bitter, resinous background. One of the earliest significant hop growing regions in Europe straddled modern day France and Belgium (Poperinge and Ypres), essentially overlapping the seminal origins of French and Belgian farmhouse ales, including the sibling of saison, French bière de garde.

Every brewing region in the world made provisional beers during the centuries before refrigeration. Brewers essentially followed the blueprint of brewing in the cooler months to temper undesirable fermentation byproducts and keep bugs at bay. It was undertaken for a variety of reasons: to sequester nutrients and calories; make potentially lethal water potable; drive the modest, agrarian lifestyle and economy and offer a daily diversion. It was provisionally vital to the working class: in rural Belgium, this meant the villagers, farmers and seasonal farmhands (saisonniers).

The backbreaking labor dictated that special consideration be given to the beer offered to saisonniers. Like their English counterparts, Belgian farmhouse brewers made brews of differing strengths (the weakest were used as table beers), but the strongest farmhouse ales rarely exceeded 5 percent ABV. Often consumed throughout the day, casks were kept cool in streams or by nestling them in shaded soil. Tipsy, dehydrated farm hands would be counterproductive to efficient harvesting, and effectively reduce the work force. Toeing the line on nourishment, refreshment, and thirst-quenching was ingeniously necessary. The strongest of the bunch were robust enough to keep for months, or until they were needed for harvest. A lactic character upon aging would have augmented their refreshing nature.

As brewing moved off the farms and into commercial hands, farmhouse ale producers made use of the tiny country buildings as breweries. They were still produced with painstaking local sensibilities and flavor, and individualistic whim was highly valued. Year-round brewing (thanks to refrigeration) and bottling became more common. Perhaps the availability of Champagne bottles helped shape the shape the effervescence of saison. They were no longer brewed exclusively for farm hands and everyday family consumption, but as regional “specialties” as well. Often an existing, traditional recipe was retained, but the gravity was increased up to as much as 8 percent. Dosage with local beet sugar or exotic cane “Havana” sugar offered a lively and complex brew.

Farmhouse brews met the same fate that other regional specialties did in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Macro-brewing, imports and the infatuation with pale lagers shoved smaller operations aside, if only by making indigenous products seem unglamorous (imagine that!). The two World Wars cut even more into the quaint brew houses. Nonetheless, a smattering survived until after the war and Belgian saison made an unhurried comeback. Modern technology allowed single proprietary yeast, or blends thereof, and a consistent product, but brewers kept all of the charm and character of traditional farmhouse ales. That fragile hold on market share remained for 50 years, until the most recent renaissance.

A Brew For All Seasons

Though precisely defining saisons is problematic, they are, in essence, a perfect definition of Belgian brewing philosophy, and an epiphany to many. Restraint is a relative notion, but they are tethered tenaciously enough to their collective pastoral past to share some stylistic similarities. This family of beers is less like a “style,” and more like kindred souls. They share that uniquely Belgian spirit of unashamedly borrowing from others to craft their masterpiece. Malts from Germany, Belgium and France, and hops from virtually every producer in Europe can find their way into the recipe, as can personalized spice blends. Pilsner-style malts dominate the grain bill, but Vienna, Munich and aromatic varieties can add some juicier malt character and color. They are usually all-malt, but odd examples feature a less common brewing grain or candi sugar.

Saisons can be gold to copper, but the unique orange-tinted versions are considered classics. A billowing, rocky head speckled with yeast and a slight haziness is conventional, being unfiltered and bottle conditioning in corked 750 ml bottles. Hops are chosen for their earthy, spicy and floral qualities, and various combinations of East Kent and Styrian Goldings, Czech Saaz and German noble varieties do rather nicely. While not considered an overly hoppy brew, saison should present a firm hop backdrop with a lending noticeably to the aromatic milieu. Proprietary yeasts may share an ancestor in some cases, but in any event, they are robust, aggressive and prominent in the sensory tapestry with woodsy, zesty, fruity and phenolic contributions. Musty notes may in fact come from secondary Brettanomyces fermentation.

Saison takes a back seat to no other brew when it comes to overall complexity. The nose is rife with spice and fruit, the former an artifact of the yeast or actual spice additions, or both, and the latter a definite product of yeast and the modern practice of fermenting quickly at warm temperatures. Spice additions may include peppercorns, coriander, ginger, anise and bitter orange, but are not limited to those. Given the nature of the yeast, it is often hard to tell which have been spiced. Faint clove, vanilla and banana may also be present, reminiscent of German weissebier. Often a mild citrus, lactic, or acetic tartness accompanies the aromas.

The hop nose, as described above, is yet another brushstroke. The flavor of saison is always eventful, and fairly mimics the aroma, though it is yet another opportunity to contemplate the handiwork. Highly-attenuated, the mouthfeel should be on the lighter side with some residual fullness and sweetness. The finish is crisp and quenching. Bracing, but not overwhelming hop bitterness ties things together and heightens the finish. A component in the finish that is hard to describe is an impression of damp, rich organic earth, that bit of terroir often found in bottle-conditioned Belgian beers and a fitting, symbolic exclamation point in saison. In short, modern saison is everything its forbears were, simply more hearty. Most will have the designation of saison or farmhouse ale on the label, and many of the best are relatively new. They are exquisite with a diverse array of food.

The popularity of saison is nothing short of remarkable, given its lot just a few years ago. It is yet more evidence that these historical styles are being recognized for what they are, natural and flavorful products that offer a sum much greater than the parts. The bustle surrounding them reaches far, and their versatility and enjoyment knows no season.

Most beer drinkers fall into two broad categories: hop heads or malt mavens. We have all been taught from our earliest brewpub visit, order an IPA if you crave hop bitterness or go for a doppelbock if you want some sweet malt. There is now a growing subculture of beer fans that want to pucker up: call them the sour patch kids.

Oud bruin, Flanders red ale, lambic, gueuze, gose, saison and Berliner weisse are styles that have been around for centuries so how can these be considered “new?” How can something that emerged during the seventeenth century be your Next Beer? Start counting the barrels. The corners of some breweries are starting to look more like Napa wineries or Kentucky rackhouses.

“We’ve been looking for something that people tired of getting slammed with hops might enjoy,” says Ron Gansberg, the talented brewer at Cascade Brewing in Oregon, pointing out that his sour beers are a unique northwest style and don’t try to mimic Belgian sours. “The thing about these beers is they provide an intense sensory experience that is something other than hops.”

That “sensory experience” emerges in the form of an acidic sourness that comes from a spontaneous source of fermentation that in most beers would be considered a major defect. Under normal circumstances the presence of Lactobacillus, Brettanomyces or Pediococcus in a brewhouse is a cause for concern. But for makers of oud bruin and Flanders red ale these organisms are welcome guests.

Keith Schlabs, food and beverage director for the 13-location Flying Saucer Draught Emporium chain, says his locations are selling more of these beers as they become available from importers and craft brewers. Most of the time it is in the bottle, since these beers still don’t sell consistently well enough to move kegs at the peak of freshness.

“Sour ales require a hand selling process, because there is a bit of ‘shock factor’ to the flavor. It is difficult for some people to get their arms around the taste of these beers. Until recently only serious beer connoisseurs really sought them out,” says Schlabs. “There is a time and a place for these beers, and there are some pretty good ones on the market. We see people sharing bottles quite often.”

Real Old Ale

We can only surmise what beer must have tasted like before the use of bittering, antiseptic hops. Quickly-fermenting brews that allowed minimal time for nefarious organisms to overwhelm the batch were no doubt common. The marriage of hops and beer in continental Europe a thousand years ago and in England by the sixteenth century was an enlightenment: hopped ales were protected against microbial corruption, and could be kept for long periods of time without compromise.

Within decades of this epiphany, English brewers were making ales of several strengths. Able to withstand prolonged storage, strong ale developed complex characteristics from assorted organisms inhabiting the aging barrels. Aging itself lent some oxidative and vinous qualities to the beer, and residual brewing yeast added another dimension by metabolizing any leftover sugars. Most importantly though, cask-resident Brettanomyces yeast contributed mightily to the desired character with the musty, leathery and barnyard notes synonymous with kept ales, those that had seen a minimum of a year in the cask. Additionally, they were mashed to be under-attenuated and sweeter, perhaps to offer more substrate for the Brett and the acidifying bacteria, Lactobacillus.

They were variously known as old, stock, strong, or stale ale, with stale being interpreted as “stood” and not something undesirable. One key to keeping stock ale was serving it while it still had that delicious depth of mature character, but before it became excessively sour or acidic. Brewing operations were often suspended from late spring through early autumn to shield the fermenting beer from the ubiquitous airborne contaminants during the warm months and to eliminate any possibility of unpleasant byproducts of high temperature fermentation.

Any ale brewed at the end of the spring season could be consumed fresh, or it could be blended with stock ale to roughen the profile and give it that aged impression. Stock ale that was leftover when the brewing season resumed in fall was consumed as “old ale,” completing the cycle. The practice of blending was common practice during the rise of British brewing in the first half of the eighteenth century, and vital in the saga of porter.

New Old Ale

Due in large part to the advancements made in malt production and a keener understanding of brewing science and recipe formulation, blending became less common in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century. “Old ale” came into use more, as stock and stale were no longer needed to describe their condition.

Many strong ales lived on, and newly developed styles such as Imperial stout and Baltic porter were brewed specifically for export. Barley wine, old ale, Yorkshire stingo and Burton ale carried on this tradition on the home front, and all were designed with aging in mind. All of these brews were quite similar, but old ale may be a direct descendent of the darker Burton ale, while barley wine emerged in recent times as slightly stronger and lighter in color, with more attenuation.

Burton ale is of particular interest as an intermediate style in the evolution of modern old ale. Burton-upon-Trent had a rich brewing heritage for hundreds of years before their IPA gained acclaim in the 1700s. During the heyday, both IPA and outstanding strong, sweeter ales were brewed. They contained a small amount of “high-dried” or roasted barley, and were dry hopped prior to aging. The style endured simply as Burton Ale, even into the twentieth century. Sometimes they were called old ale, and blended with mild.

More evidence of their popularity lies in the fact that they were the preferred Baltic export from Burton, and that many brewers across England made them, keeping “Burton” attached to identify the character. Burton ales were widely popular through the nineteenth century, at time when beer styles began to distinguish themselves, and even as pale lager gained a strong foothold throughout Europe.

The first half of the twentieth century saw something of a downturn in the popularity of strong ales, primarily due to wartime taxation and scarcity of raw materials. But the tags old ale, barley wine and Burton ale could be found on many labels, even though collectively they would remain rather similar beers. A surge in popularity occurred again after World War II for a few years as some degree of prosperity and nostalgia returned, but it waned again until the 1970s and 80s, when the current revolution gained momentum. Since then, old ale and barley wine have separated themselves for the most part from historical strong ale, and are now again a significant feature on the beer landscape.

Recreated Old

As mentioned earlier, old ales cover a rather broad set of descriptors, sometimes overlapping with barley wines in character, and at others, sliding down to more modest proportions as seasonal winter warmers. This allows for unique stylistic interpretations among brewers.

The classics are deep amber to mahogany in color. They range from 5.6 to 9 percent in general, but exceed that on either end. The grist is in great measure premium English pale ale malt, mashed to increase residuals and decrease fermentability. Character malts include various shades of caramel, perhaps some chocolate or black, and occasionally some adjunct grain or brewing sugar. Often kettle time is dramatically increased to add intense caramelization and deeper, red-tinted color. This tried and true combination of composition and method imparts notes of treacle, molasses, and raisin or prune, with hints of nuts, chocolate or roast, all over a malty and dextrinous background.

Estery yeast is best employed to supply fruity notes that play well with aging. Classic English East Kent Goldings and Fuggles hops are most likely used, at reserved levels.

Though today’s old ales may lack the Brettanomyces and lactic acid character that defined them in bygone cask-matured versions, aging in itself does impart a vinous quality to those meant to keep. Barrels have largely been replaced by bottle-conditioning. Old Peculier, Fullers 1845, Harviestoun Old Engine Oil, and Sarah Hughes Dark Ruby Mild all can acquire the sherrylike, oxidative profile if cellared, and all are manageable in strength at 5.6 to 6.3 percent ABV. They are, without a doubt, firmly in the old ale style.

More formidable are Gale’s Prize Old Ale, Fuller’s Vintage Ale, Frederic Robinson’s Old Tom, J. W. Lee’s Moonraker, and Kuhnhenn Fourth Dementia. All have intense winey notes, can be kept for multiple years, and require a seasoned palate to fully grasp.

Those that straddle the old ale/barley wine fence have a subdued hop character relative to most barely wines and are worth including in the discussion. They are most suited for prolonged cellaring and contemplative vertical tasting comparison, and include Eldridge Pope Thomas Hardy’s Ale (11.9%), J. W. Lees Vintage Harvest Ale (11.5%), North Coast Brewing Old Stock Ale (12.5%), and Bell’s Third Coast Old Ale (10.2%). Years of aging only make these better. They are surprisingly simplistic in their makeup, generally using only pale malt and protracted boiling times to achieve powerfully concentrated flavors and ruby highlights in the color. Reminiscent of port wine and sherry, they also take on the auxiliary whispers of multi-organism maturation, with a tart and earthy edge. All examples exhibit an engagement of familiar ale and novel age character that untangle seamlessly. Harvest and Hardy’s ales could easily be put squarely in the English barley wine camp.

Seasonal winter warmers, like Sam Smith’s Winter Welcome, St. Peter’s Winter Ale and Young’s Winter Warmer are best enjoyed within several months of release. They are malty and have a fresher hop nose than more burly old ales. American breweries also tender winter seasonals in this vein.

The future for old ales and their ilk looks promising as vintaging and barreling is taking on a new level of appreciation, and brewers are looking eagerly to fill these niches. Even some of those listed above are either relatively new or recently revived to accommodate the emerging market. Take comfort in an old ale.