So what about water?

Though less acknowledged today, since brewers can effectively alter it to suit their needs (more on that later), water is, in fact, primarily responsible for the development of the pantheon of classic beers. “It is really interesting to look at the variety of styles that popped up in different parts of the world and became popular and good because of the water they had available to them,” notes Harpoon Brewing’s vice president chief brewing officer, Al Marzi. “The ingredients were all the same, except for the water, and you’ve got completely different beers being made.”

The basic recipe has always been water, malt, hops and yeast. So, why did the darker beers develop in Munich and Dublin, the hoppy pale ales in Burton, England, the pilsners in Plzen? As Olympia Brewing Co. founder Leopold Schmidt, so astutely proclaimed at the turn of the 19th century, it’s the water.

The True Connection Between Hard Rock and Beer

Water is the medium in which all the magic in the brewing process happens. And as innocuous as it seems—it’s clear and, for the most part, tasteless—it’s not all the same. You may have actually noticed when traveling that the water in, say, Portland, OR, may smell (or even taste) a little different from the H2O that comes out of your own tap at home. You may even have to use more soap or shampoo to get a good lather depending on what the water is like. This is what’s referred to as water hardness. And this, specifically, is what’s responsible for the development of different beer styles.

The chemistry of turning malted grains, yeast, hops and water into a delicious, refreshing alcoholic beverage, is relatively straight forward: grains are transformed into starches that, with the help of water and heat, the yeast can consume and turn into alcohol. But a little something called “water hardness” complicates things. “Hardness is mainly due either to lots of calcium and magnesium in the water, so-called ‘permanent’ hardness, as it’s relatively difficult to get rid of,” explains Professor Alex Maltman of the Institute of Geography and Earth Sciences at Aberystwyth University in Wales, “or bicarbonate in the water, ‘temporary’ hardness, which can be precipitated out by boiling.

“There’s a whole range of taste effects [in brewing] that arise from the presence of these substances, such as calcium promoting the bittering contribution of hops, and magnesium enhancing beer flavor, like salt in food. But the main effect—certainly of bicarbonate—is to affect the pH, or acidity, of the liquid during brewing.”

Yeast, who, let’s face it, do all the heavy lifting in the brewing process, are particular about the environment they work in. So, if the pH is comfortable for them, they can do their job well. Now, before this chemistry was known to brewers, they simply had to adjust their ingredients to suit the water. Bicarbonate-rich water—such as that in Munich and Dublin—creates a high pH (too alkaline for the yeast to do their thing properly). But roast some of the grains nice and dark, and it lowers the pH in the mash; the yeast are happy and they make a tasty dark brew, such as a German dunkel or Irish stout.

We can thank the varied geology of this great blue marble we inhabit for the variety of beers we drink today, because the different dissolved minerals in water—depending on the source—have had a profound effect on the development of brewing beer. “Burton-on–Trent in England has very mineral-rich water, including calcium and magnesium,” says Professor Maltman, “so it produces a strong tasting beer. It is also rich in sulfate, which adds a characteristic flavor and improves stability. This why the style known as English pale ale originated there, and the stability enabled it to travel far in those colonial days, even as far as India, if brewed strongly—hence India pale ale.” A relative lack of dissolved minerals, or “soft” water, such as that in Plzen in the Czech Republic, was key in the development of pilsner.

So, yeah, it’s the water. But, really, it’s what’s in the water. That is to say, those dissolved minerals—calcium, magnesium, sulfates and bicarbonates—are really what affect the pH, taste and stability. Which begs the question, how did they get there and why do some places have more or less? The answer lies in the earth itself. “The chemistry of water is greatly influenced by the geology of the aquifer in which it has resided,” explains Professor Maltman. “As one example, the bedrock below Burton, England, consists of sedimentary strata formed around 250 million years ago—a time when what is now England was closer to the equator and in desert conditions. Saline lakes evaporated to leave the sediments—what is now bedrock—rich in minerals such as gypsum, also known as calcium sulfate, and Epsom salts, also known as magnesium sulfate. Just as they were originally dissolved in the ancient lakes, these minerals now readily dissolve into the local groundwater, which is why Burton brewing water is like it is.”

So one may safely draw the conclusion that since the geology of North America is equally varied, the water is too. True enough, and though it hasn’t exactly given rise to specific beer styles, the water available to brewers here has had a profound effect on them—from San Diego’s challengingly hard water to the surprisingly perfect-for-brewing Brooklyn water. The difference today is that with the advanced understanding of what’s in our H2O—most municipal water suppliers can provide brewers with an analysis of the water makeup—we no longer have to brew beers that suit the particular local hardness. Or as Al Marzi at Harpoon so cleverly puts it, “The brewer’s art can be expanded to create any type of water he’d like to have for a particular style.”

As the name implies, IPA was brewed for Britain’s colonial trade, first for India and then for other parts of the empire. It was exported to the United States and then brewed there with gusto. The style may have spawned the lager revolution in central Europe, but it was a Faustian pact, and by the end of the 19th century, German lager brewers had driven IPA from most of the colonies.

In its second incarnation, IPA became a favorite of the craft brewing revolution in both Britain and the U.S., with dozens, possibly hundreds, of new interpretations of the style.

IPA is thought of, quintessentially, as the beer of Burton-on-Trent in the English Midlands. In fact, “India Ale” was first brewed in the late 18th century in London. Everything about that simple statement is astonishing. The beer was said to be much paler in color than the pervading styles of mild, porter and stout, yet pale beers were rare for the simple reason that most grain was kilned or gently roasted over wood fires that created brown malt and brown beer.

And London’s water, heavy in calcium carbonate, was better suited to the production of dark beers than pale ones. Yet one brewer, George Hodgson at Abbot & Hodgson’s Bow Brewery in East London, managed to create a beer that not only captivated drinkers in India but turned the craft of brewing on its head.

Starting with the Malt

In fact, pale malt had existed since the 18th century and was one of the constituents of “entire,” the first version of porter. But pale malt was expensive to make. Coal, not wood, was used as the fuel in malt kilns and coal was heavily taxed. When burned, it gave off gases that could give malt an unpleasant odor. It was not until coke—coal without the gases—was developed during the industrial revolution of the late 18th and 19th centuries that pale malt was produced on a large commercial scale.

Hodgson, it must be assumed, had access to a modern, coke-fired malt kiln. He would undoubtedly have used large amounts of hops for bitterness and to keep his India ale free from infection. But the finished beer, as a result of London’s water, would have lacked the sharp, flinty edge of the Burton versions that came later. What is without doubt is that George Hodgson and his son Mark, who ran the company when his father retired, had a sharp eye for business.

Their brewery stood close to the East India Docks on the River Thames. The Hodgsons learned from contacts in the docks that sailing ships left London half-empty for India. Cargo rates were low for the outward voyage and this encouraged the brewers to export their India ale, as they heard that the British in India were unhappy with the dark beers sent them, which lacked the necessary refreshment needed in the torrid heat of the Indian sub-continent.

But Mark Hodgson, when he took over from his father, overplayed his hand. His brewery had created a virtual monopoly in India and he controlled prices. He often failed to pay his bills and upset his agents in India. He also made the supreme mistake of annoying the all-powerful East India Company that controlled most trade with the sub-continent.

As a result, in 1821 a director of the EIC named Marjoribanks told Samuel Allsopp, one of the leading brewers in Burton-on-Trent, that lucrative pickings were to be had in India. Marjoribanks told Allsopp that India offered a trade “that can never be lost: for the climate is too hot for brewing. We are now dependant upon Hodgson who has given offence to most of the merchants of India. But your Burton ale, so strong and sweet, will not suit our market.”

And the Burton brewers were desperate for new markets. Wars with Napoleon’s France had led to the loss of the Burton brewers’ lucrative Baltic trade. Allsopp, encouraged by his meeting with Marjoribanks, hurried back to Burton and handed his head brewer, Job Goodhead, a bottle of Hodgson’s India Ale. Goodhead tasted the beer and spit it out, affronted by its extreme bitterness. But he said he could replicate the beer and proceeded, in the finest English tradition, to make a trial brew in a teapot.

Allsopp soon had a consignment of beer ready for India. In a small town such as Burton, packed with breweries, news of the new beer spread as brewery workers mingled in taverns. Soon several of the other brewers, notably William Bass, Thomas Salt and William Worthington, had joined the India experiment. Within a decade, Allsopp and Bass accounted for more than half the beer shipped to Calcutta, twice as much as Hodgson. Throughout the 1830s, the two main Burton brewers sent some 6,000 barrels a year of pale ale to India. Hodgson went into decline and was bought out in 1885.

The last time this small but world-renowned brewing town troubled the UK news headlines was early 2006, when Burton Albion, a lowly, non-league soccer club, held Manchester United to a draw in England’s most celebrated cup competition. Burton lost the replay but not their pride, and for a few weeks they were everyone’s second favorite team. Burton brewer Marston’s managed to sneak beer into the story by creating a commemorative ale dubbed Fergie’s Fury, after the Manchester manager. But few who enjoyed that beer would have had any inkling that it was merely an echo of arguably the world’s greatest ever brewing tradition.

When you visit a place whose name has passed into legend, you anticipate the feeling of walking on hallowed ground. The reality is seldom how you imagined. Twenty-first century Burton-on-Trent is an unassuming market town in the English Midlands, with the same chain names of high street shops and pubs as any other. In the main, the pubs and bars sell the same lagers as anywhere else. Of course, Burton’s biggest brewer is well-represented: you see Coors wherever you go.

Like many towns, Burton’s bookshops all have local history sections. A browse here might yield a book about local pubs, but there’s nothing dealing specifically with Burton’s heritage as one of a handful of towns that invented beer as we know it. Back in London, the British Library has a file copy of every book published in the UK. The catalogue search engine responds to words like “Burton,” “beer” and “history” with a page full of titles—the most recent of which was published in 1882.

It was a bloody hook. No joke.

This happened to the brother-in-law of a friend of mine. Really.

And then there are the eight-foot-long, blind, albino alligators that roam New York’s sewers, flushed down the toilet as babies when they became unruly pets. It’s true. My barber’s first cousin twice removed has seen them, I swear. The dark of the sewers may have cost the gators their sight, but they still have jaws that can cut a man in half, or swallow a baby whole.

We know someone who’s personally seen the scientific proof that the gators exist. (Unfortunately, we can’t put our hands on that evidence right at the moment…)

There are urban legends, such as the classic tales involving “the hook” and the sewer gators of Gotham. Then there are the urban legends of beer, brewing stories that always seem to teeter between mild plausibility and complete absurdity. Like other urban legends, someone is always prepared to swear that they got these beer legends on good authority, from a dental hygienist whose uncle once worked next door to a brewery. Honest.

But, no matter how often they are repeated, most of these beer myths just don’t stand up to extensive scrutiny. Let’s take a look at some of the most prevalent:

Beer Legend #1: Wine goes better with food than beer.

Truth: Wine is a fine and venerable beverage. But the two countries that have shaped our ideas of what constitutes fine food—France and Italy—also happen to be cultures that make and drink wine. That doesn’t mean that these are the only cuisines to emulate, nor does it mean that wine is the only beverage to pair with serious food. In fact, for most dishes, there are beer matches that are every bit as compatible as any wine. And for some foods—spicy or sweet in particular—beer steps up where wine falls flat.

Want proof? Champagne and caviar may be a classic pair, but a crisp, authentic pilsner fares better with the famed fish eggs. Researchers have concluded that cheese deadens the palate to the wine that accompanies it; but beer with cheese—the stinkier the better—is a combination that is more than the sum of its parts. And over-the-top chocolate desserts seem to have been invented with stout in mind.

Yet right behind IPA is another style, once highly celebrated and so synonymous with Burton that it actually took the name of the town for its own. This was the strong, sweet, and long-lived Burton ale.

The origin of strong English ales goes back well before the introduction of hopped beers in the early 16th century, But when we first hear of strong ales from the North being sold in London, it is 1639 at a public house called Peacock in Gray’s Inn Lane. Almost 200 years later, the same place was still selling Burton ale.

As an important item of commerce, things really picked up for Burton ale in 198 when a public works project gave the town an outlet to the sea at Hull. By 1746 Benjamin Wilson’s brewery—later to become Allsopp—was doing a booming trade in the Baltic, to Russia and elsewhere. As a later observer noted, Peter the Great and his Empress Catharine loved Burton ale, “which in those days was highly coloured and sweet and of very great strength and especially suited to the Russian palate.”

The dark color in those days was likely due to the use of a portion (possibly a large portion) of amber malt, a moderately kilned malt that is often prominent in English beer recipes before 1825 or so. It is known today as either amber or more commonly, biscuit. An 1890 analysis of a then 90 year-old Worthington Burton ale showed an original gravity of 1.1095 (25.8°P) with a terminal gravity of 1.028 (7.5°P). Many were stronger than that, as high as 1140 according to a contemporary book called the Young Brewer’s Monitor.

In 1822 the Russian export business comes to a crashing end as the Russians suddenly slap a punitive tariff on imported beer. Allsopp has no choice but to try to sell the beer in its own country, and after some initial skepticism, the beer finds a following. The next year, he retools the recipe for English tastes, adding more hops and brewing it in a less sweet style, but still very strong.

In the meantime, India pale Ale had developed as the hoppier little brother of Burton ale, and has found a strong market on the homeland. It is useful to compare the two. George Amsinck, a London brewing consultant, gives a number of detailed recipes in 1851. By then, both beers are being brewed exclusively with pale malt, the expensive but low-yielding amber being largely obsolete. The gravities for Burton fall in the 1.072 to 1.086 range, with one example way up at 1122. Hopping is between 0.57 and 0.68 ounces per pound of malt (noted in lbs per quarter), with 20 percent of that destined for dry hopping in the cask. The IPA gravities fall between 1.052 and 1.067, similar to today’s examples, but the hops come in at a whopping 1.06 to 1.4 ounces per pound of malt. Working out the recipes, this puts bitterness in the range of 50 to 80 IBU for the Burton ales, and a calculated IBU of 130 to 150 for the IPAs. It is useful to note that 100 IBU is about the maximum amount of bitterness than can be dissolved in wort. Notations from later in the century (Wagner, 1877) drop these stupendous quantities down by about half. It’s plain that Burton ale is a reasonably hoppy beer even at half the bitterness of IPA.