Germanic wheat beers were once widespread and survive today. But the greatest influence from the mid-19th century came not from an invader but from neighboring Bohemia, now the modern Czech Republic. The brewing revolution that started in Pilsen and produced the first golden lager beer was soon manifest in Poland. Breweries that had been built on hills in the mountainous Tatra region were found to be ideal for digging deep, cold cellars in which the new-style pilsner beer could be stored or lagered for several months.

But Poland also had a Monty Python moment. At the same time as pilsner beer was changing the methods of brewing, something completely different was making an appearance in the Baltic states. The British were no slouches where empire was concerned, but their only involvement in the east was to export substantial quantities of a potent black beer called Baltic porter. It is a wonderful irony of brewing history that, just as golden lager began to transform brewing practice in central and eastern Europe, a beer that broke all the new rules by using warm fermentation and dark, roasted malts also put down deep roots in those countries.

A Brewing Aristocrat

For centuries, brewing in Poland had been a small-scale operation run either by farmers or town councils and strictly controlled by the church or local dukes. In the 19th century, a definable commercial brewing industry began to develop due in the main to the enormous power of the ruling Habsburg dynasty that ran the Austro-Hungarian empire.

One of the key participants in the new brewing industry of that period was Archduke Albrecht Friedrich von Habsburg. He inherited vast swathes of land in Galicia and Silesia and was encouraged by his father to go into brewing on the grounds that “if you own land and make beer, my son, you can’t go wrong.” The archduke’s first brewery was built in 1846 high above the small town of Cieszyn in the Silesia region, a stone’s throw from the Czech border. It was a fortuitous choice. for Cieszyn had a steelworks and there were many thirsty throats to refresh.

In the manner of aristocrats in the German-speaking countries of Bavaria and Austria, the archduke at first made wheat beer at Cieszyn, but he switched to cold fermentation when pilsen burst on the brewing scene in the 1840s. As a result of the brewery’s dominant position above the town, it was a comparatively simple matter to dig deep lager cellars for cold-fermented beer.

The archduke’s brewery prospered and within five years he summoned the best engineers and water experts to join him for an expedition into the forests of the Zywiec [zhiv-y-etz] region of Galicia to find a spring that could supply pure water for a bigger brewery than Cieszyn. A suitable site was found and a local priest blessed the plot. Within weeks, the plant was under construction and in 1856 the new Archducal Brewery of Zywiec was registered with the Austrian authorities. It used all the new technologies of the industrial age, with lager beer stored for between three and eight months in deep cellars cooled by rooms above that were packed with ice cut from rivers and lakes in winter.

Behind every brewery is an interesting story and there’s always someone willing to tell it. So the next time you’re on the road, consider adding brewery tours to your “to do” list when you visit a city.

One of our most memorable brewery tours was at the Young’s Ram Brewery in London. At the time of our visit, it was the oldest brewery in England that continually brewed at the same site. Sadly, Young’s has since closed its doors, although its beer is still being brewed elsewhere by contract. One of the most striking things about Young’s was how the brewery was tucked in among houses and stores. It was a working part of the neighborhood.

Before embarking on our tour, the guide issued everyone a white lab coat and hat. Cleanliness? Safety? Maryanne reasoned that we were just harder to lose sight of that way. But hey, we’re cynical.

Part of the tour was a museum filled with old brewing vessels. One was used from 1869 until 1983, and from 1885 until 1997. They were powered by steam, with the water heated by coal. The false bottom from the mash tun had been preserved in the floor. The museum was destroyed by German bombs during World War II, but was restored afterward. Fermentation vessels dating back to 1882 were still in use, too—a living history lesson.

On one side of the brewery were vintage delivery vehicles and stables. Those stables, in constant use since 1897, was one of the few working Victorian stables still in London. Every day, black Shire horses drew delivery wagons to pubs within a three-mile radius of the brewery.

After the tour, we spent our tour beer tokens in the on-site pub and talked with the locals who had stopped in for a late lunch of traditional pub grub. One of the staff told us an interesting fact: almost all of the Americans who took the tour were homebrewers.

Touring the Dutch Giant

Spontaneous isn’t exactly our middle name, but our visit to the Heineken Experience a few years back certainly was impromptu. When a canceled flight made a long layover in Amsterdam longer still, we had to take action. So we stowed our carry-on luggage in a locker and hopped the train into town.

The “Experience,” at the site of the old brewery, educates visitors about Heineken while entertaining them, and at the end, deposits them in what we call the “pro shop,” an area filled with souvenirs to take home. You can get a little beer along the way, of course. Visitors are cleverly encouraged to keep moving along the self-guided tour by the promise of beer samples at three tasting stations.

You enter by passing the lab of Doctor Elion, a student of Louis Pasteur, who in late 19th century developed the Heineken yeast strain. You can watch him labor over a microscope. The poor fellow looked miserable. No wonder: he didn’t even have a glass of beer handy.

The old brewhouse itself is beautiful. Copper brewing tanks stand out against the white tiled walls. The vessels were cut open and fitted with video monitors describing the brewing process. Outside the window, you could see the old Heineken family mansion across the canal; it’s now used as corporate headquarters. Look out the other side, and there are the stables of Shires that still walk the streets of Amsterdam every day pulling an old delivery wagon.

Several entertainment stations available enhance the experience, including a bottling line animation, a place to send video postcards, and even a movie theater where you’re made to feel like you’re in the driver’s seat of a horse-drawn delivery wagon as it makes the rounds.

Generations at Utica

Back over on our side of the big pond, Utica, NY, is the home of the Saranac Brewery and a complex where beer has been brewed since 1853. In 1888, F.X. Matt, who began his career at the famous Duke of Baden Brewery in the Black Forest of Germany before emigrating, took over an existing brewery and reorganized it as The West End Brewing Co. and later the Matt Brewing Co.

Nowadays, the third and fourth generations of Matts brew beer to their grandfather’s standards at one of America’s few remaining regional breweries. The company survived Prohibition by switching to a line of soft drinks, known for many years as Utica Club. (Later the name “Utica” was given to Matt’s most affordably priced beer.) Customers can still buy root beer, orange cream, and other Saranac soft drinks.

The current seven-story brewhouse, built after World War II, is home to two huge copper brew kettles that are original equipment. Visitors can also admire the Matt family’s antique collection, which includes a million-dollar grandfather clock and a desk that once belonged to P.T. Barnum. There’s a display of bottles used by the Matt brewery over the years, going back to clear glass bottles from the 19th century. Ever wonder what a Prohibition-era speakeasy was like? The Saranac folks will show you one.

The tour ends with a short motorized trolley ride to the 1888 Tavern. It’s decorated in Victorian fashion, complete with a player piano. After we enjoyed a couple of beers on the house, our guides ushered us back into the 21st century.

The Original Cult Beer

As college students, we had roommates whose friends and family shipped them cases of Coors to the Midwest. Or should we say smuggled them. Back in those days you couldn’t buy it east of the Mississippi. In fact, there were rumors that President Gerald Ford brought cases back to Washington on board Air Force One.

At any rate, we had to visit the Coors Brewery in Golden when we were in Colorado for the Great American Beer Festival. The brewery is, after all, the world’s largest on a single site. Along with that distinction comes quite a tour and public-relations operation. Visitors begin by parking in downtown Golden and taking a special shuttle bus to the plant.

The public lobby is filled with memorabilia, including posters of old labels and marketing campaigns that sold them, as well as several displays sure to bring a smile to any face. Our favorite display was dedicated to the movie “Smokey and the Bandit.” In it, a modern-day moonshiner played by Burt Reynolds is hired by a big shot politician to haul a truckload of Coors from Texarkana to Atlanta back in the days when it couldn’t be transported legally to Georgia.

On the tour, you get a good feel for the enormous size of the complex. Let’s just say it’s a tad larger than your average family-run business. The facility is so modern you almost forget that Coors started brewing here in 1873. With all the automation, we wondered if the staff could disappear for days without the plant skipping a beat—except maybe for the tours—or losing a drop of beer.

Will you come away with all the secrets of that “Mile High Taste”? Of course not, but you’ll find out why they use mountain water, how they cold-filter the beer, and everything you’ll ever want to know about transporting it. And of course, you get the chance to sample a few with your fellow beer travelers. That’s always the best part.

And now, as the Bandit would say, “Ten-four.”

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.

The acronym, NoFibs, stands for National Organization for Imported Beers and it demands more honesty and clarity about the origins of lagers.

The point was underscored by a survey of British drinkers which showed that many thought Stella Artois was brewed in France. Actually, it is of Belgian origin but is brewed in Britain. Similar confusion surrounded other major brands.

Drinkers, for example, thought both Kronenbourg (French) and Grolsch (Dutch) were German beers, while Beck’s (German) and Budweiser Budvar (Czech) were considered to be American. The truth is that Kronenbourg is owned by British brewer Scottish & Newcastle and is brewed in Britain as well as France, while the draft version of Grolsch is also a British product. Both Beck’s and Budvar are indeed genuine imports. Confused? You’re not alone.

Origin Matters

The most significant finding from the survey was that three out of every 10 drinkers did care where their lager beer was brewed. This is encouraging and must have mightily pleased the Czech Budweiser Budvar brewery, one of the instigators of NoFibs. Budvar makes much of the fact that its export lager is brewed only in Ceske Budejovice (Budweis in German) while its rival, American Budweiser, is produced–beechwood chips and all–in a London brewery.

One surprising signatory to NoFibs is the Dutch giant, Heineken. It brews more beer than the rest of the NoFibs members put together, but Heineken was keen to make a point about the authenticity of the beer it sells in Britain. For many decades, a laughably weak (3.6 percent ABV) version of the Dutch beer was brewed under license for the British market. In 2003, Heineken took the momentous decision to stop brewing in Britain and start importing the genuine and original 5 percent beer from the Netherlands.

Heineken is embroiled in an increasingly tough fight with Inbev, the owner of Stella Artois, for market dominance in both Europe and Russia. Stella is the biggest selling premium lager in Britain while sales of the weak, British-only version of Heineken were declining rapidly. The Dutch brewer has since put a lot of marketing money behind the genuine beer. Promotions include a series of TV commercials in which a bemused Londoner is taken to the Netherlands to watch real Heineken being brewed “in horizontal tanks.” (As I have written widely about the benefits of lagering beer traditionally in horizontal–rather than vertical–tanks, I’m considering demanding royalty payments from Heineken.)

The promotion has paid a rich dividend for the Dutch brewer. In September, it reported that British sales of its beer had jumped by 29 percent in the first half of the year. Cynics might say this is a victory only for 5 percent beer over 3.6 percent, but I prefer to draw the conclusion that a section of increasingly sophisticated and well-traveled drinkers appreciates authentic beers and can absorb complex technical data from TV commercials.

But the most important lesson from the impact of NoFibs and the success of real Dutch Heineken is that honesty remains the best policy.

Coors in Burton

I witnessed another victory for authenticity in September when I visited the Coors Brewery in Burton-on-Trent. The Colorado brewer bought the old Bass breweries in Burton when Bass decided to quit brewing in 2000 to concentrate on its Holiday Inn chain. Coors found that one of the brands it owns is the granddaddy of all India pale ales: Worthington’s White Shield, a bottled beer with natural yeast sediment.

Coors was expected to drop the beer but continues to brew it in a small pilot plant on the site. Sales are increasing, in particular, among young people. It’s sold in the United States by B United and is worth seeking out.

I was presented with a gold-painted bottle that marks the one-millionth-and-one beer produced since Coors acquired the brand. It has a place of pride among my tankards and special bottled beers.

James Watt’s steam engine and other inventions have already revolutionized the textile and ceramics industries. Industrialization has opened the door for ambitious young men like you to advance in the world without the traditional leverage of inherited wealth.

You have the skills and the opportunity to apply the mechanization that has transformed other businesses to a traditional craft. You open a brewery.

In time, powered machinery replaces the labor of men and horses. Beer can be made in larger batches. A French scientist called Pasteur unlocks the secrets to fermentation—and to consistent brewing results.

The new railroad that connects your town to other rapidly growing towns can bring raw materials to your brewery, and transport your beer to a wide area. Refrigeration extends your reach. For the first time, brewing—historically the province of the home, the monastery or the local tavern—becomes a commercial industry.

Your brewery produces more than enough beer to sell to local outlets, and you see how much more profitable it would be to own both the brewery and the outlets, themselves. By the time you retire, you are a man of property, with a large brewing facility, distribution networks, and a string of pubs and taverns. You may not have started life as a gentleman, but you probably are one now.

This story played out with variations across Europe and North America and beyond. English entrepreneurs benefited from that country’s leading role in the Industrial Revolution. Other European countries followed shortly. Many brewery “founders,” in fact, purchased going concerns, and built on established foundations. American brewers were often recent immigrants with a professional brewing background, and the evolution of their brewing companies reflected the state of modernization where they settled: the same was true in other parts of the then-developing world.

But, whether they were called Leinenkugel, Fuller, Heineken, Müller or Molson, they were members of the generation that created the modern brewing industry, and a legacy to be handed down to their sons.

But it’s become a major, and at times, heated debate in Europe, where such beers as Carlsberg, Grolsch, Heineken, Pilsner Urquell and Stella Artois are brewed at more than one site. The key issues are consumer confidence and producer honesty.

I have visited the Grolsch breweries in the Netherlands on several occasions, and I have a high regard for the company’s pilsner in the famous swing-top bottle. A draft version of the beer is brewed in Britain by Interbrew, the Belgian giant best known for Stella Artois. I consider the British-brewed Grolsch to be a vastly inferior beer, with an aroma and flavor that smack of brief lagering and a high level of adjuncts. Yet TV commercials show the bottled version while the voiceover—English, with a charming Dutch accent—stresses the care that goes into the brewing process and the long lagering time involved.

Are consumers being fooled into thinking they are getting a genuine Dutch beer when the draft version is made in a brewery in the English Midlands?

Simply Economics?

The debate came to a head in May when the Czech brewer Budweiser Budvar staged a forum in London on brewing at source. Budvar—marketed as Czechvar in the United States—makes much of the fact that the beer is brewed only in its place of origin in Budweis City in the Czech Republic. As one of the platform speakers, I supported Budvar’s position and pointed out that it makes a mockery of the name Pilsner Urquell, which means “original source of pilsner,” if that other classic Czech beer is now brewed in Poland and, reputedly, in Russia as well.

I was opposed by Mark McJennett, the marketing director of a large regional brewery, Shepherd Neame. As well as making delectably hoppy bitters, Shepherd Neame brews under license Holsten, Hürlimann, Kingfisher and Oranjeboom lagers that originate respectively in Germany, Switzerland, India and the Netherlands. McJennett’s argument was that it makes no sense to make a beer in India and transport it all the way to Britain, but his case weakens the closer you get to Britain, with Oranjeboom’s Breda brewery just a short sea journey to Britain.

His case was destroyed by—of all companies—Heineken. Rob Marijnen, managing director of Heineken UK, has just launched a new version of the Dutch lager in Britain. It’s 5.4 percent alcohol by volume and it replaces the weak, bland 3.4 percent beer the Brits have suffered for years, brewed under license by Whitbread. Marijnen said the new Heineken is brewed in the Netherlands, and it was more economical for him to bring it from Rotterdam to Hull and then transport it round Britain than to brew under license.

So now British drinkers are getting a genuine Dutch version of Heineken while a beer labeled Holsten Export is made not in Germany but in a brewery in the county of Kent in southeast England. As an old English expression has it, “You pays your money and you makes your choice.”

“Material Girl” Judge

The British media has worked itself up into a sweat over the news that pop icon Madonna likes real ale and her favorite tipple is Timothy Taylor’s Landlord Bitter. Madonna now lives in London and says her film producer husband Guy Ritchie introduced her to the delights of cask-conditioned beer in a Soho pub called the Dog and Duck.

Timothy Taylor in Yorkshire in the far north of England is naturally delighted. Managing director Charles Dent says he will change the message on his delivery trucks from the less-than-PC “Brewed for Men of the North” to “Brewed for Men of the North—and Now Enjoyed by Madonna.”

CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale, is also understandably elated and has invited Madonna to be a judge at this year’s Champion Beer of Britain competition. As a regular judge myself, I could be sitting next to the lady. I’d better brush up on modern pop; I lost interest when the Beatles split.

Holland was an independent country until the 16th century, when it joined with the northern and southern Netherlands in an unsuccessful fight against the Spanish Empire. The Spanish king became the “Count of Holland.” In 1830 the southern Netherlands, now known as Belgium, became independent. The northern Netherlands and other counties (the present-day provinces of Drente, Groningen, Friesland, Gelderland, Zeeland, Utrecht, Brabant and Limburg) joined to establish the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Of course, the people and the language are referred to—in English, at least—as Dutch.

Now that nomenclature is as clear as a glass of pilsner, we can talk about Dutch beer.

Pilsner Is King

As in most countries in northern Europe—and the world, for that matter—the pilsner style of lager is the beer of choice for most Dutch beer drinkers. Within this small, densely populated area (the highest population density in Europe) live 15,981,472 mostly lager drinkers. The beer style of choice has started to change in the last 20 years or so, but just a little. Pilsner sales make up about 90 percent of all beer sold in the Netherlands. And Dutch brewers brew a lot of beer—just under 25 million hectoliters (21.3 million barrels) in 2001. Although this maritime nation, with a rich and highly successful trading history, exports a great deal of the beer it brews (think Heineken and Grolsch), the Dutch still consume 86.4 liters (22.8 gallons) of beer per capita per year.

Dutch Brewing History

Like all of Europe, until the lager revolution of the mid-1800s, Dutch brewers brewed top-fermented ales. By the end of the 1800s, pilsners had taken over. World War II devastated the Dutch brewing industry. Breweries were dismantled or destroyed by bombs, and there was almost no barley for making malt. By the late 1940s, Dutch brewing was once again on its feet, with most brewers operating in the southern provinces of Limburg and North Brabant. These old family brewers continued to make a few top-fermented ales, but in the 1950s, they either failed to make a go of it or were bought out by Heineken, a brewery uninterested in ales and small brewery operations.

By the 1960s, only a few independent breweries remained in the south. In Limburg, there were Lindeboom, Gulpener, Alfa, Leeuw, Brand and De Ridder (the last two now owned by Heineken). In North Brabant, there were Budelse and Dommelsch (the latter now also owned by Heineken). By the late 1970s about 16 breweries operated in the Netherlands: a few major players such as Heineken, Grolsch and Bavaria, and a few regional independents.

At this point in time, approximately 99 percent of all beer sold in the Netherlands was pilsner. The only exceptions were the traditional strong Dutch version of a bock (often spelled bok) beer produced each autumn and possibly an Oud Bruin (Old Brown). Gulpener Dort (a German-inspired Dortmunder-style beer) was an extremely rare exception.

Modern Changes

The time was ripe for some changes in Dutch beer culture. Just as a generation of US Baby Boomers returned from studies and travels abroad (primarily in Europe) in the 1960s and 1970s to shake up American complacency with bland tasting wines, beers, coffees, teas, bread, cheeses and other foods, a generation of young Dutch people in the late 1970s returned from visits to their southern cousins—the Belgians—where they had discovered wonderful-tasting beers. Dutch entrepreneurs who noticed this trend began importing Belgian beers.

The first imports were Duvel, Westmalle Tripel and De Koninck, three beers that to this day remain on the beer lists of cafés throughout the Netherlands. The first Dutch cafés bold enough to stock these Belgian imports were Jan Primus in Utrecht, De Beyerd in Breda, In de Wildeman in Amsterdam, and Locus Publicus in Rotterdam. These four cafés remain in business today and are among the best of the best for beer lovers.

A consumer movement began at this time as well. Just as the Campaign for Real Ale in the United Kingdom formed as a grass-roots organization in the 1970s to save the tradition of cask ale in the British Isles, a group of beer lovers formed in the Netherlands to promote good quality beer. Vereniging Promotie Informatie Traditioneel Bier (PINT) formed in 1980. Now with 3,000 members, PINT is a force to be reckoned with in the Netherlands. Its stated goals are 1) Promoting beer as a cultural heritage in the Netherlands; 2) Informing the beer enthusiast on developments in the world of beer; and 3) Guarding the interest of the beer enthusiast. PINT publishes PINT-nieuws and an Internet site, Nederlandse Bierpagina’s (www.pint.nl), under the artful hand of editor Theo Flissebaalje; produces beers festivals; and sets up visits to breweries for its members.

The government told Interbrew to sell off Bass Brewers. Interbrew went to court and the government’s Department of Trade and Industry was told it had been unfair to Interbrew and had to revise its proposals.

After much navel contemplation, the DTI announced in October that it was offering Interbrew two options: either dispose of Bass Brewers in its entirety, or sell off several leading Bass brands and breweries. Not surprisingly, Interbrew plumped for the least-worst option and is now putting together a plan to dispose of Britain’s leading lager brand, Carling Black Label (which orignated in Canada), other lagers and ales, and breweries in Burton-on-Trent, Birmingham, Hampshire and Yorkshire.

This will leave Interbrew with a market share of around 16 percent, while a new company, Carling Brewing, will have around 18 percent. Two things are wrong with this government copout: only another global giant will have sufficient cash to buy Carling Brewing; and we face the absurdity of a great caskconditioned ale, Draught Bass, being owned by Interbrew but brewed under license in Burton by whoever buys Carling. As Interbrew acknowledges, you can’t remove Draught Bass from Burton, the historic home of pale ale brewing, without the beer losing all credibility.

The Contenders

The key question now is: Who will fork out a billion dollars for Carling Brewing? Anheuser-Busch can be ruled out, as the American giant wouldn’t want a brand that competes head-on with Budweiser in Britain. The likeliest contenders are Heineken and South African Breweries. Heineken is deeply unhappy with its present position in Britain. For years, Whitbread has brewed the Dutch brewer’s lagers under license. But Whitbread is now part of Interbrew, and Heineken is furious that its beers are controlled by its fiercest European competitor.

Heineken will remove its brands from Interbrew one minute after the current agreement runs out. It will need a brewery of its own in Britain. It may, however, balk at buying the entire Carling Brewing Co. since, like A-B, it would find itself owning Carling and another “Dutch” brand, Grolsch, bought by Bass some years ago.

This could bring South African into play. Despite its name, it is now registered in Britain and has its headquarters in London. It owns the world’s greatest lager beer, Pilsner Urquell, and is making a determined push in Britain. As its own brands, Castle and Lion, have failed to take off in Britain, it might see Carling as a springboard to success.

Scottish Courage

It’s all confusing and disruptive. Whatever the outcome, there is no comfort for beer drinkers. The global giants will get bigger and tighten their stranglehold on British brewing and pubs.

It’s enough to make a chap head for the pub and get totally discombobulated.

When Bass Brewers has been hived off, Scottish Courage will once again become the biggest British brewer, with around 29 percent market share. In the summer, ScotCo invited me to Edinburgh for the launch in Britain of the Grimbergen abbey beers from Belgium.

I never say no to visiting the Scottish capital, one of the loveliest cities in Europe, especially when somebody else is picking up the tab.

I not only tasted the Grimbergen beers but also met the Abbot of Grimbergen, in his stunning white robes, and other monks from the order. In common with Abbey beers, Grimbergen brands are not brewed by the monastery but are produced under license by a commercial company, in this AIken Maes.

ScotCo’s interest lies in the fact that when it bought Kronenbourg earlier this year from the French group, Danone, it also acquired the Belgian Alken Maes breweries. Grimbergen Blonde and Brune are pasteurized ales and so lack the full, rounded complexities of bottled-fermented Trappist beers. Nevertheless, I much enjoyed their rich fruity flavors and spicy/peppery hop character. They bring a new dimension to beer pleasure in Britain.

The Whitbread acquisition went ahead but the British government intervened to investigate the 2.3 billion sale of the Bass plants to Interbrew on the grounds of the impact on competition and choice for consumers. Most observers thought the government would cave in to Interbrew, but in January, the Trade and Industry Secretary of State, Stephen Byers, announced that he was blocking the takeover.

He said that if Interbrew owned both Bass and Whitbread, it would mean that two companies, Interbrew and Scottish Courage, would control more than 60 percent of brewing in Britain. Interbrew was outraged, and the Belgian government, through a minister with the splendid name of Monsieur Picque, called on the British government to rethink its position.

This Fit of Picque has so far had no impact. Interbrews public relations was a disaster, with the company stating that it was not unusual in Europe for a handful of breweries to dominate domestic markets. Interbrew cited the likes of Belgium, France and the Netherlands but conveniently left out Germany, which has 1,200 breweries and no national brands.

In February Interbrew adopted a cleverer tactic. It told the British government it was seeking a judicial review of Byers decision. As it will take a couple of years to conduct such a review through the British courts, Interbrew knows that, even if it loses, it can prepare the market for a sell-off that will recover most of the 2.3 billion it has spent: industry experts reckon that if Interbrew had to sell Bass now, it would lose around 800 million.

Interbrew, with or without a judicial review, may in the end get to own a slimmed-down Bass. British Prime Minister Tony Blair will not want to be on bad terms with Belgium, one of the few countries that regularly backs Britain during tricky negotiations at European Union summits. Blair may well have the ear of Stephen Byers and tell him to soften his attitude.

One way for Interbrew to have a smaller market share would be to sell the Bass subsidiary in Scotland, Tennent Caledonian, to its management. Industry whispers suggest that Interbrew might also be prepared to shed Bass’s biggest-selling brand, Carling Black Label.

If the Interbrew deal does fall through, there is no shortage of overseas buyers waiting in line to snap up Bass. Likely bidders would be Anheuser-Busch, Heineken and South African Breweries. A-B has had a strong presence in Britain for several years now and has thrown millions of dollars at building sales of Budweiser here.

Heineken is deeply unhappy that the British-brewed versions of its lagers are now controlled by archrival Interbrew, which picked them up when it bought Whitbread. When the contract runs out in a couple of years, Heineken will want to continue to brew and sell its beers in Britain but it will need a brewery of its own.

SAB is now a global giant, owns Pilsner Urquell, and has moved its headquarters from South Africa to London. It has the financial muscle to buy Bass but its faced with the problem of a low presence and appreciation of its beers in Britain.

The worry for beer connoisseurs is what will become of Bass’s cask ales, in particular, Draught Bass, the biggest-selling premium real ale in Britain. A-B makes a few ales for the specialty US market but, in common with Heineken and SAB, has little or no understanding of the mass ale market in Britain. None of the three will have much interest in cask-conditioned ales that reach maturity in pubs and return lower profits than processed beers.

In February, Anheuser-Busch UK suffered a major setback when it withdrew a bid to sponsor England’s top soccer league, the Premiership. Carling Black Label, after nearly a decade of sponsorship, decided not to renew and A-B seemed certain to take over.

But A-B’s demands, including a ban on all perimeter advertising from other companies, wasn’t acceptable to the soccer bosses. Suggestions, however, that A-B wanted soccer to be played with an oval ball should be discounted.