The band was playing a version of Cole Porter’s “Night and Day” and while quite good, it certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. A few moments later I settled into a stein of Weihenstephaner Dunkel Weiss and surveyed the scene. It was decidedly hipster, 30-somethings wearing T-shirts with ironic sayings or vague movie references. One was alone and reading with a glass of wine—yes, wine—in front of him. Two others were engrossed in the contents on the screen of a digital camera.

Clearly this was not Bavaria.

No, this was just one of many “beer gardens” that has sprang up in recent years around the country, making it seem that bar owners are embracing a new decorating theme much in the same way that “Irish pubs” were in fashion a decade ago.

And why not? Bavaria is the fertile crescent of beer. Hundreds of thousands of people make pilgrimages to Munich each year to drink deep from the kegs of some of the world’s best-known and beloved breweries. The styles developed over the centuries by master brewers have been enjoyed and imbibed by millions and copied and analyzed by fellow brewers around the globe. In short, so much of what people enjoy about beer found its beginnings in Germany.

Then consider how the United States is in the midst of a beer renaissance. Sure, sugary vodka-based drinks that masquerade as martinis are still popular at lounges and wine lists still rein supreme at high-end restaurants. But beer brings people together for a good time and rather than just another neighborhood dive, restaurateurs are capitalizing on the current beer trend and are offering up a place with an “authentic feel.”

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.”

Dark Horizons

Evidence of brewing in German goes back about 2,800 years, coincidentally to the area known as Franconia, in the north of Bavaria. Kulmbach, Franconia has the most traceable history, and the most traditional dark lagers, with documentation of monastic brewing there since 1349. This is not to say that the rest of Germany was a contemporary brewing wasteland: rather that the beers of Kulmbach were simply beter and more well-known. Other regions of Bavaria were prodigious in their own right, with mention of lagerbier in Munich brewing documents from the 1400s. But dunkel, as a distinct beer style, can be tracked to the 16th century, and is directly tied to the legendary Reinheitsgebot, the Bavarian Beer Purity Law of 1516.

The law was decreed by the Wittelsbachs, who ruled Bavaria from 1180 to 1918, and besides being royalty, were also brewers and held an omnipotent hand in much of the commercial decisions in the region during their lengthy reign. As much as the validity of the Reinheitsgetbot may be debated today, it was at the time an important protective verdict that ensured the purity and safety of not only the product, but also protected the livelihood of the farmers and brewers in Bavaria at the time. In essence, it inadvertently mandated the refinement of the local product by stating that beer could be made only with barley, hops and water (and later yeast, which was thought to be the wand of Providence).

As the local beer was dark, and lagering practices were already in place in chilly grottos of the hillsides, dunkel brewing flourished and improved. Add to this the notion of terroir as it related to hops and barley, a landlocked and somewhat isolated location relative to great exporters like the British, and local malting techniques, and one can see how a style took its intuitive identity. Germany was well ahead of the proverbial curve as far as hop cultivation and utilization was concerned, further adding to the distillation of design.

Dark Circles

Dunkel would not move towards its present form until three centuries post-Reinheitsgebot, when several innovations and one peripatetic visionary, Gabriel Sedlmayr II, brought the style into the modern world. An indirect-heat malt kiln, similar to a coffee roaster, was invented that early in the 19th century. It afforded entire control over the color and properties of the primary brewing component, malt. Having traveled to Britain and seeing the possibilities of this contraption and its ability to create pale, uniform malt, Sedlmayr extrapolated that he could still produce his dark, base malt but with even greater precision. That malt today is known as Munich malt and that which gives dunkel its profile; all of the color and character without the spurious smoky flavors of yore.

Sedlmayr, a member of the venerable brewing family that had recently taken over operations at Spaten, was a student of all things beer. He took a particular interest in the emerging science of yeast microbiology and cultivation, yet another arrow in his legendary quiver that helped delineate his brews even more. This technological convergence culminated with the invention of refrigeration, making lagerbier brewing a year-round, entirely controllable endeavor.

Munich dunkel enjoyed great popularity until the end of the 19th century, when some of the market gave way to paler beers. Many of these pale beers, specifically Munich helles, were brewed alongside the ever-popular dunkel, and as a result, may have ushered in, or at least popularized, the notion of multi-style brewing at a given brewery. Festbiers, pilsner and bock followed at many of them. Even in light of the movement towards pale beers over a hundred years ago, dunkel was unassuming and appealing enough to keep the interest of beer drinkers. That alone should be proof enough of its charm.

Dark Art

The soul of a dunkel, maybe more than any other beer, comes from its heavy reliance on a single malt. As stated earlier, it is a product of precise kilning, and one that was used in Munich to preserve the anachronistic quality of the brew. Even before the drum kiln was invented, beers were often made from a single batch of malt (directly heated, with wood or coal as the fuel). While this is not uncommon today, the difference lies in the control, and desired consistency and subtleties imparted therein. An ancient batch of malt would be smoky, probably harsh and a bit inconsistent. The modern kiln allowed degrees of malt to be made that would produce distinct beers that bear the name of the malt itself (pilsner, Vienna, pale ale and of course, Munich), but each successive dark malt would be much different than the other and could be used alone to produce each beer. The length and intensity of the kilning determines the final color, but also introduces a continuum of reactions that further resolves the unique profile.

As Munich is the darkest of the lot, it would differ the most from the original pale malt. This is especially true because of reactions that form melanoidins, a combination of protein and carbohydrate, and is responsible for the intense malty flavors and aromas. The result is a base grain that is less fermentable and therefore more full-bodied or dextrinous, but also an opulent one, full of malty, toffeeish, bready and caramelized notes in both the palate and nose, a deep brown color tinted with garnet and ruby and soft, supple contours.

A dunkel could be made exclusively of a dark version of Munich malt, as the beers of Sedlmayr were, to showcase the vast complexity that a single component can lend to a brew. Many are augmented with some caramel malt, or softened with Pilsner malt, but nonetheless a great dunkel gets by primarily with its bill of Munich malt. Such is the art of producing a beer and, in this case, creating a single descriptive, formulative entity as a means to the end. Brilliance in simplicity. All of these traits may be even more accentuated if the brewer employs decoction mashing.

Dunkels are hopped with reserve, though a hint of noble German hops should be evident, to display the malty platform on which this brew performs. Dunkels are rounded out with a cool fermentation and long cold-conditioning period typical of all lagers, lending a smooth, soft character without the brusque edge typical of many dark beers. Modest in strength, at around 5 percent ABV, dunkels can be considered a session beer and one that offers more than many others.

For a dark brew, Munich dunkel is satisfying across a broad spectrum of whims. Expectedly, they are rich, yet not heavy. Surprisingly, they finish with a quenching crispness. Moreover, the paradox of complexity from simplicity is apparent from aroma to finish, a manifestation of malting artistry and understated panache. It is a beer appropriate enough for the languid days of summer or the cuddle of winter.

Let’s begin in Prague. You’re thinking U Flecku, the 500 year-old landmark beer hall, aren’t you? Well yes, we went the world’s second best-known beer hall and drank the dark beer sitting alongside all the other tourists. It’s even fair to say we enjoyed ourselves. Even at tourist prices, the beer was inexpensive. The staff and crowd were friendly and relaxed.

Elsewhere in Prague, we drank plenty of Budweiser Budvar and Pilsener Urquell as we roamed from beer hall to beer hall, savoring every half-liter. But it was our quest to drink beer with the locals that led us to Branicky Sklipek Pivnice. It’s a workingman’s pub, a vanishing institution in town.

Without a doubt, it was the smokiest place we’ve ever visited; visibility was barely to the next table. The clientele was almost strictly middle-aged, chain-smoking men who had settled in for a long evening. The cold, crisp mugs of Branicky lager were about thirty-five cents. Inevitably, after a few beers, nature called. And that presented us with a problem. Well at least, it presented Maryanne with a problem.

The men’s restroom opened and closed so much that a revolving door would have been more efficient. Not so lucky for the ladies though. First try, the door was locked. Second try, the door was locked. Third try—still locked. Now wait a minute. There are hardly any women in this place. So, is someone in there? Maybe it’s broken? Maryanne could see the bartenders snickering as she looked around.

If anyone spoke English, they sure weren’t letting on. Terrific. Oh well. Suck it up and go to the bar, Maryanne. Both of the bartenders, who obviously pegged her as an American, were now laughing out loud as she approached. And then, they did a noticeable double-take when she asked for the key to the toilet—in Polish.

A handy little secret of traveling in central Europe is that if you speak a language native to one of the neighboring countries, almost everyone will understand enough of what you say. And they’ll cut you a lot of slack.

Mozart and Märzen

Most people visit Salzburg to pay homage to the city’s favorite son, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and see the cobblestone streets made famous by “The Sound of Music.” Anyone looking to purchase some beautiful Austrian crystal will enjoy going from shop to shop, and meeting the locals. Needless to say, this tiny town doesn’t lack for visitors. Beer lovers have yet another reason to enjoy Salzburg: Augustiner Brau.

The Augustiner monastery was founded in 1605 by Wolf Dietrich, Salzburg’s prince and archbishop. In 1835, the emperor handed the monastery over to the Benedictine order, which decided to cash in by inviting the public to drink their beer. Beer-savvy residents of Salzburg have flocked there ever since.

Walking into the beer hall was like a trip back in time. Not quite back to 1605, but to New Jersey, circa 1960, where our parents belonged to very ethnic Catholic parishes with large halls used for community activities. For a few brief moments, we were back in the past as we gazed at the high windows, the wood beam ceiling and the long rows of tables.

Luckily, we remembered to do as the locals do. We headed to the serving area, picked out ceramic mugs called krugs; bought tickets from the cashier; and turned in both mugs and tickets at the pouring station, where fresh, unfiltered lager was drawn from a wooden barrel. When it came time for a refill, we rinsed our mugs at the water fountain and began the process again.

Augustiner Brau was offering two beer selections: a Märzen, an amber colored lager; and, because it was Lent, a stronger brew called Fastenbier, which cost a few schillings more. For a city as expensive as Salzburg, the beer was quite cheap: about $2.50 a half-liter.

Only too soon it was time to head back to our hotel. We picked up our krugs and left them in the designated corner of the serving area and took one last long look at the marvelous piece of European culture and history know as Augustiner Brau. As we walked along the river, making our way back into town on that crisp night under the moon-lit sky, we knew our mental photo-album of Salzburg would be pleasant.

The Talking Lion

The next day we left for Munich and the start of Starkbierzeit, a celebration of Bavarian culture and potent doppelbocks. We’ve enjoyed all of our adventures in Bavaria, but our fondest memories are of that trip. The city was in a wonderful mood. The icy winter-chill in the air was gone and everyone seemed to take time to join friends and family to toast the season.

As we made the rounds of the city’s beer halls, each establishment seemed friendlier than the one before. The same was true of the beers, of course. Before long, sharing tables with strangers and singing “Ein Prosit” every fifteen minutes seemed perfectly normal—even though our cynical minds knew the band cued up “Ein Prosit” frequently to boost beer sales.

The high point of our trip came on our last evening in town. We set out for the Lowenbraukeller to watch the folkloric revue that locals and tourists alike fill the hall to see. It’s an easy place to find as it’s right off a subway stop. The building is draped in Bavarian flags and crests prominently featuring Bavaria’s beloved lions. While these majestic creatures never roamed the forests of Bavaria, they have always been viewed as a symbol of strength.

The beer hall itself is a beautiful building. It’s huge and ornate, has Old-World charm, and is soaked in Bavarian culture. Everyone drinks lots of beer and eats plenty of food, but the real reason they come is to toast traditional music and rituals. A band plays German favorites all night, singers in traditional costumes engage the crowd and invite the audience to participate in demonstrations of strength and traditional arts like wood-chopping.

Before we departed the Lowenbraukeller, we stopped to give a big nod and a smile to the enormous mechanical lion near the main entrance. After all, Lowenbreau means “lion’s beer.” After three, or was it four, liters of dopplebock, we were looking for the subway stairs only to hear a deep voice repeating “luf fen brow.” We just stood there, looked up and laughed.

It must have been a real sight: two jolly Americans, laughing uncontrollably, just standing in front of a mechanical lion that said “Lowenbrau” every twenty or so seconds. In retrospect, we’re sure that we weren’t the first, nor the last. On another trip to the Lowenbraukellar we noticed that the lion had disappeared from the corner. Had he been kidnapped and held for ransom? Hardly. One of the staff told us that the lion only comes out for the “fifth season.”

Here’s to a season just for dopplebock!

The Beer Drinkers Guide has accompanied me on three trips to Munich, and it’s more than paid for itself in time not spent staring at maps, straining to read street signs, or wondering whether I’d gotten on the wrong train. It’s almost as indispensable as a good pair of walking shoes, a phrase book, and a wallet full of euros.

Hawthorne reviews more than 70 beer halls, beer gardens, and neighborhood pubs in greater Munich, and also throws in a few day-trip destinations for dedicated travelers. He rates them on a scale of zero to five beer mugs, and only those that earn a passing grade—two and a half mugs—earn a mention.

Most establishments reviewed by Hawthorne won’t be found in mainstream guidebooks. They include a brewpub in a suburban train station; Hofbräu Keller, which couldn’t be more different from its famous sister establishment downtown; and a beer garden smack in the middle of the city’s famous food market. He also provides the lowdown on festivals few tourists know about, such as Starkbierzeit, the annual Lenten strong beer celebration, and Münchner Volksfest, an all-ages mini-Oktoberfest held on the legendary festival grounds.

All the essential information is there: opening and closing times, what’s on tap, and detailed directions that even the cartographically challenged can follow easily. Every establishment seems to have a story to tell; and Hawthorne, who’s an engaging writer, weaves those stories, along with plenty of beer trivia, into his reviews.

The Beer Drinker’s Guide also shows you how to celebrate like a local. You’ll find out how to avoid social sins like forgetting to tip the washroom attendant or sitting at a table reserved for regulars; how to handle Munich’s formidable liter-sized beer glass; and when it’s okay to bring your food into a beer garden. It even has lyrics—in German, of course—to popular drinking songs.

The Beer Drinker’s Guide to Munich is available in bookstores and through the author’s website, www.beerdrinkersguide.com.

I discovered Münchners’ love of merrymaking on my very first visit. At a beer hall near my hotel, I saw a roomful of pint-sized sorcerers, pirates and ballerinas, watched over by beaming parents. When I asked a waiter what was going on, he replied, “Kinderfasching.” So that explained it. Fasching is Munich’s version of Mardi Gras, and the run-up to Ash Wednesday is celebrated with a round of masked balls.

But I hadn’t planned on dancing: I have two left feet; and, besides, I’d come to Munich to get better acquainted with its beer. My quest began in the downtown pedestrian zone where I took in the sights and, when the weather got the best of me, took cover indoors.

One place of refuge was the classic Augustiner Grossgaststätte (Neuhauser Strasse 27), whose interior rooms were a trip back in time. Dozens of deer antlers adorned the walls, and clouds of cigarette smoke hung in the air. I arrived around dinnertime, and a kind-hearted gentleman at my table helped me through the menu. His advice proved right on the money: my “snack size” portion of Regensburg sausages was a meal in itself. And since beer was available in half-liter glasses, I was able to sample a dunkel and weissbier along with a few Edelstoff lagers.

Later that evening, I visited Weisses Bräuhaus (Talstrasse 7), a cheery establishment in the heart of downtown. A brewery had stood there for centuries; it began specializing in wheat beer in 1872. When brewing operations moved to the suburbs, the downtown facility was converted into a restaurant; later, a second story was added to accommodate the shoppers and office workers who stop there. Wheat beer still dominates the menu and there are unusual variations of the style, including the blonde, effervescent kristall and weizen-hell, a version without the familiar clove and banana flavor.

Strong Beer Season

On another visit to Munich, I stumbled onto a tradition many outsiders aren’t even aware of. It’s called Starkbierzeit, or “Strong Beer Season.” My hotel’s front desk clerk suggested that I catch the festivities at the Löwenbräukeller (Nymphenburgerstrasse 2), a sprawling Gothic beer hall with a huge, roaring mechanical lion guarding its entrance. Sitting in the balcony, I struggled to keep up with the pageantry on the faraway stage. Adding to my bewilderment were the effects of Triumphator Doppelbock, whose smooth taste conceals a heavy alcoholic punch.

A few years later, I went back with the intention of seeing Starkbierzeit close up. This time, I did my homework. The Starkbierzeit tradition dates back to the 1630s, when the Paulaner monks brewed an extra-strength beer to sustain themselves during Lent, when eating between meals was strictly verboten. The monks’ beer eventually became Paulaner Salvator, the original doppelbock. Salvator “went public” in the 19th century, after the Paulaner monastery wound up in the hands of a local entrepreneur who offered the beer as a cure for the wintertime blues. Münchners soon fell in love with it.

The traditional way to celebrate Starkbierzeit is to answer “the call of the mountain” and head for Paulaner am Nockherberg (Hochstrasse 77). A few years ago, this beer hall observed its centennial in tragic fashion, burning to the ground. But a clean, modern replacement, with pastel-colored walls and sparkling blond-wood tables, opened in time for Starkbierzeit 2003. I arrived early, taking a seat among groups of men who probably had been going there for decades. Once the crowd got warmed up, the brass band began booming out oom-pah music, along with popular tunes like “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” But the real star of the show was Salvator, served in ceramic mugs to keep it cool and fresh.

I also paid a return visit to the Löwenbräukeller, and this time wangled a seat close to the stage. Among the performers were a dirndl-clad yodeler, men who played the “Beer Barrel Polka” on handbells, and Paul Bunyan types who chopped wood and played the spoons. The main event featured burly, beer-powered men who tried to lift a 500-pound stone. Legend has it that Hans Steyrer, the “Bavarian Hercules,” picked up the stone with one finger—a record likely to stand for all time. The evening’s pleasures also included traditional regional food (the menu was in Bavarian and German) and, of course, plenty of Triumphator to accompany it.