Cornell demonstrated in his last book, Beer: The Story of the Pint, his ability to mix highly readable narratives with a scrupulous eye for historical accuracy. That effort won him the Beer Writer of the Year Award from the British Guild of Beer Writers.

In Amber, Gold and Black, he displays a similar zeal for telling a good tale, as he describes in 16 chapters (15 ale; one lager) the intertwining strands of social history, politics, trade, class and technology that have shaped British beer styles. There is enough technical detail on the developmental stages of each style—original gravity, malt bill and brewing regimen, where documented—to please the most ardent antiquarian brewer, but the text never becomes overly geeky.

Cornell is compelled to debunk often-repeated misconceptions. He challenges the accepted history that credits the East London brewer, Ralph Harwood, with the creation of porter, as a single beer that combined the qualities that customers were used to finding in a cocktail of three different brews. The term “entire butt,” one name for porter, seems to refer not to mixing the traits of three into one, but instead to the practice of mixing several mashes from the same malt (“entire”) and aging the beer in large casks (“butt beer”).

There are surprises here, too. England had a tradition of wheat beers, connecting its brewing traditions with those of Germany and, presumably, Belgium. But at the end of the 17th century, in an effort to maximize a tax levied on malt, the government enacted what sounds like an English take on the Reinheitsgebot, prohibiting the use of any grain but barley in brewing. A rare survivor of the ban was a highly-taxed wheat beer called “mum,” which was favored by Samuel Johnson, amongst others.

Readers interested in delving further can obtain the ebook by going to www.thecornerpub.co.uk and paying £5 (a bargain at under $8.00, despite the weak dollar). If enough copies of the e-book get sold, then it’s likely what Cornell calls a “dead tree version” (a printed edition) will be produced. Readers who have bought the e-book off the website will get a discount on the printed version.

Despite the volumes written in recent years about British beer, this is, remarkably, the first devoted entirely to the evolution of styles. Buy it, download it and print it if you like—you’ll want to consult it often.

Ironically, the most popular of them all, the unfiltered hefeweizens (alternatively weissebier, weissbier, or weizenbier) of Bavaria are those that use wheat most prominently. They feature a top-fermenting yeasty footprint, a product of an extraordinary and complex strain that may be a bona fide remnant of early Germanic brewing. At different times, Bavarian hefeweizen has been archetypal, domestic, monastic, noble, proletarian and trivial. This brings us to its rediscovery just a few decades ago and a style that may indeed be the symbol of beer as we enjoy it into the future—one that allows us to appreciate the originals.

Grains of Civilization

The cultivation of grain and the domestication of animals allowed ancient tribes to abandon their nomadic lifestyle, settle together, develop farming techniques and other skills and exchange ideas. The very birth of civilization depended heavily on the ability to raise crops, grain being the most important. Barley and wheat cultivation comes from the Sumerians, some nine to ten millennia ago. Brewing followed shortly thereafter. The familiar (and speculative) tale is of sopping loaves of bread or grain, fermented with wild yeast, which led to the serendipitous discovery of a sourish beverage that produced a pleasant, exhilarating and invigorating buzz.

Brewing became a staple endeavor, a way to further use the grains that were being farmed. Actual depictions and written accounts of brewing and beer date to the third millennium BC in Mesopotamia.

Agriculture gradually moved out of the western Mediterranean and Mesopotamia and into the more temperate and less arid climate of central Europe. The cultivation of barley and wheat for food and beer was especially embraced by Germanic cultures at least 3000 years ago north of the Alps. These rough-hewn, hearty people of the forests and surrounding open land developed affinity for their homemade beer, to the point where much of their life revolved around it. Probably these were ales made with a mixture of barley, wheat and perhaps rye. In fact, a crock discovered in 1935 near Kulmbach contained the remnants of a black wheat beer dated to 800 BC. It is the oldest concrete evidence of brewing in Europe.

“What would you like?” asks the woman who owners the pub.

“I would like to have a beer,” my friend says, his tone suggesting he’d welcome some suggestions. But the woman just nods and is about to rush back to her counter.

I capture her attention again. “What kinds of beer do you offer?”

She says shortly, “Krombacher.”

That’s the biggest pils brand in Germany: not a bad beer, but since it seems to be the only choice in this supposed wine and beer bar, I’m a bit disappointed: “That’s all you’ve got?”

She is not amused: “Yes, that’s all. That’s the way we have it here. If you prefer something else you’ve got to go elsewhere.” She explains that she has a hard time finishing even one cask before it turns bad. Eventually she calms down: “Krombacher Pils and Weizen is all I can offer you on tap. Next week, we will also have the new Krombacher Dark.” My friend and I order a small pils, served in a slim tulip glass. As we drink, I read through the wine list, which is two pages long. We decide to go elsewhere as soon as we’ve finished our beer.

The next bar is modern, more stylish. Honey-colored lights, some tables, many stools, and mirrors all over the wall. Not exactly a beer bar, but a place for good drinks. We choose a table. My friend again, in his seemingly helpless manner, says, “I would like to order a beer…”

The waitress, assertively: “0. 3?”

We must have looked confused, because she quickly adds: “We have 0.4, 0. 3, and 0.25,” referring to the liter sizes that are available. We each decide on a 0.3 and are served another pils—this time, Radeberger. It seems the only skill you need if you want to drink a beer in a German bar is to know the exact quantity you want.

A Beer is a Beer is a Beer

Germany has more than 1,300 breweries (half of them situated in Bavaria) that brew at least 20 different styles and about 7,000 brands. However, in this country a beer will always be a beer. When you order one, you will get the main local brand that is on tap. It may vary from place: a Kölsch in Cologne, a helles in Bavaria, a Bavarian weißbier at the Karg Brewpub in Murnau near Munich, an alt in Düsseldorf and a smoked lager at Brauerei Spezial in Bamberg. But in most of the bars and restaurants in Germany, you will be served a pils from one of the big domestic brands like Krombacher, Bitburger, Beck’s, Veltins, Radeberger or Warsteiner. The only ritual you have master is to find a quick answer to the short question: “0. 3?” The rest is out of your hands.

Even though, after the Czechs and the Irish, Germans drink the most beer per capita, most German consumers don’t seem to think twice about it: a beer is a beer is a beer. It is as simple as that. Beer quenches the thirst and goes with almost all the food in your everyday life. (As soon as the meal becomes elaborate, wine is served.) In Bavaria, beer is even considered to be a staple food, which, of course, is to say that beer belongs to Bavaria like bread on the table.

However, most Germans, when asked what beer they prefer, will answer, passionately, with a brand name. This is the German paradox: we love beer dearly, it is an integral part of our culture, yet it has become a commodity.

Against this background, young people who seek excitement and diversity are drawn to wine, spirits or beer mixes—the German equivalent to American “malternatives” or British “alcopops.” These colorful drinks first appeared in the late nineties, and became very popular with young drinkers. While overall German beer sales fell about 3 percent last year, more and more beer mixes were being sold. The category gained 18 percent in 2007.

Putting the Beer First

Sebastian B. Priller, the junior owner and manager of Brauhaus Riegele, the foremost independent brewer in Augsburg, holds a clear opinion: “When it comes to beer, Germans focus more on marketing, branding, sponsoring, pricing and all that, instead of talking about the product itself. I think it is high time to put the beer first: its taste, its ingredients, the way it is brewed, the food it pairs with. And we need to live this culture and celebrate beer like they do with wine.”

It’s his mission that every customer in the bar makes a conscious decision about what kind of beer to drink. “Of course, people need help there,” says 32-year-old Priller, who holds a Diplom-Biersommelier—a certificate in all aspects of beer service—from the Doemens Akademy in Munich. Priller enumerates the requirements: the landlord, the waiters or a sommelier should know the beer list and be able to give recommendations. The beer list should be elaborated and contain a good description including style, alcohol content and food references. The right glass with the right beer should be obligatory.

Priller points out: “Consumers won’t ask for beer culture by themselves. We have to celebrate it and show them how much fun it is to enjoy beer like this.”

The Riegele in Augsburg does just that: recently, the brewery offered various beer cultural events, including brewery tours, beer tastings, brewing courses and challenging “expert events” for beer lovers who wanted to experience professional beer judgings. By midyear, Riegele will also be equipped with a pilot brewery to make specialty beers year round, “to show the people the variety of styles that are possible within the Reinheitsgebot,” Priller says.

In a bold step, he is also establishing a cellar in order to introduce vintage beers, which thus far are unknown to German audiences. Brauhaus Riegele, a mid-size brewery founded in 1386, offers 14 different styles, including festbier, kellerbier, weizen and strong beer. In addition, Priller also promotes northern German styles or Belgian specialties in his tasting classes, just to illustrate the enormous variety of beer.

Besides his Biersommelier education, what has most influenced Priller is the Slow Food movement and its attitude: “The enjoyment of good beer does not only depend on its taste. It is also due to where the beer comes from and who made it. It is due to the brewer’s philosophy and his commitment to the region as well as what he does to celebrate beer culture,” he says.

Bucking Tradition

“The variety is there, but it is not apparent to consumers,” states Frank Bettenhäuser, owner of the north-Hessian Hütt Brauerei in Baunatal near Kassel. Hütt is a mid-size brewery: with the recent purchase of the smaller Hessische Löwenbier Brauerei in the nearby village Malsfeld, it has become the biggest brewery in the region, with an annual production of about 69,000 hectoliters (about 59,000 barrels). The portfolio consists of two pils styles, a kellerbier, a black lager, several weizen styles and beer mixes.

The 50-year-old brewery manager goes on to say, “In Germany, beer is a thirst quencher, not a drink to be savored. We have to work hard to change this image.” As with most of his fellow independent brewers, he hopes to cultivate a new approach to beer: on his agenda this year are events to raise the sophistication of his employees and other culinary professionals, and beer seminars for the general public.

German beer drinkers might be conservative, but Bettenhäuser knows from events that his customers love to learn more: “People have a good time when they get more insights into beer production, and they love to explore the different tastes.” The Hessische Löwenbier Brauerei, with its small batches of 120 hectoliters (102 barrels), offers him new creative possibilities, like the malty Brauer Schorsch’s Haustrunk (a Märzen-styled house beer), which is only available at the site in Malsfeld.

But Bettenhäuser points out the pressures of a shrinking market: “Independent mid-size brewers have to think about quality and quantity likewise,” he states, “and bringing out a new beer is always a major effort.” Besides, he adds, beer is too cheap in Germany—creativity would not pay off.

Invention and Tradition

Brewing creative beer? Matthias Trum, owner of Bamberg’s Schlenkerla Tavern, is not too optimistic that brewers’ creativity would be welcomed by German beer drinkers at the moment. “The consumer is not ready for it,” the 32-year-old states. Yet, he is happy to see that beer variety has become an international trend and that craft beer is more and more sought-after, even in Germany. He points out that, with his rauchbier, he offers a niche product within the specialty niche, of which he would never be able to sell high quantities. Thus, it doesn’t make sense for him to expend effort on an ongoing invention of new beers.

Trum’s world-famous brewery, which has operated since 1405, produces 13,000 hectoliters a year (11,000 barrels), with less than 20 percent shipped abroad. With the barley malted over open fire like in ancient times, Schlenkerla’s is an historic approach to brewing.

The Weihenstephan-trained brewmaster remains faithful to this heritage even when it comes to new products: three years ago, Trum released a new fasting beer brewed in the smoked beer tradition and based on an historic recipe. It has less smoked malt than the renowned Schlenkerla Märzen and tastes refined and elegant. “It’s a beer dedicated to our local customers in Bamberg,” Trum states, as it is only available during Lent when not many tourists are in town. In terms of beer culture, Trum believes that the Reinheitsgebot can ensure the quality of German beer, and hopes to see the beer mix category fade.

Reaching Across Borders

Georg Schneider, owner of the Private Weissbierbrauerei G. Schneider & Sohn in Kelheim, doesn’t mince words: “The German beer market is deadly boring,” he says. “It is all very much the same. The tendency towards sameness is encouraged, for example, by our domestic beer tests rating beer only by its typicality and flawlessness. Creativity is only acted on in the beer mix category.”

The 42-year-old Georg Schneider IV, the sixth generation of his family to lead the business, is among the most eminent independent entrepreneurs in the country. In terms of beer culture, he is one of the most active German brewers: thanks to his efforts, Schneider Weisse has been recognized for leadership and sustainable management. With the brewery celebrating its 400th anniversary in 2008, Schneider Weisse is clearly one of the most traditional specialty brewers in Germany.

And yet, Schneider has embarked on one of the most forward-looking brewing projects in the country. Through the friendship between Schneider brewer Hans-Peter Drexler and Garrett Oliver of the Brooklyn Brewery in the U.S., the Schneider house hosted a collaborative brewing, probably the first in its history. Oliver came to Kelheim last May to concoct the Schneider & Brooklyner Hopfen-Weisse, a hoppy weizenbock, with Drexler. Most of the Hopfen-Weisse was shipped to the U.S. after its release in June, with only 200 cases sold in Germany. The unusual creation delighted the few German beer lovers and insiders who took notice of the event and tasted it. However, some customers who expected a regular weißbier were unenthusiastic.

Schneider is happy about this experience: “If you brew a beer that not everybody likes, you have the wonderful effect that people talk about it,” he says. His brewmaster adds, “We’ve got to take people by the hand and lead them to new worlds of taste. Customers, as well as chefs, culinary staff and traders, are searching for innovations.”

Schneider wants to continue brewing tasteful beers that are far from the mass market profile, one being the anniversary release Georg Schneider 1608, a full-bodied weizen with nutmeg and clove flavors and a grassy note from the hops. The beer is only available in a limited edition. Further, says Schneider, “We are looking for fellow brewers who are interested in doing a guest brewing with us. We are looking for them all over the world.” He insists on working together with foreign breweries because he expects the cultural exchange to be more fruitful than with a German brewer.

Diversity in taste does not, as one might think, contradict the Reinheitsgebot—Schneider and Drexler, like all other German brewers and brewmasters, claim to remain true to these premises. “The Reinheitsgebot is our unique selling point,” Schneider argues. But there is downside to it as well: The purity law not only helps sell the beer, it also reinforces the average German beer drinker’s conservatism. The first thing Germans object to when they hear about great beers from other countries is “But these beers are not brewed after the Reinheitsgebot, are they?” In this respect, the Reinheitsgebot leads them to make a quick but safe choice and insulates them from new beer experiences.

Things might change, though, as the taste for diversity is growing. One symptom of this trend is the great success of Bierclub.de. Frank Winkel and Matthias Kliemt founded the commercial beer subscription service in 1996. They started out with 200 subscribers. Today they count 5,500 customers who receive a package of nine regional beers each month, including beer descriptions as well as cultural and culinary information about the beers’ origins. The number of subscribers is constantly growing. According to Winkel, the motivation to become a member is a growing interest in specialty beers to which consumers otherwise would only have limited access. And subscribers to Bierclub.de do not only live in Germany. The Bierclub has to send out care packages to beer lovers in the U.S., Italy, England, Holland and Denmark.

With a German club helping provide beer diversity to enthusiasts in other countries, perhaps the future of German specialty and craft beer will surprise us yet.

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.

First, we need to defuse the Reinheitsgebot. Despite the hype, it was not designed as a consumer protection law. It’s a tax-enforcement law. When hops and malt are the only brewing ingredients taxed, you have to force the brewers into using nothing else, pure and simple. Wheat beers were excluded because they were the exclusive right of royalty, and you don’t think they would be paying taxes would they? I’ll wait while you thumb your nose at the whole mess.

Second, it’s important to know that the Reinheitsgebot was a Bavarian law, not a German one, until 1878, some time after Bavaria joined the Union after Mad Ludwig bankrupted the state coffers building silly castles. The North had a rich tradition of beers more along the lines of Belgium before the great tide of Bavarian lager swept all into obscurity. A few—the wit-like gose comes to mind—have been revived, but for the most part the Germans are pathologically uncurious about their brewing past.

It is our right as Americans to seize on tidbits of history, jumble them up and put together whatever kind of story sounds best. So let’s get on with that and start thinking about the beery possibilities. Note that the quantities suggested are for five-gallon batches. All of these should be fermented conventionally with lager yeast and given a cold conditioning commensurate with their strength. Don’t forget the diacetyl rest, a couple of days at cellar temperatures to allow any excess diacetyl released by the yeast to be reabsorbed.

Actually, the original bock of the 14th century was really a weizenbock. Bock lost it wheat element, leaving room for the reintroduction of weizenbock just a hundred years ago as a new style. This reborn beer dispels the notion that to hybridize is to compromise, as both the wheat and bock beer components express themselves in regal fashion. Not only do they coexist harmoniously, but act synergistically, as weizenbocks are more flavorful and complex than the sum. They are rich and malty like a doppelbock, full of soft fruit esters and spiciness like a dunkelweizen, and also showcase the dark fruit, molasses, and sherry notes common to both old ale and doppelbock.

Bock to Basics

The first weizenbier (wheat beer) brewery was built in Schwarzach, Bavaria in the 15th century by the noble Degenbergers. The passage of the Reinheitsgebot “purity requirement” in 1516 disallowed the use of wheat in brewing, but because of a grandfathered situation, the Degenbergers were exempted. Eventually, the control of the Degenberger brewing operations was taken over by the ducal Wittlesbachs, who made their weizenbier adjacent to their braunbier (dunkel) brewery in Munich (now the site of the Hofbräuhaus Munich). They were also the authors of the Reinheitsgebot, and this autonomy allowed them to be the sole producers of wheat beer in Bavaria. In true entrepreneurial spirit, the Wittlesbachs expanded their market for their coveted weizenbier by building more breweries and offering it to the commoners.

As the popularity of lager beer increased during the early- to mid-19th century, weizenbier consumption waned precipitously. To the rescue came Georg Schneider, who took over the ducal brewery and began producing his own wheat beers, and eventually wrangled away the royal control of weizenbier in 1872. Thus, he single-handedly resurrected wheat beers from the scrap heap (his family is still a major player of the wheat lineage today). Weizenbiers, though, were of modest strength at that time. Schneider’s contribution to the style we are scrutinizing here would not come until later, a stroke of genius that needs to be examined relative to its other donor style, doppelbock.

The most coveted brews of the 14th century in continental Europe were those of Einbeck in northern Germany. The reasons were many-fold. Einbeck is one of the earliest hop-growing regions of Europe and their brewers had an important jumpstart in the utilization of what would become an industry standard. Einbeck brewers were also unchallenged in the production of high-quality, contemporary pale malt. Their famous bockbier was strong, but also had a delicate and well-balanced character, as it used one-third wheat in the grist. By this association, one could deduce that it was the original weizenbock, and may have been quite similar to those that we enjoy today. Adding to the claim of the world’s best beer was the fact that it was brewed only in winter and stored cold, making it cleaner, clearer, and much less susceptible to the nefarious organisms of beer spoilage. Einbeck was a major trade center and member of the powerful Hanseatic League, a cooperative trade organization in the Middle Ages, furthering its fame.

Munich’s beers were mediocre by comparison, and, in fact, its brewers enlisted the expertise of Einbeck’s craftsmen to improve their own beer. Eventually, bock morphed into a barley-only brew, and soon enough, doppelbock was developed by monks at the St. Francis of Paula monastery near Munich in the 18th century. Strong, wheat-based beers may have existed, but if they had, they were in direct violation of the Reinheitsgebot.

Bock to the Future

This brings us back to the Schneider Weisse Brauhaus in Munich. In a brilliant and perceptive business move, the Schneiders acted upon the trend of the day without straying from their mission. One of the most popular seasonal brews in Bavaria in the early 20th century, and one that was gaining even more market share, was the rich, bottom-fermented doppelbock. The retort by Schneider was to make a classic Bavarian brew that was unlike any other, but nevertheless was similar in several respects to the doppelbock.

In 1907 they launched Aventinus, a dark wheat beer that rivaled doppelbock in strength and color, but also offered the familiar profile of the popular and modest dark wheat beers. It was an instant hit and has been a popular offering for a hundred years. They boasted that it was conditioned with the Méthode Champenoise, as a fresh dose of yeast was used at bottling (it was later dubbed the Méthode Bavaroise for obvious reasons). In hindsight, it can be said that the innovative and tenacious Schneiders not only kept weizenbier from oblivion, but also astutely invented an enduring style that remains unique today, as it was then. The name Schneider translates to “tailor” in English, and they were truly that in crafting the original weizenbock.

Few beer styles incorporate disparate complexity as deftly as weizenbock. There is no bickering among the flavors, textures, and aromas borrowed and blended. Hefeweizen is known for its banana, clove, and vanilla esters, among other things. Dunkelweizen (dark wheat) marries those qualities with a backbone of darker German malts, such as caramel and Munich, to add yet another dimension without overwhelming the softer qualities of hefeweizen. Bocks rely on their opulent maltiness that is derived from Munich-style base malts and a full-bodied heft. All of the aforementioned brews have a common thread of being lightly-hopped, allowing the character of the yeast and malt to shine.

Weizenbock is essentially a trinity of those styles. The soft, fruity esters and spiciness, a byproduct of classic Bavarian top-fermenting weizen yeast, mingles with nuances of raisin, prune, and molasses, contributed by the dark malts. Bready melanoidins, brought to the table by the malt again, and the action on the wort in kettle, add a savory banana bread fragrance. The mouthfeel is generally full, but a little less so than a doppelbock, and very velvety. Wheat, being high in protein relative to barley, offers this creaminess, with an additional bonus of a billowing, moussy, tenacious head.

Malted wheat is usually used at a proportion of 50 percent or more in the grist. Most weizenbocks come in at between 6.5 and 9.0% ABV, with a bit more attenuation and dryness than a bock or doppelbock and even a modicum of tartness. A weizenbock must have a gravity of at least 1.064 to be labeled as such, and 1.072 to be called a weizen doppelbock, as Aventinus is. They are cloudy to one degree or another, owing to bottle-conditioning, with gives a fine carbonation to sustain the copious head, and also an earthy and rustic texture. Aged versions may have an oxidative, sherry note, reminiscent of the dark Old Ales.

Weizenbock offers the beer drinker a chance to savor many facets of classic brews rolled into one. Even so, it has no rough or adventurous edges, but a smooth, contemplative personality. Like a prism, a single entity fills the glass, but with a sensory continuum composed of many distinct components on the palate and in the nose. Sit back and enjoy the show on a cool winters eve.

One of the oldest family of beers, before the days when brewers controlled their grist mix, wheat beers provide a range of light, tart, tangy refreshing flavor profiles that simply make for delightful summer sessions of beer appreciation. From sharp lactic flavors begging for a touch of syrup to lightly fruity tastes with a wedge of orange on the rim, this family of beers has something for everyone to make a summer day or evening just that much more memorable.

The story of wheat beers near death and rebirth spans two continents over two centuries and peels back the local history of a couple beer-drenched regions, not to mention provides welcome addition to the recent American craft beer renaissance. But what a revival! Over a dozen distinct styles have charged forward attracting acclaim from beer enthusiasts around the world. Those with a passion for flavor, including white wine aficionados, are in for a joyous adventure through a collection of beverages, which are, well, simply not very beery.

Historically, brewers have used a wide range of cereals to brew beer, constrained by what grew locally. Maize, rice, rye, oats, millet and sorghum have all been exploited for brewing, but the two leading grains have been barley, the dominant choice; and wheat, the distant second.

Wheat—in the form of emmer, a low-yielding variety—was one of the first crops to be domesticated in the Fertile Crescent. The Egyptians used emmer and barley as the main ingredients in both bread and beer. Ever since, these two potential uses for the grains—baking and brewing—have periodically led to competition over limited supplies.

Writing about beer and food is nothing new. Chronicling life in ancient Egypt, the Greek historian Herodotus wrote in the fifth century BC, “They eat loaves of bread of coarse grain which they call cyllestis. They make their beverage from barley, for they have no vines in their country. They eat fish raw, sun dried or preserved in salt brine.” And, when the European crusaders invaded Jerusalem to spread the gospel, they found tables spread with pineapples, figs, citrus, coconuts, lentils and sugar. Mustard, saffron, cloves, cinnamon, lavender and rosemary—all unknown in the West—spiced the diet and sparked the imagination. What to drink? Beer, of course, and in myriad styles!

Modern Beer Missionaries

Beer and spices were introduced to the West through the European monasteries by the crusaders returning from the holy land. About 700 years later, with two dozen salespeople, I led a pilgrimage to the holy land of beer—Belgium, where more styles of beer are brewed than perhaps in any other nation. Our first stop was Orval abbey and its brewery, an example of cleanliness next to godliness.

My beer missionaries joined our Trappist brothers for heavenly hash—organic vegetable soup, freshly baked multigrain bread, spit-roasted rabbit, abbey cheese, and a special bottling of Orval Trappist Ale diluted 50 percent with their famous Mathilda spring water: all grown, made, foraged or hunted locally.

Doing most of the talking, we supped with men of few words at ancient tables, hand-hewn from trees felled in the local woods. The half-strength Orval is reserved for them. It is a simple beer, dry and refreshing. At home, we relish the intensely hoppy, yeast-laden Orval as an aperitif with salted almonds and olives.

The dinner was a metaphor for the work of the monastery—harmony and balance. We learned that revenues from the brewery are used to feed the hungry.

That a beverage brewed from only malt, hops, yeast, water, and occasionally sugar and spices, can be so complex and satisfying is a miracle no less exciting than converting water to wine. No wonder the arcane ale alchemy practiced in this diminutive nation in the center of Europe evolved from Orval and other monasteries.