Beer lovers will know a score of stories where this sentence finishes with the word “beer.” The modern revolution in American brewing has been propelled by people like the Wests, who turned away from established careers to carve out a new life in craft brewing. But the West’s narrative is completed with the word “cheese” instead. They opened Hillsborough Cheese Co., where they make a small range of cheeses only available locally. The Wests are kindred spirits to any upstart microbrewers of the last decade.

The parallels between beer and cheese are striking: their histories both start with a varied, home-based industry with strong ties to indigenous producers; the industrial age consolidated manufacturing in the hands of a smaller number of national companies; local styles and businesses lost ground to the ubiquity of a few inoffensive styles; and traditional approaches have recently made a comeback, thanks to a combination of multi-generational regional producers and newly-recruited innovators.

The world of new American cheese even includes traditionalist revival producers (think Anchor Brewing) and what might be called “extreme” cheese makers (think Dogfish Head). There are debates about authenticity: where beer people argue about who can and cannot wear the badge “craft,” cheese makers struggle over the divide between “specialty” and “artisanal.”

We are eating three times the amount of cheese we ate in 1970, according to educator and writer Max McCalman, author of the newly published Mastering Cheese: Lessons for Connoisseurship from a Maître Fromager. “As in craft brewing,” he explains, “less of the enthusiasm is for the processed cheese or the industrial style of beer. There is a growing connoisseurship for fine cheeses.” The steepest growth in cheese appreciation has come in the last decade.

For both beer and cheese, the passion of a small number of producers and consumers has made life at the table more flavorful for all of us.

Prehistoric Sustenance

The similarities between beer and cheese go back to basic biology, and to their origins millennia ago.

One of the fundamental advances in human history had to do with the ability to preserve food, extending a bridge of security that would let communities transform today’s plenty into sustenance for the lean seasons.  Today’s fresh kill is next winter’s cured meat. The summer’s abundant fruit becomes wine. The grain harvest can be saved as beer, and surplus fragile milk becomes long-lasting cheese. A predictable diet could give our species the assurance to extend its reach into otherwise hostile lands. Our ability to modify food is part of what makes us human.

Beer and cheese were both lucky accidents of some 3- or 4,000 years ago, and both probably required that a level of basic technology already be in place. Since grain has to be germinated or baked to make its sugars available for fermentation, it’s likely that early beer arose from the accidental soaking of primitive bread. The first brewers had to already be bakers.

And cheese, which is essentially the controlled spoilage of milk, first required that animals be domesticated for milking. Domestic herds gave milk, meat and materials: a slaughtered animal’s organs made convenient containers. Fresh milk stored in the stomach of a young animal would have separated naturally through the actions of the stomach’s enzymes into curds and whey: simple cheese.

Beer and cheese share an additional attribute: both made the unpalatable safe for consumption. The boiling that was part of brewing killed pathogens and turned unhealthy water into a wholesome beverage. And cheese making converted milk, a food most humans cannot digest after infancy, into a food that could sustain adults who had become “lactose intolerant”—the norm for most of the human family.

The Power of Fermentation

Beer and cheese have changed in the past four millennia, but neither has strayed very far from its origins.

Both owe their character to the transforming power of microorganisms: fermentation. In brewing, simple sugars from grain are converted by yeast into alcohol and carbon dioxide. Cheese making depends on the conversion of milk by a bacterial culture that makes it acidic, turning the milk sugar lactose into lactic acid. Then rennet, a digestive enzyme complex from the stomach of an unweaned ruminant animal, curdles the milk, turning it into a solid mass. In essence, casein, the chief protein in milk, is partially digested by the rennet into a solid (curds) and a liquid (whey). (There are now vegetable rennets, also.)

Beyond the process of fermentation, the art of brewing consists of the selection and handling of the grains (barley, wheat, oats, rye, rice among others), the addition of other flavors (primarily hops, but also other spices and fruits), and the careful conditioning of the beer.

Similar choices turn the cheese maker into an artist. Milk from cows, sheep and goats are the most popular selections, though water buffalo, yak, camel, reindeer and mares’ milk have been made into cheese. The cheese maker can also select additional flavoring agents: secondary microbial cultures of mold or bacteria that will ripen the cheese into familiar varieties such as Roquefort or Camembert, as well as fruits and spices. And, lastly, cheeses can be aged under different regimes for weeks or years to attain desired qualities.

It is possible that a self-sufficient farmer/brewer thought of his beer as just another provision to stockpile—no more special than the root vegetables that stocked the cellar, the wheels of cheese aging in a cave or the sides of meat hanging in the larder. A fraction of the season’s bounty that pleased not from its ability to excite the taste buds but rather from its role as basic sustenance. Not a chance! It is unlikely that vats of farmhouse brew would be given the same matter-of-fact attention as a hunk of pork! Not with its ability to soothe aching muscles and coax the spirit to go back out in the field again the next day.

Pretend you are a 19th-century farmer/brewer getting ready to make one of several batches of ale you produce each year. What will you brew with? You had a bumper crop of wheat so you trade a neighbor for some barley to blend with your wheat and rye. Your hop crop wasn’t great so you might substitute some evergreen boughs, juniper berries and seeds from your recently bolted coriander plants. The point is that you improvise; you brew with what is at hand.

A no-two-are-alike legacy lives on in many contemporary “farmhouse” ales. Emphasis on individuality, rather than uniformity, is evident in modern Belgian, French and American versions. Though this lack of conformity may be vexing to those who like their stylistic ducks in a row, attempting to narrowly define the beverage misses the point. A true farmhouse ale conveys a sense of origin; a great one, transcendence. You feel the rusticity, imagine the field and sense the unpredictability of the season—the liquid summation of “terrior.”

Today, outstanding versions of farmhouse ale are not and need not be brewed on a farm. The requirements for authenticity are a healthy respect for their origins, the brewer’s art and its many variations, and an open mind. A fitting tribute is when a modern brewer, looking to capture the essence of farmhouse ales past, creates something new and different. A modern farmhouse ale, like those of old, serves to refresh, sustain and dazzle. And we should expect nothing less from the salt of the earth.

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

Farmer’s Market

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Brew For All Seasons

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

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

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

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

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

A love of good food may be the impulse driving Italy’s new exploration of beer. The country celebrates good food: it has brought us the Slow Food movement, and houses the European Food Safety Agency, which advises the European Union on food legislation. Since the mid-nineties, a handful of Italian craft brewers have transferred this passion for food flavor and quality to beer. The beer styles they produce range from authentic English pale ales all the way to barrel-aged or spontaneously fermented beers and everything in between. This variety and individualism is a reflection of the Italian food culture, which has always been regionally driven.

The same dish, when prepared in two neighboring towns, will often vary greatly in ingredients and spices. Wines from different areas reflect the local terroir, using grapes that are typical of the locale. Similarly, Italian craft brewers are creating beers that take into account their local culture, foods and terroir, as well as their own brewing philosophy. They draw their inspiration from different traditions, some having trained in Belgium and others in Germany or England. But they combine their training and their preferred styles with local ingredients or materials in unique ways. The end result is a brewing culture that is rich and varied, encompassing a wide range of flavorful and distinctive brands.

One of the early pioneers of the current craft beer movement is Teo Musso, whose Baladin brand is arguably the most recognized name in Italian craft beer. Musso’s approach in the early days of Baladin brewery was to present beer as an alternative to wine in the context of fine dining, with the beers packaged in custom-designed, branded 750ml bottles. The beers themselves are also very bold. Many of Musso’s early beers were Belgian-inspired and included saison, witbier and Belgian strong ales. He also likes to experiment with new styles, like the intriguing Egyptian-inspired Nora brewed with myrrh and ginger, or the delicious sherry-like 13 percent Xyauyù.

Baladin beers are available all over Italy, and quite a few are exported to the United States. Visitors to Piozzo, where Baladin brewery and pub are situated, will discover a wide range of special reserve Baladin beers, highlighting how much Musso enjoys experimenting with aging as well as using different yeasts. Baladin’s motto is “Gusto in Evoluzione,” meaning evolving flavor or taste and, over the years, Musso’s innovations have kept the line fresh and intriguing.

One of Musso’s most delightful projects is Casa Baladin, also in the town of Piozzo, just across the piazza from Baladin pub. Casa Baladin is a beer restaurant, with rooms for overnight stays. It was decorated by Musso’s team, and each room has its own whimsical character. There is a Turkish bath, a tearoom and, most importantly, a dining area where multiple-course dinners are served nightly alongside complementary beers. Whenever he’s in town, Musso himself likes to serve the dinner, presenting the various beers and answering questions. A number of the Baladin beers are designed with fine dining in mind and they really shine alongside the variety of tasty dishes that the Casa Baladin team proposes. Casa Baladin is a beer-lover’s dream, and a necessary stop on any Italian beer tour.

Musso’s latest venture is called Open Baladin. The idea behind Open Baladin is to release an “open source” beer that “belonged to everyone” by publishing the full recipe and brewing instructions online. The beer itself, also called Open, is a full-flavored, hoppy, drinkable pale ale. Musso has decided to reinforce the open source concept by sponsoring a homebrew competition, in partnership with the newly formed MOBI Italian beer movement, for which all entries will be based on the Open recipe.

Unlike the majority of Baladin’s previous brews, Open is geared more towards pub culture than fine dining. To emphasize this, in April Musso opened a new pub called Open Baladin in Santa Vittoria D’Alba, twenty minutes outside Piozzo. The pub has six draught lines, which include Open as well as a rotating selection of Italian craft beers. Another Open Baladin pub is slated to open in Rome this coming September.

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.

Today, two loose beer styles are considered “farmhouse ales”: bière de garde (beer to store or keep) of France and saison (season) of Belgium. They are historic siblings that have separated themselves in profile, but not in philosophy. Saisons are quite well-known, but the focus of this column, bière de garde, is gaining interest from consumers and brewers alike. Reformulated quite recently by a few savvy French brewers, bière de garde is truly a product of artisanal whim. Paradoxically rich, but sinewy; clean, but musty; muscular, but refreshing: bière de garde is a complex brew that clings to its rural past.

France’s rural landscape was once extensively dotted with tiny breweries that served to refresh and restore its workers. These were simple farmhouse brewers, who brewed for themselves and a few others. Their farmhouse ales, brewed and consumed as dictated by the season, were things of sustenance. They were made during the cool months, usually late fall and winter, when conditions were perfect for a slow, steady fermentation. This ensured that the brew would have a soft, clean character, and also that the nefarious microscopic organisms notorious for spoiling beer would be inactive or absent.

Brewing beer at that time of year also meant that the hops and malt used were freshly harvested. The combination of fresh medium and deliberate, cool fermentation resulted in a clean and stable product that would mature wonderfully. That is the literal essence of bière de garde, for it was meant to keep until brewing was impossible due to unfriendly temperatures and rogue microbes.

Modern Revival

Though historical bière de garde brewers laid the foundation for what would be a passionate, if not extensive, brewing legacy in France, modern interpretations differ often from their forbears. Records show that more than one variety was often brewed. One version, of lower strength, was designed primarily to consume during the hot summer months. Another more formidable brew, was made to garde even longer, to be savored the following harvest season.

This romantic notion of farmhouse brewing would succumb to modernity. Refrigeration was largely the culprit. Seasonal brewing became unnecessary, cities and breweries grew, industry replaced farming and beer drinkers came to favor the new light lager beers. France followed suit by brewing lower-alcohol, lighter beers for the masses. But thanks to the foresight and stubbornness of a few French brewers, the craft brewing scene in France was about change. It was a both a step toward the future and an eye to the past that resurrected a stale craft in France.

The family-run Brasserie Duyck in Jenlain, France has been in business since 1922. They were known for their somewhat pedestrian Duyck Bière rather than the quirky, anachronistic Jenlain Bière de Garde. It was steadfastly promoted in the 1950s and finally caught on as a hipster brew in the 1970s, its elegant presentation in corked bottles and full flavor a welcome respite from the contemporary bland beer offerings.

This coincided with a seemingly ubiquitous movement towards rustic, local and flavorful specialties. That it happened elsewhere at about the same time may be a mere coincidence, but the more romantic view would be that people were fed up with their limited choices. Jenlain, as the popular prototype, would be the impetus needed for other brewers in France to formulate recipes that paid tribute to tradition, followed the “local is better” mantra and ultimately allowed them to stay vital. Today, there are many artisanal brewers producing bières de garde in its homeland and, with a “keeping” quality to them, they are excellent as exports.

Individualistic Interpretations

When searching for a “typical” bière de garde, look to Jenlain, with its burnished amber hue, spicy, toasted malt and crisp finish. But, bière de gardes are bound more by philosophy rather than a narrow set of perceptible parameters. Some are blond, others, brown. Either ale or lager yeast may be used. Adjunct or sugar is added to some, others are all-malt. Hops can be from France, Germany, the Czech Republic, or even Belgium. What they all share, regardless of color, is a soft maltiness, crisp finish, subdued hop profile, spicy background and a hint of mustiness. Essentially, bière de garde may be a style full of idiosyncratic sub-styles to the point of being absolutely individualistic. Maddening for stylistic evaluation, but artistic to the end.

Of course, the soul of any beer is the malt. In bières de garde, the use of continental malt is the norm, usually a Pilsner type. Much of it is grown in the Champagne and Nord regions and possesses a slightly rougher character than the round, soft varieties of Germany and Bohemia. This may in fact contribute to some of the signature spiciness of bière de garde. Darker interpretations would include the Vienna or Munich malt, to add some body, maltiness and depth. Wheat, caramel and aromatic malts may also find their way into the grist.

Bière de garde brewers have no reservations about using adjuncts. Flaked maize or grits are used by some to add a little more fermentability, while others may “chaptalize” the kettle wort with a dose of sugar. A long boil could be employed to aid in caramelization for additional flavor and color. The grist is mashed to get high fermentability or attenuation. The combination of high-quality malt and full attenuation gives a full-flavored, malty brew, with a snappy finish. Most finish in the 6 to 8% range.

Hop rates are rather subdued, showcasing the nuances of the malt. Locally, there are hop farms in the Alsace region near Strasbourg, across the border from the famous Hallertau hop region of Germany. The French variety is named Strisselspalt. The French may eschew the local hops and opt for other European noble hops grown. Hop aroma is virtually non-existent.

Yeast selection is still another personalized ingredient. Some use lager yeast and ferment well above the temperature range that is optimal. Most use ale yeast and ferment at the lower end of its temperature range, a condition that would eliminate any strong fruity character because of the slow, extended fermentation.

A cold-conditioning period, originally in bottle, now in tanks, follows the fermentation and is shorter than would be employed for a regular lagerbier. Usually several weeks is sufficient to smooth out the brew. Bière de garde is then bottled and corked.

It can be cellared for some time, and develops some earthy character because of the cork, hops and maturation period. Part of this unusual profile may be the utilization of unfamiliar combinations of ingredients or by using them outside of their standard comfort level. Either way, there is no denying that the bière de garde brewers of France have a way with their medium, and as such contribute uniquely to beerdom with their art.

Bières de garde may be one of the most underappreciated genres of beer. Though overshadowed by their Belgian counterparts, they are as complex and finely-crafted. If you can’t make it to France and have to settle for imports, they should be easy to find. Though rare, there are some North American versions about. Let down your garde.