Hot weather has long called for small beer that can be tossed down in quantity without fear of rapid intoxication. Crisp, cool, refreshing and plenty of it—that’s a summer beer. In earlier times, small beer was about all that was available in the summer. In most places, the brewing of full-strength beer was forbidden between April and September, due to the heat, airborne microbes and the fact that every able man and boy was needed in the fields. Besides, most of last year’s malt and hops were used up making March beer that sat in the maturation tanks, quietly taunting one and all through those long hot months.

Small beer was critical to keeping things running, as a safe form of hydration. There were rarely sources of safe water, and certainly no soda available until towards the end of the 19th century. Because small beer didn’t keep well, it was brewed frequently all through the summer. There isn’t a lot written about the small beers of those days—no poems, or celebratory prose of the sort that were lavished upon bigger beers. Wherever they were brewed, small beers were either just the last runnings of the local full-strength beer, or concocted to give similar results when brewed entirely on their own.

So, we’re on our own as far as recipes go, but there are some hints we can use from those in the past who were brewing and drinking low-gravity beers. And of course, we, as craft beer sophisticates, have a few notions of our own.

Everyday small beer was always weak. But during WWI, gravities of all beers fell to abysmal levels across Europe. After the fighting ceased, the shortage of raw materials continued, so people were looking at techniques to make weak beers brewed from substandard ingredients more palatable.

In particular, George M. Johnson was relaying information on Belgian techniques to English brewers by way of the Journal of the Institute of Brewing. He had spent decades in Belgium studying and consulting, and he reported details of very low-gravity beers there with acceptable flavor characteristics. Witbier in particular seemed to fill the bill. With up to half unmalted wheat and a mashing technique that produced a wort laden with unfermentable sugars and dextrins, these beers had a good deal of texture and a fantastic creamy mousse. Add the funkiness of Belgian yeast and the lactic sourness that came from barrel-fermentation, and there was a lot of flavor as well. Hard to do with beers in the 1025 to 1035 (6 to 9 °P) range.

That’s a couple of solid ideas to start with. Oats are another, used in many small beers because they added a creamy mouthfeel, and were cheap and available as they were useless in stronger beers meant for aging. So there’s another tool in our kit.

The wild yeast, Brettanomyces, can add another layer of flavor, but because it’s such a slowpoke, it might be best incorporated into a small beer by blending in a percentage of stronger, longer-aged beer already inoculated with its barnyard taint.

American industrial lagers and light beers already reign all across lawnmower land, but as homebrewers, we can see obvious room for improvement to suit our own ultra-refined tastes. But the basics are there, and we should be able to supercharge them while still serving quench duty in the hot season. So here are a few mini-recipes, which I leave to you to flesh out into actual malt, hops, wheat, oats and whatever else you can think of.

Lil’ Wit

If you want to do this properly with unmalted wheat, seek out info on the Belgian turbid, or Slijm mashing procedure and get ready for a long brew day. Otherwise, mix about half six-row malt, half malted wheat and a small amount of instant oats, shooting for a gravity of 1.030 to 1.040 (7.5 to 10 °P). Mash it all together at 155°F (68°C) for about 20 minutes, then mash out at 170°F 77°C) to lock in the high ratio of unfermentables. A pound or so of sour malt will add a nice lactic tang if you so desire—and you should. For an extract version, do a mini-mash with the oats, a pound of six-row and half a pound of dextrine malt. The balance of the gravity should come from wheat malt extract. Hopping should be reasonably light, no more than about 20 to 25 IBU, although this would benefit from some nice aroma hops or even a little dry-hopping. A dark version of this could be made by adding half a pound of German Rostmalz/Carafa to the mix. Use a Belgian yeast strain, and ferment it fairly warm, 70°F (°C) plus.

Pilsale

This takes the idea of American mainstream lager and twists it to our liking. Start with two-thirds good-quality pils malt, and one-third malted wheat, to gravities similar to the beer above. Same ratio if you’re using extract, although you might want to steep half a pound of dextrine malt. Mashing can be a little lower, let’s say 152°F (67°C). I’d hop this at the 25–30 IBU level, and as with the first beer, use plenty of nice aroma hops. You could use an English ale yeast, but I think a Kölsch yeast would do nicely here, and you could even cold-condition it for a smoother flavor. Carbonate at a higher than normal level. Use Belgian yeast and you could call it “half a single.”

GW, Redux

The Father of Our Country left us with an absolutely hideous small beer recipe in his own hand, containing little more than bran and molasses. Of course, folks in those days had limited access to quality brewing ingredients and had to make to with whatever they had. We deserve better, so let’s go for a crisp, molasses-tinged brown small ale. I’d shoot for a 4:1 mix of pale ale and biscuit malt at the same gravities as above. To that, add a pound of light molasses—dark if you’re feeling frisky. Standard 150°F (66°C) mash temperatures are fine. Extract brewers, do a mini-mash with the biscuit and a pound of pale or pils, and fill-in with amber extract and the molasses. Hopping should be around 20 IBU of English-character hops, although you could go a bit higher if you must. Aroma hops are not so important in this one. Use a good ol’ U. S. of A. ale yeast at normal cellar temperatures.

This is just a start, of course. There are many other inspirations to be sought out and twisted to our infernal purposes: altbier, American IPA, hefeweizen, and many more. Just knock ‘em down to a small size, pump up the body, and don’t go too crazy on the hops. Then, grab the handle, yank on the cord and vrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmm!

Traditional Wit

Witbiers are another example of a style that nearly expired, but is now as popular as ever following an enthusiastic rebirth. Alternatively called bière blanche in French, wits share a history with many of the enduring Belgian beer styles: a product of monasteries developed as a regional specialty. They were an expression of that which was available in the area east of Brussels, including the city of Louvain and the village of Hoegaarden, in the farmlands of Brabant.

Blessed with sinfully rich soil and a feisty agrarian culture, the area was home to farmers who tended fields of barley, wheat and oats, all of which are utilized in traditional witbiers. There is mention of monastic witbier from as long ago as the 14th century in Belgium. The monks, and later secular brewers, retained the practice of adding spices to the kettle long after hops became the predominant form of flavoring. This is evident in today’s witbiers, though today they are of a more exotic nature. This is not terribly surprising, as some of the so-called “spice islands” were colonized in the late 16th and early 17th centuries, when Belgium was part of the Netherlands. Indigenous herbal gruit constituents gave way to foreign spices.

The city of Hoegaarden was so interested in protecting its unique product that a brewer’s guild was formed there in the 1700s. In fact, it was easily the dominant style of beer immediately east of Brussels, around Louvain and Hoegaarden as recently as the 18th century. The two municipalities were fierce competitors at the time, with Bière Blanche de Louvain being more popular than Blanche de Hougaerde. As there is no evidence that the Hoegaarden was an inferior product, Louvain witbier was likely able to promote its product more tenaciously because of its well-heeled status as a city brewery. This is not to say that Hoegaarden wasn’t a highly-respected brewery in its own right, as at least twenty breweries specializing in witbier were in operation there in the 19th century.

The 19th century, however, saw a change that would usher in the decline, and ultimately, the near-death of many regional brews, including witbier. The advent of pale brews, especially pale lager in Continental Europe, nudged many traditional, artistic brews aside. The clamor over the bright, golden beers was due in some part to novelty, but also to improved shipping and commerce. In other words, the world became smaller, and local fare seemed old-fashioned; the new products, exhilarating.

In Hoegaarden, this slow demise culminated in 1960, when finally, there were no witbiers being brewed. In fact, witbier was brewed in only a few places anywhere in Belgium by then. All but extinct, witbier had on its side one of the great proponents of craft beer in the past 40 years, and he was not about to let something so personally significant disappear so easily. His name is Pierre Celis, and his spunk and vitality are symbolized in the very beer he resurrected and without whom, we’d be drooling over memories of Belgian witbier.

Modern Wit and Wisdom

Pierre Celis grew up and worked in the area around Hoegaarden. Lamenting the loss of his cherished witbier, he decided to make his own on a commercial level. He purchased some used brewing equipment, fitted out a small brewery and by 1966, was producing. He named the brewery De Kluis (The Cloister ) in reverence to the roots of monastic witbier brewing. Through his efforts, quaint and anachronistic became popular, ironically not just because of its novelty, but also because it was a reversion to a more natural, less-refined product, something that had been in serious dearth at the time.

The popularity of Celis’ witbier spurred on others to produce their own, and by the mid-80s, many were being brewed in Belgium. Celis brought his expertise to Austin, TX, and with the same approach of using local ingredients as much as possible, founded the Celis Brewery in 1992. His influence can still be seen today across America and Canada, as a great proportion of microbreweries and brewpubs produce some version of a witbier.

A Witty Pose

What is it then, that defines a witbier? While the word itself literally means “white beer,” there are two attributes that are necessary in a formulation worthy of the name: the grist must contain up to 50 percent wheat, and it must have summary scent of spices.

These are dubbed white beers, and not wheat beers as the Germans designate their similar brews, because of the pale, almost milky glow of the brew. They are indeed turbid, and for more than one reason. First, the wheat is unmalted, leaving a bit of residual starch in the beer. Secondly, the high protein content of wheat naturally leaves a bit of precipitous haze in the finished product. Third, bottled offerings are usually bottle-conditioned, leaving a fair measure of yeast in suspension when poured

The under-modified, raw wheat is lighter in color even than malted wheat, and this is what contributes to the very pale, white-gold appearance. With wheat constituting about half of the grist, the remainder is a pale, continental pilsner type malt, usually grown in Germany or Belgium. American brewers might opt for a domestic two-row for their interpretations, a worthy substitute. At times, and traditionally, a small amount of oats is added, but usually not more than at five percent total. The manifestation of the raw wheat on the palate is a silky-smooth, soft mouthfeel; a playful tart and honeyish contrast; and noticeable fruitiness.

Of concomitant importance in a witbier is the use of spices. The predominant spice is always coriander in a classic witbier, and it should be obvious in the nose. Freshly ground, and added late to the kettle to retain its aroma, it should fairly burst from the glass.

The second most common spice addition is curaçao, or bitter, orange peel, which adds mysterious complexity to the brew. It is grown in Spain, Italy, and North Africa, and is characteristically herbal, reminiscent of chamomile rather than orange, and compliments the savory coriander well. More spices may be added, but traditionally in small amounts as sort of a background note. Some brewers are cryptic about their choices, but chamomile, anise, grains of paradise, peppercorns, ginger, or nearly anything similar could conceivably be used. The marriage of the spice blend, and the raw wheat is one made in heaven to the senses.

Hops are used at quite modest levels. Those that exhibit spicy and herbal notes (imagine that) like Saaz, Styrian Goldings, and East Kent Goldings are best as they blend deftly with the other nuances. Witbiers should pour with a copious, lingering head, due to the high proteinaceous wheat, and higher than average carbonation. This only adds to the wonderfully intricate bouquet, as the mousse dissipates and releases its perfume. Very modest at 4.5 to 5 percent ABV, witbiers are certainly a quenching session brew. They are at their prime when fairly young, as they should be consumed in their most spirited and vivacious aromatic condition.

While most of the common witbiers are offered year round, brewpubs will often concoct them for their summer repertoire. Be on the lookout for them. For summer refreshment, witbiers are as appropriate as any brew, and more complex. They are reminiscent of the fragrant season, and soft enough to sit well on a hot day. So, when that summer wind, comes blowin’ in…savor a witbier.

But as a brewer who approaches the craft from an artistic point of view, I’m not always interested in precisely reproducing a particular style, challenging as that may be. I do it, of course, but it’s more for the experience of getting inside and finding out what makes a style tick. More importantly, I like to use the basic style as a springboard, a starting point for producing beers that are more distinctive personal expressions.

Belgian witbier is such a style. Deceptively simple, it is actually quite a challenge to brew in an authentic manner, as I have written in these pages before. In its classic form, wit is a modest-strength (1040 to 1045), pale, cloudy beer, brewed from malted barley (50 percent), unmalted wheat (45 percent) and oats (5 percent), which gives it a smooth, creamy mouthfeel. It is lightly hopped, spiced with orange peel and coriander, and often possesses a certain lactic acidity.

With such well-defined parameters, one would expect that to deviate from tradition would be to invite the whole glorious creation to fall apart into muddled chaos, but the spirit of witbier endures. You can make it stronger, darker or hoppier, and the essence of it still shines through.

Interpretations within the Framework

If you think about it, this makes sense. Historically, white beers were brewed all across northern Europe, from about 1400 on. These usually shared common characteristics: pale color; hops as opposed to gruit herbs; wheat or other non-barley grains; lactic acid character; and a role as beers meant for quick consumption rather than extended aging. It stands to reason that brewers in different cities would evolve different interpretations within this framework. The style of white beer that Pierre Celis revived is usually referred to as “Louven wit,” and it is just one tiny remnant of the once much broader white beer family.

This plasticity makes it a great framework within which to experiment. I was drawn into this years ago in an attempt to recreate Hoegaarden’s Verboden Vrucht, which I hadn’t tasted, but I knew it to be stronger, darker and maltier, but with similar orange and coriander spicing as the wit. After a few experiments, the beer turned out pretty good, but an error in hop calculation in one brew led to a doubling of hop bitterness. This turned out to be a delicious mistake that opened up the style to further rearrangement.

Stronger versions exist in the real world, too. There’s a beer restaurant in Bruges called Den Dyver that has an 8 percent version brewed for it by Brouwerij De Gouden Boom. As one would expect, the beer is absolutely fabulous with food. In this country, Tim Rastetter and Ray Spangler cooked up a barley-wine strength version called Wit Lightning at the short-lived BrewWorks in northern Kentucky a few years back. So, there are plenty of options.

Unmalted Wheat

Before we tear into the mini recipes, a word about unmalted wheat. A curious jerrymandering of the Belgian taxation system encouraged brewers to use up to half unmalted grain, as it saved them money. This was mashed using an intensive process much like the American adjunct procedure still used to brew mass-market “pilsners.”

The adjunct receives a separate cooking process, along with a small portion of the malted barley. This adjunct mash is ramped up through a protein rest (122 degrees F), then saccharification (150 degrees F), before being boiled for 15 minutes or so. This is then glorped back into the malt mash, which is at 122 degrees F, and the whole mess raised up to 150 degrees F. If you want to use unmalted wheat, I highly recommend this time-consuming process.

Infusion mashing doesn’t do enough to break down the starches in the raw grain to make them available to the malt enzymes. If you wish to use your usual infusion mash for this style, skip the raw wheat and use malted wheat instead, and raise the proportion to 75 percent of the batch for a standard wit. An infusion mash will manage to pull some useful character out of oats whether they’re malted or not.

Now, for the Recipes

A few notes. All of these recipes use lower proportions of wheat and oats than a normal wit because for the higher gravity beers, smaller proportions are needed to give an adequate amount of character. All of these recipes are formulated for a standard infusion mash; rest temperature is indicated in the recipes. Yield is calculated at 75 percent; your mileage may vary. A pound or two of rice hulls will aid in sparging.

If you want to brew these with extract, I would suggest replacing all the pale malts (wheat and barley) with a good wheat ex-tract (pound for pound for liquid extract; 25 percent less for dry), then using a mini-mash for the colored malts. Hop rates are calculated for whole hops; for pellets, use 25 percent less.

Be sure to scrub citrus fruit thoroughly before zesting. All the spices should be added for the last 5 minutes of the boil. Use a not-too-extreme Belgian yeast strain, at temperatures in the high 60s if you can manage it. Carbonation for all these should be on the high side.

Don’t limit your deconstruction of a beer style to wit; there are lots of others that are ripe for the picking. Of course, this is by no means all that can be done with (or to) the wit style. If you want something really extreme, take that wit wine recipe and make an ice beer out of it!

Also known as bière blanche (French), witbiers (Flemish) are aromatic, rustic, spicy and complex. The name literally means “white beer,” a moniker derived from the cloudy, pale pose that they strike in the tumbler in which they are poured. The brewers of witbier showcase local ingredients in their craftsmanship, but combine them with products indigenous to faraway markets. This is an homage to Belgium’s history as both a farming culture and an importer of things exotic, a characteristically Belgian juxtaposition.

The Roots of  Witbier

Belgium, like much of Europe, owes its brewing roots to sustenance brewing in monasteries. The earliest mention of monastery brewing in the home of witbier is in the 14th century. Different regional monasteries produced their own specialties. The area in and around Louvain, east of Brussels, became known for its witbiers. As the monks were highly regarded technicians in the art of brewing all over Europe, their products were coveted.

Local ingredients have always shaped the development of regional specialties, and such is the case for the witbier-brewing area. Until just a couple of centuries ago, beer was made with whatever fermentable grains were easily available. Small farms, utilizing very rich, productive soil, grew barley, wheat and oats of high quality. Naturally, these grains were used to produce the distinctive and unique character inherent in the witbier we enjoy to this day.

Before hops became the preferred flavoring agent in beer, brewers used a proprietary mixture of herbs, or spices, or both, known as gruit. This was used for its flavor, medicinal value, or often intoxicating effect. But, primarily, it was employed to counterbalance the sweetness of the malt, or simply to mask the sometimes dubious flavor of the beer. Brewing in this era was still a relatively uncontrollable craft that often relied on serendipity and the hand of God.

The small town of Hoegaarden was a major player in the brewing scene of the area now known as eastern Belgium. Here, brewers were prodigious and organized enough to form a Guild of Brewers in the 16th century. Breweries flourished in Hoegaarden to the point that, by the 19th century, over two dozen operated in the small village, its reputation due to its unique and high-quality witbier.

Changes A-brewin’

By the early 1800s, major changes in brewing technology were sweeping across Europe altering not only the character of beer, but also the manner in which beer was perceived. Gently kilned malts made for lighter-colored beers. Bottom fermentation at cooler temperatures, coupled with long lagering times, produced crystal-clear beer. Hops became the sole ingredient to balance and flavor the beer. This revolution resulted in new styles that were clean, clear, consistent products. They were also visually appealing when hoisted in another important innovation, the clear drinking glass that replaced the opaque stein.

But some brewers held steadfast to their seemingly passé brewing procedures, among them the producers of Bavarian wheat beers and the Belgian witbier. Both beers are cloudy, sedimented and lightly hopped. Witbier brewers, moreover, retained a devotion to the style’s gruit history by continuing to employ exotic spices in the kettle.

By the end of the 19th century, lagers were entrenched as the beers of choice in most of continental Europe, with Belgium being the main holdout. As the beer landscape became more homogenized, dedication to local specialties began to wane. While there were at one time as many as 30 breweries in Hoegaarden, by 1960 there were none. Only a few breweries anywhere in Belgium were making witbier.

A Witty Traditionalist

The fact that witbiers are popular and widely brewed today can be attributed to the tenacity and vision of a single man, Pierre Celis, who worked in Hoegaarden as a milkman. Fascinated by the brewing process he had observed as a youth, Celis decided to do something about his beloved witbier. He cobbled together the De Kluis brewery with used equipment and starting brewing in 1966. His beer was an unexpected hit among beer lovers. It exuded a natural, unrefined, whole-foods aura, something that industrialized countries seem to have lost after World War II.

Celis’s revival of the style fueled an interest by many other breweries in Belgium. Today, many witbiers are brewed throughout the country, well beyond the original domain, even into West Flanders.

There is yet another blissful chapter of Pierre Celis’s witbier resurrection. Celis brought his enthusiasm for Belgian beer and brewing to the United States in 1992 and opened a brewery in Austin, TX, bearing his name. Using a combination of Belgian, North American (some of it local), and exotic ingredients, he created Celis White, an excellent witbier that rivaled any Belgian import.