Why Germany's Reinheitsgebot is Oh, So Good.

Just like last week's Belgian beers, this week's German beers have a fascinating and delicious history. And I'm thankful that I don't have to read this to anyone, because I would fail miserably at a majority of the pronunciations. I got a hold of two Bavarian Lagers, both brewed by Privatbrauerei Franze Inslkammer in Aying, Germany. They both follow the rules set by German law in 1516, called Reinheitsgebot, which promulgated that only water, barley, and hops was allowed to be used in beer production. This was a regulatory law, intended partly to reduce competition within Germany between brewer and bakers. Wheat and rye were used in beer production, but were also used by bakers in their bread making. Not wanting bread prices to rise too high, barley was declared to be the only grain allowed in the making of beers.

For those of you who have read this column in the past, you'll notice that there is one primary ingredient not mentioned as allowable under the Reinheitsgebot. Come on, I'm sure you know what it is. Anyone? Bueller? It's yeast. Without yeast, there will be no alcohol production, or carbonation, or beer, for that matter. Now for some bonus points, who first discovered the existence of microorganisms, and therefore yeast, and when? Now I know it's a beer column, but I don't want to insult your intelligence. It was Louse Pasteur in the 1860s. When Reinheitsgebot was written, no one know that yeast existed, or that they were a critical part of brewing. Instead, all that German (or any other) brewers knew was that they needed to either take some sediment from their last batch to their new batches, or simply let the vats sit for awhile (this allowed natural yeast to settle in and bloom). Once yeast's function was known, Reinheitsgebot didn't change, but neither did the German methods of beer production. They just now knew what they were doing.

The first German Bavairan lager I tried was the Ayinger Jahrhundert Bier, which is a light Munich Helles Lager (“helles” is German for “bright”). This beer, like other beers discussed here, is a response to new beers being produced in other countries. In this case, in the mid-1800's, München brewers feared market usurpation from Czech lagers, so they responded by creating the Munich Helles Lager. Slightly more malty than their feared competition, and tasting light, smooth, and relatively uninteresting, the Helles Lagers are, while still good, not the best beers to come out of Germany.

I then tried a Ayinger Altbairisch Dunkel, which is a Munich Dunkel Lager. Unlike the “bright” lager above, the Dunkel Lager is dark, beautifully brown, and deliciously malty. With a good balance of bitterness and sweetness, and tiny hints of more complex flavors, the Altbairisch Dunkel is a great purchase, and I will certainly get it again. It's flavors are well balanced, and it is a very smooth, enjoyable, and satisfying (and in no small part to the fact that it comes in a 500 mL or 16.9 fl. oz. bottle).

So if you don't like hops, I would recommend giving a good, hard to pronounce German beer a shot. It will at least make you think twice before you chug down some sad, desolate, light American lager.

[Footnote: There is a correction on last weeks column. I stated that IPAs took a trip across the Pacific Ocean to reach Belgium from the United States. But indeed, as we all should know, the Atlantic Ocean lies between us and Europe. Whoopsie.]