The Deal

It was a long two months.  Waking up every morning to Skype with my girlfriend, Huilan, at 5 in the morning.  It was early, but it was always worth it for her to be the first thing that I saw in the morning.  However, I became increasingly eager for the day to come when we would meet in Paris.  It became our light at the end of the tunnel as the time dragged on. 

The day finally arrived…her flight landing several hours before mine, I made my way to our AirBnB and found her as cheerful as ever with a huge smile across her face.  It was the moment that we both had been waiting for. 

I had come to the UK intent on discovering the true identity of English ales, but in so doing, I was putting Huilan through some less than ideal circumstances.  She handled it better than I could have ever hoped for, and I was thrilled that we could spend the time together in Europe.

We spent four days in Paris, sharing our time together with several of her friends and a friend from Chicago…simply enjoying the amazing city in uncharacteristic peace and quiet.

In front of Sacre Couer in Montmartre.

The requisite Eiffel Tower pic.

We then made our way to London…the first opportunity I had to share the object of my desire with Huilan…the thing that she had been contending with for my affection for so long – cask beer.  I had spent the past two months traveling the island in search of some of the best real ales and with Huilan now by my side I was eager for her to share in my joy.  Her eagerness, however, did not seem to be as great as mine.  That being said, she endured the numerous pub visits and pints, and seemed to show interest in the art of cask beer…if not from a genuine interest, a genuine and considerate attempt to appease my obvious desire to share this with her.  One situation stood out that I feel is worthy of recounting for the purpose of this blog. 

It was an unseasonably warm evening in London.  We had spent our day at the Tower of London, wandered around a bit, then popped into the British Museum to catch the “must sees”.  As we left the museum, we were struggling for ideas of what to do next.  Piccadilly Circus came to my mind…not for any reason in particular, rather, because I remembered having heard something good about it at one point in time.  So we headed in that direction, being bombarded with the endlessly intriguing sights and sounds of London from all directions.  We walked through Soho and Seven Dials, we meandered through Chinatown, we stood like dumbfounded tourists at the beaming lights of Piccadilly Circus, we window shopped the numerous high end arcades, and we played around the in the 7-story Christmas paradise that is Fortnum & Mason. 

Chinatown in London

Christmas extravanganza at Fortnum &Mason.

Piccadilly Circus.

After our adventures, naturally, we had developed an appetite.  Ever since our second day in Paris, hot pot had been on Huilan’s mind.  Having just come across a rather impressive Chinatown, it seemed like we might have a good chance of finding of good place for hot pot…so, you know what they say…when in London, do as the Chinese do (I may have misremembered that saying).  But I could not let Huilan get off that easy.  Before agreeing to hot pot (because I am all too aware of what hot pot turns into with my girlfriend…a drawn out session in the art of gluttony), I had to strike a deal with her before we fell into a paralyzing food coma.  It had been a long day and if we weren’t careful we would have dinner and then be too tired to do anything else…so it was necessary to set the expectations for the remainder of the evening – I would agree to hot pot, if she agreed to visit two pubs afterward.  A fair deal in my opinion…I could have suggested four pubs, but I knew that would have not gone over well, and after hot pot I don’t think I could have handled that many pubs.

She agreed, so hot pot commenced.  We were treated to some seats in a private alcove in the basement.  We ordered the unlimited hotpot for two and our first round quickly appeared on our table.  Two broths, one spicy and one mild, quickly began to bubble away in the pot.  Thinly sliced lamb, thinly sliced beef, Chinese mushrooms, some green vegetable somewhat resembling small branches, thin rice cakes, fish balls, and a bowl of rice rounded out our first round with a pot of tea to top it off.

Huilan was in heaven and to be honest, I quite enjoyed it myself…it was delicious, but I couldn’t show my complete pleasure in the meal so as to keep our deal intact.   After one more round we were both sufficiently stuffed.  We had consumed enough food for four people…we were both feeling the displeasure of overeating and the exhaustion which reminds you of the work you demand of your body digesting food…but there was no way I was going to concede my end of the deal.  After some subtle hints from my girlfriend of being completely stuffed and tired and unable to consume anymore…I all too obviously reminded her of our next destination…the pub.

At this point, I should make it clear that I do have the most amazing girlfriend.  As I have suggested before, she is incredibly understanding and accepting of me, and she would have happily joined me at a pub even with no deal in place…as she did numerous times throughout our trip.  But, on this night, it was more fun to hold this deal over her head as if I had some control of the situation.  When in reality, it was out of her kindness and generosity that she endured the pubs and the pints after our enormous hot pot meal. 

Coach and Horses - West End London.

So we ventured back through the west end to a pub called Coach and Horses.  It was a small place filled to the brim with people gathered around a piano being played by a man with a dark mustache.  The overall atmosphere of the place was jubilant…people singing their hearts out to some traditional English drinking songs, everyone laughing, drinking, and singing.  From the outside, it seemed like a very traditional pub claiming to be London’s favorite west end pub, and I never would have guessed the atmosphere inside.  I struggled to order a Pale for myself and a cider for my girlfriend, working around the tight knit crowd trying not to interfere in the joyous occasion of a random Wednesday night.  We grabbed our pint and a half (I could not convince my girlfriend of the virtues of a pint) and headed outside since there was no room on the inside, and we proceeded to revel in what we had just experienced.  It would be the pinnacle of success of Present Tense to recreate the scene in Coach and Horses that night.  Even though we had only invested a short time in the pub, we both felt like we had experienced something incredible…such energy and joy exuding from everyone in the pub…maybe something that can only happen in London.

Entrance into The Lamb and Flag.

Having experienced quite a lively pub, we then made our way to a more relaxed pub, close to where we would get on the train to return to our AirBnB in Camden Town.  The pub was The Lamb and Flag, a most historical pub once frequented by Charles Dickens himself.  The atmosphere in this pub was the dramatic opposite of Coach and Horses.  There was no crowd to work around, we walked directly up to the bar and ordered.  I had been put on strict order from Huilan to order a third for her, since she absolutely could not drink any more than that.  However, the idea of ordering a third at a pub in London seemed a bit outrageous to me…sure, a half is acceptable; there are times in life when a pint is just a little too much, but a third is just like giving up on life.  So I ordered a pint and a half…one pint of Fullers ESB and a half of a Fullers Pale, and my girlfriend immediately slapped me on the arm…oh well, at least I still had my dignity with the bartender.  We made our way up to the second floor and nestled into our seats and shared in the general contented feeling of this pub.  Quotes from Dickens scrolling across the wooden beams, historical pictures all over the walls, old wooden paneling surrounding the dwellers of the pub…it all came together to make it obvious that you were joining an institution that had welcomed millions of men before you and was no longer searching for an identity…it was simply and contentedly existing as it always has – providing London with a masterful place to enjoy a pint.

The oldest tavern in Covent Garden.

The night drew to an end.  We enjoyed some peaceful conversation…the random type that leaves time behind when you are sitting next to the person that means the world to you.  My pint empty, her half pint with almost exactly 1/3 left – point taken…she did really only want a third.  So I picked up her glass finished off the beer and took her hand to make our way out of the pub.

A pint and a half in The Lamb and Flag.

As we walked away from the pub toward the subway, we both looked back and admired the exquisite façade of the historical pub – the deal was fulfilled and we were both satisfied with a very memorable night in London.

The front of The Lamb and Flag.

My story

I am writing this in a pub in Knaresborough drinking some of the finest cask ale in Yorkshire, if not all of the UK.  It is a proper experience with a proper pint – one that everyone should partake in once in their life, in my humble opinion.  To appreciate the experience as much as I do, it has taken years to come to the point of understanding the craft and understanding the history and traditions that go into each and every pint.  This is my story behind my quest to bring proper English ale to Chicago.

I grew up in a home where alcohol was a dirty word and my only exposure was from a 20 year old bottle of whisky occasionally taken out of the cabinet when the cough syrup ran dry.  I was a good boy for most of my childhood, not the result of strict and overbearing parents; rather, loved by parents who wanted nothing but the best for me, in turn, turning me into a child who did not want to let my parents down.  And so, it wasn’t until I turned 21 that I tried beer...after shunning it for the entirety of my high school and college experience…subconsciously judging my peers who let it rule their lives.  I eventually found as much, if not more, fault in myself, and my abstinence from alcohol, as I did in everyone else…the whole look at the log in your own eye before pointing out the speck of sawdust in another person’s eye.  And so, my tight grip on the control of my self-righteousness gradually loosened and my perspective on alcohol dramatically changed.  No longer did I view it as an empty drink that held no worthy value; instead, I saw in it as an art and a science that provided people enjoyment and was a vehicle for community and a unifier of humanity throughout history.  And so I delved into the world of craft beer, with a slightly more responsible and thought out approach than most people begin with.

After a few years of being satisfied simply in appreciating someone else’s craft in a pint glass, the inevitable happened as I ventured into homebrewing.  My experience with brewing began eight years ago with a basic stove top beginners kit.  I was living in Columbus, Ohio at the time.  My roommate had the keen idea one rainy Saturday of going to the local homebrew store and investing in some basic brewing equipment.  He proposed the idea to me to go in 50/50 on the purchase.  It didn’t take too much convincing.  Our first batch was a Hefeweizen.  Far from the target Paulaner flavor, it was drinkable…lots of banana and bubblegum flavor, but we were too naïve to know any difference.  I quickly became obsessed and steadily added more and more equipment allowing me to experiment with progressively more complex brewing methods and gradually hone in my brewing prowess.  My equipment went through bouts of hibernation as my focus was diverted to other hobbies or interests, but somehow I always came back to the brewing kit with more intrigue of trying to brew a perfect beer.  Always falling short of perfect, but always learning along the way.

I then moved to Chicago and found an apartment to rent with a guy who was also a homebrewer and more of beer fanatic than me.  Our apartment was filled with brewing equipment…an entire room dedicated to beer storage, half our fridge filled with beer, yeast samples, and various bottles of homebrew, a kegerator in our living room, glassware to suit every type of beer, CO2 tanks, numerous corny kegs, and on and on.  Having lived in Chicago for quite a while, he took me under his wings to show me the best bars for craft beer, to connect me with the local homebrew club, to network with local brewers, and most of all, to expand my knowledge of brewing and beer quality.

At the same time, I found a fellow, like minded homebrewer at the church that I started to attend in Chicago.  After only going to the church for a few weeks, we had already started talking about starting a brewery, and, after several months we started putting together a brewing system that would be the envy of many a homebrewer.  The pastor had agreed to let us house the brewery in his garage – a large one car garage with plenty of room to squeeze our brewing system alongside his Toyota Sienna.  We constructed a control panel with PID controllers for automatic temperature control.  We converted kegs to a hot liquor tun with a HERMS, a mash tun, and a boil kettle.  We had pumps for transferring from kettle to kettle, refrigerators for fermentation temperature control, a heated chamber for fermentation during colder months, a kegerator with three taps, a freezer for hop storage, water filtration, bulk grain, bulk hops, a dozen corny kegs, The scale of our brewing grew quickly.  We began a regimen of brewing 10 gallon batches every week.  Since both of us had full time jobs, the majority of our work had to be completed on the weekends, alternating brews every Saturday, using evenings after work to check fermentation, to bottle beers, to fill growlers for people.  We set up a subscription service for people to have growlers filled on a weekly basis.  We started serving at parties, special events, and company happy hours.  Our church began to have weekly barbeques during the summer outside of the garage and we strived to have at least two taps ready every week.  Brewing quickly took over my life – my mind often distracted by what needed to be done at the brewery, my schedule revolving around brew days.  I had found my passion.

This regimen has more or less continued for three years.  That is a bit of a misleading statement, considering we are only able to brew 5 to 6 months out of the year, due to the rather harsh weather in Chicago and the uninsulated condition of the garage.  But for the months when it has been humanly tolerable to brew, we have been brewing…for the past three years.

Our focus has evolved, our beers have changed, our dreams have been refined, our passion has endured.  Our passion from day one has been English ales – their subtle complexity, their smooth mouthfeel, their incredible balance of toasty, biscuity malt, definitive yeast character, and earthy, grassy, citrusy, floral hops.  It has been a bumpy road trying to convince ourselves that English ales can be successful in Chicago, but our experience and our assessment of the craft beer market in Chicago has time and time again reinforced our conviction in English ales.  There’s denying that English ales are much less fashionable than an American IPA or Saison or Sour beer, but what’s the point of fashion when you just get lost in the crowd.  When the experienced craft beer market in Chicago eventually comes to its senses, there is nothing better that can offer a welcome respite from the over the top, overbearing, hop drenched beers that currently dominate the market than an easy drinking, smooth English ale…something authentic and honest and simple and modest…something served in 20 oz. instead of a 9 oz. goblet…something able to be drank repeatedly rather than one and done.  We believe in the styles of beer that we brew and we believe that they deserve more credit and more exposure than they get in the States.  We are not going to win everyone over, but we continue to be true to what we believe in.

Back to my story…off my soapbox…by most people’s standards, the last three years have been an incredibly comfortable life in Chicago – and to be honest, a dream and many prayers come true.  I had a great job in an engineering consulting firm, I had a hobby I loved, I had a great group of friends, I was living in a city that I adored, and I had met the most amazing girl that understood me and my passion and fully supported it.  So after being blessed with so much after working so hard to get to that point in my life, it was an incredibly difficult decision, when the time came, to give it all up. Following our third summer of brewing, after having arranged an internship opportunity at a Roosters Brewing Co. in the UK, I decided to temporarily give it all up to become serious about pushing our brewery to the next level. 

I am not one to impulsively jump into things.  I tend to take things slowly and to think through things thoroughly.  This has probably been a little frustrating for my business partner, and it has also probably caused some people to lose interest in what we are doing.  But, one thing that I value is authenticity and genuineness, and a person cannot be guided by authenticity without allowing the test of time filter out the meaningless from the worthwhile.  Unfortunately, fickleness and trendiness is all too common in craft beer.   A precedent has been set among new breweries in the States that proves it does not take much prior experience to be successful.  Of course, it takes a lot of time and hard work to develop a brewery that can consistently produce quality beer, but it seems like most of the time it is enough in today’s market to get by simply by being a new brewery with some cool branding. However, it is not my intention to be like every other new brewery.  To be true to myself and to maintain integrity in what we are trying to do, I vowed to myself and my business partner before we even began to think about opening a brewery that I would travel to the UK, work in a brewery, and experience real English beer culture for myself.  If we were going to claim to be a traditional English brewery, we were going to know what the hell we were talking about.

And so, here I am…a little over half way through my three months in the UK, working in a brewery, doing the hard work, day in and day out; spending my free time visiting pubs, trying beer, traveling the UK, understanding the culture – all with the goal in mind of bringing these unique English experiences back with me to Chicago and introducing them to people through our very own brewery - time honored traditions, timeless beer styles, and an emphasis on enjoying the moment in which you find yourself…the present tense.  I have met some incredible people since I have been here…people that have provided me amazing opportunities to view things behind the scenes, people that have been eager to answer any and all questions I have, people that have put me in connection with other helpful people.  It has been a great experience so far, and it has only strengthened my desire to open a traditional English style cask brewery in Chicago so that we can give people the opportunity to experience a proper pint.

The Craven Arms - Appletreewick, Yorkshire Dales

Timothy Taylor Landlord - The Falcon Inn, Arncliff, Yorkshire Dales

Burton Ale - The Bridge Inn, Burton

Red Lion - York

Roosters - Blind Jack's, Knaresborough

The sanctuary

It was a last minute decision.  My plans to rent a car and drive around the Dales had fallen through and I was frantically trying to find something to do to avoid wasting one of my Saturdays in the UK – an all too common predicament unfortunately.  You might say I am a bit overwhelmed with the self-imposed objective of experiencing all that the UK has to offer and becoming an expert in the English beer culture.  The options are limitless, the experiences infinite.  Already almost 5 weeks in, I feel like I have only begun to understand North Yorkshire; and the more I understand, the more it opens up intriguing aspects of the area that I want to check out.  I am working full time in a brewery and only have the weekends to travel and experience other parts of the country, and after working all week, waking up every morning at 4:30am, if I were completely honest, it takes a lot for me to muster up the energy to fill my weekends with travelling and making sense of a new destination.

So, with my naïve plans of traveling all over the UK taking in all the sights and tastes seeming a little too ambitious, I reconsidered my options for this particular Saturday.  I thought a destination a little closer to home was fitting; a brewery perhaps.

Prior to coming to the UK, my understanding of English beer and brewing was pretty general.  Sure, the uninformed person may have considered me quite knowledgeable, but I tend to hold myself to a pretty high standard, so I only saw through the lenses of what I did not know.  The things that I did not know definitely outweighed what I did know.  And what I did know was usually just based on a conjecture – actually, true of most things in life, until you experience it for yourself, most things are just based on a conjecture.   So my trip to the UK was chockfull of things that I wanted to learn – but three things had definitely risen to the top: 1) tasting proper cask beer, 2) experiencing proper pub culture, and 3) seeing a brewery that used open fermentation, more specifically Yorkshire squares.  I had become well versed in the first two, but up until last Saturday the third had eluded me.

Black Sheep Brewery in Masham

I knew of two independent breweries in the UK that still used Yorkshire squares.  One was Samuel Smith Brewery in Tadcaster, the UK’s closest thing to Willy Wonka’s factory – a place that makes some fantastic beer, but a place that is virtually closed off to the outside world.  I had tried every possible option to get a tour of their facility with absolutely no success; in fact, I was told that the brewery had not been open to the public for over 10 years.  The other brewery was Black Sheep in Masham – a relatively new brewery, opened in 1992 – a brewery steeped in tradition, founded by a sixth generation brewer in Masham.  Considering that Masham was only 20 miles from Harrogate, my plans for Saturday quickly fell into place. 

A little background on Yorkshire squares may be necessary at this point.  There is not much that differentiates the way that breweries brew beer.  Obviously the ingredients change from beer to beer, each brewery’s process will have its particular nuances, cleanliness cannot be overemphasized, but at the end of the day, all breweries are basically just steeping malt in a kettle, draining off the sugary liquid, and boiling it with the addition of hops.  What comes next is often the secret in a brewery’s recipe – the fermentation – because, in all actuality, this is the stage that actually makes beer.  Most modern breweries use closed top cylindroconical fermenters – for good reason – they are easy to clean, they produce consistent results, and their closed construction eliminates any risk of unwanted things getting into the beer.  Yorkshire squares, on the other hand, are a traditional open top fermentation vessel, originally made with slate, but now modernized to be made of stainless steel in a round shape.  During the fermentation, the yeast bubbles up onto a shelf positioned over the beer, and the beer is repeatedly sprayed onto the yeast sitting on the shelf to recirculate the beer and rouse the yeast.  Breweries that use them claim that they allow the yeast to produce flavors during fermentation and gives the beer a distinct full, rounded palate that cannot be produced in cylindroconical fermenters.  However, the benefits of cylindroconical fermenters are often too enticing for a brewery to consider using Yorkshire squares, and now their use is primarily relegated to the diehard traditionalists.  But tasting a beer fermented using Yorkshire squares is a beautiful thing – actually, to replicate this flavor and feeling in a beer is my aspiration for Present Tense – like I have said before…nothing that is worthwhile in this world comes easy.

I scheduled a tour for 3:30 at Black Sheep.  Even though Masham was only 20 miles from Harrogate, it was not an easy trip without a car.  A bus ride from Harrogate to Ripon and a taxi from Ripon to Masham ended up taking over an hour, but I was welcomed into Masham with a rainbow arching from one end of the sky to the other – a sure sign that I had made the right decision for my Saturday destination.

What welcomed me in Masham

I arrived with about a 20 minutes to spare before the start of the tour.  I perused the brewery shop a bit and then thought it appropriate to grab a pint to take with me on the tour – a chocolate oat stout suited me just fine.

The tour started off with a video explaining the history of the brewery – an interesting story involving the all too common path of most of England’s historical breweries – being bought out by a corporate conglomeration of breweries when times were tough for breweries in the mid-20^th century.  Paul Theakston, the founder of Black Sheep and the sixth generation of a brewing dynasty in Masham, just so happened to be the victim of this buy out.  The namesake brewery, Theakston, was bought out, and instead of giving into the corporate life, he quit and started his own brewery to continue brewing the way that he believed in (https://www.blacksheepbrewery.com/about) – and, thus, the name of the brewery – Paul being the “black sheep” of the family.

Following the video was the obligatory explanation of the brewing process and then the requisite show and tell of the ingredients that go into beer – probably the 500^th time I’ve hear that spiel - at least I had a pint to get me through it.  The presentation eventually ended and the tour commenced - we made our way through the doorway into the brewery.

View of tower brewery at Black Sheep

Climbing the stairs to a little platform overlooking the brewery, a tall wooden roof peaked high above us.  From this vantage point, the original brewery, a traditional tower brewery, could be closely examined.  The grist hopper, the mash tun, and the copper kettle – none of the typical stainless steel of modern breweries could be seen anywhere.  This was all original brewing equipment purchased from a defunct brewery and dropped through the roof into place – a good indication of this brewery’s adherence to tradition.  We then moved onto the adjacent room, the second brewery, a more modern set up with more of the familiar stainless steel vessels.  Even though some modern conveniences had been added to the setup, the brewery was full of character, not similar to any other brewery that I had seen.  It had been set up in a repurposed malt house formerly owned by Lighthouse Brewery, and had made particularly efficient use of the unconventional space.  There is definitely something to be said about the character of an old brewery compared with the well laid out and standardized configuration of most modern breweries – they are definitely more unique and intriguing, however, I am sure much less convenient.

After listening to the tour guide give a thorough explanation of the brewery, we finally made our way around the hop back, the mash tun, and the grist hopper, and opened the door in the back corner of the brewery to discover the purpose of my visit to this brewery – the fermentation room…the sanctuary of Yorkshire rounds.  It was a gorgeous sight!  Six large, round stainless steel vessels – three lining the left side of the room and three lining the right side of the room.  On display for all to see, resting on top of the round vessels, was the yeast; the magical creatures, the mysterious creators of alcohol, the enigmatic sources of flavor and character in beer.  No need to hide inside a closed tank, the yeast was able to receive the proper attention it deserved.  Completely exposed to the surroundings, open to all the elements for all to see, with people walking directly above the vessels, the risk of infection seeming imminent, however, the yeast, kings of this sanctuary, maintaining the sterile condition of the beer and warding off any unwelcome guests.  A perceived nightmare to most other brewers, Black Sheep proudly displayed their fermenting beer in their patented Yorkshire rounds – an unapologetic symbol of the six generations of brewing that lives on through this tradition.

Yorkshire round at peak of fermentation.

The sanctuary.

Yorkshire round toward end of fermentation.

I was the last person from the group to leave the fermentation room – it had become quite obvious throughout the duration of the tour that my interest in what was on display was on a completely different level to everyone else.  With only myself left in the room, I snapped several more pictures, I breathed in the air, I took mental notes, I stared deeply into the fluffy, bubbling surface of the yeast – dreaming of one day making Present Tense beer in these vessels. 

I returned to my sense and found my way back to the tour.  After a short summary from the tour guide, the tour was over.  The once elusive Yorkshire square that had been but a picture in a book and a vague entry in Wikipedia, was no longer just a conjecture.  I had seen it for myself.  I had witnessed it in operation.  I had observed its dimensions and construction.  It was now real to me…and the only appropriate thing to do at that point – enjoy a pint!

Enjoying a pint

The Pub

Golden Fleece - York

The large block letters illuminated from above by two large lamps, radiating in the dark street as a beacon of comfort to the weary sojourners.  The name of the establishment enshrined by some historical significance, but long lost through the generations of false stories and over embellishments.  No doubt, a good reason exists for the name, but now it just seems like a funny euphemism or novel alliteration; however, it is the essence of tradition in this land – an eye catching, nonsense name.  Jutting out from the ancient building a sign drops from a wooden beam – many times remade, but always retaining its character – hand painted, it provides the necessary imagery to explain the name of this worthy establishment.  Completing the backdrop of this building, a row of flowers dropping down from wooden planters precisely dividing the second floor from the first in a way that steals the cartoonish charm from the painted sign and provides a proper garnish to a proper English pub.

Blue Bell - York

The front door, a solid wood door, hewn many ages ago, painted dark brown with heavy metal fixtures, eeks open to a small foyer presenting two doors in stark contrast.  The right door…the left door – the ultimate decision. There is certainly a good explanation for the two separate doors; however, I have yet to hear it.  These doors present a confusing option to a newcomer, but certainly they provide a distinct layout for a very traditional pub – dividing the pub into two opposing rooms, one noticeably smaller than the other with the prominently undersized bar situated in the middle, open to both rooms.  There is no attempt at convenience in this establishment, and because of that it feels as though the privilege is all yours to be a part of it.

Standing in complete confusion in the foyer, my blank face snapped back into reality when the right door opened up and a couple guys walked out, providing me a brief glimpse in the room.  I held the door open and gave the lads some room to exit then proceed to take the opportunity to take up the freshly vacated spots in packed room.  No more than 10 foot by 10 foot square with a few tables, chairs surrounding them, cushioned bench seats, upholstered in red cloth, lined the front wall of the room below large paneled windows looking out onto the street.  The dark wood interior, the well-worn, dark brown painted bar with 6 hand pulls and several taps – it was described as a characteristic Edwardian interior…whatever that meant. 

Blue Bell - York

Entering through the door, I had to carefully walk around the man sitting at the round table right in front of the entrance – the necessary obstacle to maneuver for admission to the bar.  Finding my footing and securing a sure stance to get to the other side of the room – I couldn’t help but feel like I had just become the center of attention.  All eyes were on me, the new denizen of this hallowed place.  The uncomfortableness of the place only momentary – the stares, not malevolent – simply the nature of a pub.  Half the result of the environment – a small room with towering ceilings which caused an illusion of the walls bending slightly over everyone to secure them in this cozy, tight knit atmosphere able to instantly recognize a newcomer.  And half the result of the unspoken creed that a man walking into a pub enters with respect of the people already investing their time there – the process having played itself out over and over since the beginning of time… a price of a pint is the investment, finding a seat secures your contentedness until you chose to give it up.  If I were sitting in the seats like those staring at me, I would do the exact same thing – stare down the new intruder, the momentary disruption to the karma of the room. 

A pint of Roosters

I cozied to the bar with as much confidence as I could muster considering the place being as far from welcoming as possible.  The bartender, noticing my gaze upon the beer options at hand, was instantly at my service… “Ya alright?” – the casual greeting that inquires of the current state of my being; in other words, “How are you doing?”…“Do you need anything?”…“How can I help you?”  I said, I’ll have a pint of Roosters.  The bartender grabs a large glass from behind the bar and holds it at a slight angle, sparkler near the bottom of the glass, while the other hand grasps firmly on the top of the black hand pull.  The shiny black curved surface of the hand pull embellished with polished brass trim standing tall on the bar, a sturdy pump clip snapped around the base of the hand pull labeling the contents flowing through the lines from the cask in the cellar into the glass.  The bartender pulls the top of the hand pull toward him with a slightly exerted effort, just enough work to require of the bartender in preparing a proper pint – the dues he pays as a symbol for the work that was put into the brewing of the beautiful beer – nothing that is worthwhile in this world is easy.  One pull, beer spraying from the sparkler directly into the bottom of the glass; two pulls, the beer gradually filling up the clear glass with a swirling dark golden and creamy white hue; three pulls, rising closer to the top; four pulls, the creamy head slowly rushing over the edge of the glass.  The bartender sets the glass beside the hand pull and says “That will be three pound sixty.”  I pull out of my wallet five quid and the bartender goes back to collect my change.  I continue to stand and admire the glass.  A pint is a beautiful thing – blankets of air cascading through the beer as the liquid begins to settle at the bottom in a crystal clear liquid, a thick creamy head like whipped cream forming on the top of the beer as the air works its way up to the top of the glass – floating in waves, swaying to the perfect rhythm of the delicate body of the beer, the sheets of air layered in the fluidity of the beer to give a depth and texture that can only be seen to be believed.  The bartender tops up the beer with another half pull to fill the entire glass with a perfectly clear, dark golden beer.

Red Lion - York

I find my way to an open seat - open, a generous term.  There is space for me, however, in a tiny room, filled with people, personal space is redefined.  Sharing tables with complete strangers becomes customary, overhearing everyone’s conversation, unavoidable.  The one thing uniting everyone – the pint in hand.  I am no longer the center of attention.  I have found my seat.  I have paid my dues.  I am now one with the crowd, having made the necessary investment to claim the seat as my own.  The pint is now my time piece – instead of a pile of sand building up in an hour glass, the ever dropping level of liquid in my glass marks the consumption of my time.  With every drink the thick head of foam laces a beautiful story down the inside of the glass – leaving its indelible mark full of mystery and intrigue longing to be understood like the lines of a palm.  The bottom of the glass is not the end.  The bottom of the glass is an opportunity for a new beginning – the process repeats itself – “Ya alright?”…1,2,3,4 pulls…the masterpiece paints itself again in the pint glass, and I lose myself in the moment unfolding all around me in the crowded pub.

Burton

Imagine a place developed from the ground up for the sole purpose of brewing beer.  Its entire infrastructure developed for making beer.  Its entire population existing to meet the needs of the industry.  Its streets, a complex rail system, the life line of each brewery, delivering raw ingredients, transporting casks, moving spent grain.  Day in and day out, around the clock, ingredients come in, beer flows out – faster, more efficient. 

Prior to my trip to Burton, I knew very little about its history.  I had a general understanding of its historical significance and its contribution to brewing, but little else.  So, I decided to make the trip from Harrogate to Burton with little expectations for the town, other than to pay homage to a place that is recognized by most every homebrewer and to visit the National Brewery Centre. 

After a 2.5 hour trip with a transfer at Leeds, I walked off the train to a sight of a rather aging city under a very grey and gloomy sky; not very picturesque by any stretch of the imagination, rather, very unspectacular looking.  Dominating the center of the city was the Molson Coors brewery.  Poor choices of exterior materials and a rather obvious sign of a lack of up keep, the brewery was an ugly site…enormous, yes, but not much consideration for aesthetics or taste.  Walking past the modern, but faded and aging brewery, I began to see signs of the Burton of the past – large brick buildings, many sitting vacant, others repurposed for restaurants or a variety of other needs.  The dramatic contrast of new and old caused me to shake my head…such grand brick buildings, standing for centuries, built with pride and integrity by the hands of hard working men next to thrown together metal structures that beg for respect, but with no substance behind their construction only get a passing glance from a passerby’s brief recognition of the multinational corporation’s sign bolted onto the black fence.

Molson Coors Brewery in Burton-on-Trent

The contrast of new and old in Burton.

This continued to be the trend through the town, one impressive brick building, surely a remnant of a former brewery, standing next to a new building of significantly inferior quality and substance.  Where there was not a new building, there was a parking lot.  Nothing in particular stood out about Burton, a city standing in the shadows of its past - a theme replayed across innumerable cities all over the world.  Just like any other former industrial town – trying to keep up with the present by demolishing one substantial, historical building after another to make way for a more convenient and suitable replacement.  I eventually made my way to my destination – the National Brewery Centre. 

One of the buildings of the National Brewery Center,
in an original building from the Worthington Brewery.

Housed in a large red brick building situated on the back corner of the Molson Coors parking lot, the National Brewery Centre recounted the once flourishing history of the Bass Brewery and its place in the brewing heritage of Burton-on-Trent.  The museum was enormous spanning across three buildings showing off antique brewing equipment, beer memorabilia, shire horses, dray carts, vintage delivery trucks, and on and on.  But what stood out to me the most was a large scale model of the city of Burton in the year 1880.  I was in heaven indulging in the historical artifacts of brewing in Burton, but I was astonished to learn of the massive influence brewing had on the city – culminating in an unbelievable scale model of how the city once stood.

Burton in 1880.

Burton in 1880.

Burton in 1880.

Burton in 1880.

So, going back to that brewing paradise mentioned above, that place once existed…it was called Burton-on-Trent.  Sitting directly above an abundant source of some of the most perfect brewing water in the world and situated alongside the River Trent, an important commercial route cutting across England, Burton established itself as the brewing capital of the world during the 19^th century.  Dozens of wells scattered across the town provided the breweries access to the water sitting deep underground.  Complex rail systems tangled throughout the town linking each brewery to the main rail line.  At its peak, over 30 massive breweries called this place home – producing over a quarter of England’s beer production and exporting beer all over the world.  Each brewery employed armies of people to address the needs of every aspect of the brewery – brewers, coopers, construction workers, engineers, clerical workers, chemists, maltsters, uniform seamstresses, shoe makers, shire horses, and on and on…each brewery was basically like a little city within a city taking up dozens of buildings expanding across numerous city blocks.  The work was intense, but people flocked to the city to work in the harsh conditions and keep the industry booming.

Needless to say, my perspective of the unremarkable town that I had just walked through had dramatically changed in light of the more informed understanding I had gained of the place and its history.  I made my way back through the city, viewing things through a completely different lens – trying to imagine how the city once was.

The scale model I had seen in the museum was utterly impressive, the city that I was walking through was not.  There were no signs of the rail system that once filled the streets.  There was no sign of the smoke stacks rising high above the city.  And there was no hint of the sweet smell of brewing in the air.  Little remained of the once thriving industry.  Sure, lots of original brick buildings still stood, but they were all disconnected, repurposed, and mainly vacant.  Sure, brewing was still a significant part of the city, but the empire that once stood in Burton had been demolished and replaced with the latest, modern systems able to produce as much beer in only 1% of the space.   Sure, there still remained some major breweries in the city, but the craft of brewing had been replaced with the automation of the business of brewing.  The city has continued to limp along, but years of bad decisions, numerous brewery mergers, and greedy buy outs has crippled the city and left it only with relics of a once impressive past.

As I continued walking through the city, I came across a pub called the Bridge Inn.  On the front of the building, it said Burton Bridge Brewery in big block letters, and on a sign in front of the entrance it said “Now available: Burton Ale”.  I quickly decided that it was time for a pint or two.  That was a wise decision.  This pub was fantastic, the beer was incredible; I had discovered a reinvigoration of life into Burton by way of beer.  The namesake beer of the city had been revived by a small brewery keen on continuing the long tradition of making incredible beer in Burton-on-Trent.  And Burton’s legacy continues…the once booming city full of massive breweries is birthing a new generation of small scale breweries intent on providing the UK with amazing beer.

Where is the traditional?

I do not claim to be an expert by any stretch of the imagination.  My experience with beer in the UK has been limited to one area, North Yorkshire, and for quite a short amount of time, two weeks, so it is difficult to claim that I have a broad perspective of the state of the beer industry in the UK.  But it is impossible to overlook the fact, that American craft beer has a profound influence on beer in the UK.  I have traveled across an ocean with hopes of being exposed to traditional English ales served properly in a proper setting, however, everywhere I go the “craft” beer being served is one variation after another of an American Pale ale.  It is quite obvious that the “cutting edge” breweries and the craft beer aficionados in the UK have come to reject the traditional flavors and styles that were once prolific in every pub in the country, replacing them with the ubiquitous American hop flavor.  As I pursue my inspiration for trying to bring traditional English ales to Chicago, it is becoming more and more apparent to me that my endeavor may also be helping to preserve an endangered style in its homeland.

Angel Inn in Leeds, a very traditional pub and one of many
Samuel Smith pubs.  Samuel Smith tied houses have changed
very little over time, maintaining low prices, but tending
to have a questionable reputations with many people.  

I was naïve to think that the UK that I had read about in literature, glamorizing the pub culture with hand pumps, casks, and traditional ales, would be left unchanged in the year 2015.  It is so easy to glamorize a place based on movies and books…to think that those stories of fiction or those generalized summaries of history carryon through time unspoiled and are a continuous reality of a place.  As I have endured the ever changing landscape of Chicago, with its fluid trends and fickle consumerism, there was a part of me that thought there existed across the Atlantic this land of tradition, where people valued meaningful things and appreciated good, traditional beer.  However, just like Chicago, people in the UK are ever chasing after the latest and greatest, most often overlooking the traditions that I have come to admire.

The Crane Bar in Galway, Ireland

This realization of my naiveté came to me even before I arrived in the UK.  I left Chicago a few days before I was to start work at the brewery so that I could spend some time in Ireland.   If anyone knows me at all, they know that I love Irish music – yet another dying tradition in this world.  I have sought good Irish music whenever I have the opportunity.  Columbus, OH was a great place for Irish music.  There I discovered one of my favorite bands, the Drowsy Lads.  However, my appreciation for the music always brought to mind this far off place where Irish jigs and reels were played night after night to a raucous crowd of pub dwellers whose glasses never ran dry of Guinness…who reveled in the musicianship and were united by the exuberant energy.  Well, come to find out, after a few days driving around Ireland, seeking the most well-known places for music, these places no longer exists as they once did.  They have been spoiled by tourists, just like me, sucking out every ounce of genuineness that remained of the once prolific Irish folk music pubs.  What remained were places which catered to the foreigner, playing well known tunes to a completely detached crowd.  Sure Irish folk music still exists and occasionally glimpses of genuineness shine through in these settings, but the stories and places that are immortalized in the songs only continue to exist through the songs…these places have changed just like everywhere else.

The Grove Inn in Leeds,  A fine pub with a very
cozy, traditional interior.

So with that experience behind me, I headed to the UK – dreaming of cask ale and lively pubs with

dark aging wood interiors, full of character and soul warming, log burning fireplaces.  And what is all too common in my experience so far…American Pales ales, lots of keg beer, stark white, devoid of character interiors, and far too few fireplaces.  Don’t get me wrong; traditional places still exist, traditional ales still exist…they are just much harder to find.  They are no longer the norm, they are now a novelty, a weekend escape, a reminder of what once was.  The UK, at least North Yorkshire, can no longer be defined by their idyllic portrayal.  What has replaced them is simply a sign of the public’s changing preferences, the society’s acceptance of trend over substance.

With my first two weeks in the UK not quite what I had imagined, I am not disappointed with what I have experienced so far.  I continue to seek out substance and genuineness in the places that I visit.  Moments and places continue to surprise.  Whether it be the dingy pub I walked into that welcomed me in like family or the incredibly well balanced traditional Mild ale that everyone told me not to get, I can see and taste hints of the traditional everywhere.  Instead of trying to conform this new place in which I find myself to fit my expectations, I am, instead, trying to experience everything with an open mind.  I’ll leave it to the movies and history books to paint the pictures of how life once was, and I will take it upon myself to make the most of the present and develop my own understanding of the actual place in which I am blessed to spend the next few months.  Come to think of it, that is quite in line with the meaning of the name of our brewery – Present Tense.

Traditional or not….I still have an unimaginable supply of amazing cask ale all around me…and that makes me very happy!

Real Ale Festival - Weatherspoon, Harrogate

A very well supplied cellar in Newcastle.

The beginning of the next 3 months

Standing on Skipton Road at 6:15AM waiting on Oliver to pick me up, it was all becoming a reality now.  I was finally in the UK.  I was finally starting my first brewery job.  And I had woken up at the god forsaken time of 5am.  This was to be my schedule for the next 3 months.  A slight change of schedule from what I had grown accustomed to in Chicago – starting work at 10am.  Now by 10am almost half my work day would be over.

My expectations for the day were not very high. I expected to be doing basic labor for a while – cask washing, shoveling grain, cleaning, etc – but I was looking forward to getting past the uncomfortableness of being the new guy and contributing to the brewery in my own way.

Casks getting loaded on pallets to be

filled with beer the next day.

We arrived at the brewery in about 15 minutes after Oliver picked me up.  The drive from Harrogate to Knaresborough was surprisingly busy for such an hour – may be the English were earlier risers than Americans or maybe I just had no idea that people’s days started much earlier than mine typically had in the past.  Oliver and I entered in the side door behind the massive stainless steel tanks while everyone else was waiting at the front where two large steel sliding doors opened the brewery up to the world.  The brewery was housed in a large steel structure resembling an airplane hangar – a large half circle corrugated steel roof extending for nearly a football field’s length.

After I got introduced to everyone, and quickly forgot everyone’s name, everyone very promptly got to work.  Kat fixed coffee and tea for everyone.  Everyone had their own steel toe, waterproof boots and a locker to hold their stuff.  It all operated like a well-oiled machine – everyone had their tasks for the day and it was just a matter of getting it done that determined the success of their job.  As everyone started tackling their morning tasks, Oliver gave me a tour. 

The cask washer beside a wall of casks.

The brewery was very orderly and very logically set up.  Behind the two massive doors, the casks sat stacked 4 rows of 6 high.  Stacked on pallets with trays placed between each row, the casks were able to be easily moved and rearranged as needed.  There were 9 gallon casks, 11 gallon casks, and full 18 gallon casks.  Beside the casks was two bathrooms and a large stainless steel utility sink and dishwasher.  Behind the casks was the cask washer.  Placed up against the wall, the cask washer was a 3 cask washer.  A cask stand stood close to the cask washer with a large plastic tub positioned under the stand to catch the remaining contents of each cask as it was emptied and rinsed.  Behind the cask washer on the right side of the building was a two story structure with the lower level having an enclosed laboratory making up one room and a supplies closet making up the other.  The upper level was used for grain storage and for access to the top of the mash tun for loading the grain hopper.  The 30 barrel brew house stood behind this with a hot liquor tank, a cold liquor tank, a CIP system, and another hot liquor tank.  On the left side of the building stood a two story structure with the lower level having a small office for Oliver positioned adjacent to the kitchen and the upper level housed Tom’s office.  Behind that was a closet for storing the canning system, filters, and pumps.  Then more cask and can storage and then behind that stood CO2 tanks and O2 tanks beside a large bright tank for carbonating beer prior to kegging and canning.  6 large conical fermenters finished the remainder of the left side of the room across from the brew house.  The fermenters were custom made by a local fabricator with a manway opening at the top for dryhopping.  All of this composed the main area of the brewery.  Behind the main area was a two story cold room.  The lower level was held at cellar temperature for cask conditioning, while the upper level housed all of the hops at 2 deg C.  Finally, behind the cold storage was a staging area for prepping cask orders for delivery.

Research - Hales Pub, Harrogate's
oldest pub

This is my world for the next three months.  Day in and day out, opportunities will arise to make me become very familiar with every aspect of the brewery – but for now my main tasks are washing pallet after pallet of casks, making sure that they are absolutely spotless on the inside, and filling casks from the fermenters that stand 12 feet over my head in what seem like a tank of infinite capacity.  Regardless of how menial the task, I am incredibly grateful for this opportunity.  What can I complain about?  I am in UK, working for an awesome brewery…spending my free time “researching” the drinking culture in the UK while sampling as many cask beers that I can get my hands on.  Also, it doesn’t hurt that everyone I have met so far has been incredibly friendly and accommodating to me and very curious and supportive of our goals for Present Tense.  3 months is quite a while to be away, especially when I had to leave someone very special behind, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I am doing best to make the most of this experience and prepare myself to bring a little bit of the UK back to Chicago.