Today, many — if not most — European beers are made with barley. Earlier European beers, however, were made with any number of other grains. But then came the reformers: Bavaria’s Reinheitsgebot proscribed the use of anything other than barley in 1516; in Bohemia, the great brewing scientist František Ondřej Poupě, author of “The Art of Beer Brewing” (1794), helped kill off other grains at the end of the eighteenth century, famously declaring that oats were for horses, wheat was for cakes, and only barley was fit for beer.

So before barley was the only ingredient to use, what did beers taste like? They might have been a bit like the Historisches Emmer Bier from Germany’s Riedenburger brewery, made with malted emmer, einkorn and spelt (all early domesticated forms of wheat), as well as barley and modern wheat.

Beyond the grain bill, it’s an unusual brew with unusual flavors. From my swing-top bottle it poured a cloudy amber with a thick head and a slightly spicy nose. In the mouth, it was malty and finshed a bit sour, roughly akin to a dark wheat but also rich and full like a Vienna lager. There was also a strange flavor I couldn’t quite place. What I come up with was umami, the flavorsome, food-like notes that reminded me most of doughy notes mixed with vegetables: a good pizza, a rich bowl of pasta, a great sandwich on fresh bread.

It’s also worth noting that this beer is a Naturtrüb, and it is correspondingly cloudy with some amazing amounts of sediment. I’m not sure if you can tell from this shot down the bottle neck, but the last centimeter of liquid was fairly viscous gunk.

My guess is that the hearty, food-like notes came from the primitive wheats in use. In any case, I’d definitely try it again: like a Vienna lager, I think it would be an ideal pairing with pizza or pasta.

Despite Germany’s outstanding brewing traditions, the country’s capital is not widely thought of as a great place for beer. The city’s native beer style, the sour Berliner Weisse, is now almost extinct. And considering we’re talking about a city of 3.4 million people who seem to pride themselves on eating well, drinking well and going out a heck of a lot, finding good local beers can be surprisingly difficult.

That’s certainly the case for the Eschenbräu brewpub, which offers three regular beers with ten seasonal specials scheduled for 2009. It’s not impossible to reach, but it’s far enough off the tourist map that most casual visitors to Berlin aren’t going to bump into it.

Located in the gritty neighborhood of Wedding, north and west of Mitte, Eschenbräu has a sign on the street telling guests that its entrance is around the corner. It’s actually around several corners, through a courtyard and down some stairs, hiding behind what appears to be a student dormitory.

The atmosphere is part student Kneipe, part classic Berlin beer bar, with dark wood tables, dark banquettes against the walls and brewing paraphernalia — empty malt sacks from Weyermann and so forth — making up the décor. The mood last Thursday was quiet, festive and neighborly, the kind of night when the music they’re playing is rock ‘n’ roll but at low volume, a night when the waitress immediately calls you “Du.”

I managed to try both the Pils and Weizen, skipping the reddish Dunkles only because of time constraints. The Pils had a pronounced hop bitterness, but very little hop aroma, and a thin, yellowish body in line with many German Pils beers; the loose white head disappeared within a few seconds. Biased by Czech pale lagers, which are usually both more malty and more aromatic, I thought it was okay by comparison. However, when compared to a bottle of Berliner Pilsner, Eschenbräu’s version was nectar.

I got a lot more out of the Weizen, a refreshing clove-scented wheat in the Bavarian style, which seemed to have a better bitter-sweet balance.

My visit missed by a day Eschenbräu’s first seasonal special of the year, a Dunkler Bock released on 13.2; other scheduled specials are Rauchbier (13.3), Hopfenblume (3.4), Maibock (1.5), Bayrisch Hell (5.6), Roter Wedding (10.7, a “red” lager taking the traditionally leftist neighborhood’s nickname), Schwarze Molle (7.8), Märzen (25.9), Doppelhopf (30.10), and something called “Alter Schwede” (27.11).

It’s interesting to note that while Eschenbräu makes beers in the style of other cities — Munich, Bamberg and so on — it doesn’t seem to produce a beer in the traditional style of its own hometown. Sure, there will be Bamberger Rauchbier. But apparently there won’t be any Berliner Weisse here.

“Interesting” is one way of putting it. “Depressing” is another.

Eschenbräu
Triftstraße 67 (near U-Bahn Leopoldplatz)
13 353 Berlin-Wedding
Tel. +49 30 462 68 37
Open daily from 5 p.m.

]]> http://www.beerculture.org/2009/02/16/the-eschenbrau-brewpub-in-berlin/feed/ 3 http://www.beerculture.org/2009/01/22/st-pauli-from-slovakia/ http://www.beerculture.org/2009/01/22/st-pauli-from-slovakia/#comments Thu, 22 Jan 2009 12:53:47 +0000 Evan Rail http://www.praguemonitor.com/beer/?p=381

I’ve written before about Slovak brewers using Slavic models to market their beers in Germany. Now a German brewery is using a Slovak model to promote its beers in America.

That is to say St. Pauli Girl — the second most-popular German beer brand in the USA — has picked its annual eponymous spokeswoman. This year’s model is Katarina Van Derham, who “grew up in a small village in the woods of Slovakia, a communist country at the time,” and picked by fans of the beer in online voting. She’s third from the left in the cattle-call shot above.

It’s worth noting that no one I know has ever seen St. Pauli Girl — the beer — in Germany; St. Pauli Girl’s Wikipedia page says it is “only produced for export and is not sold in Germany.” For real beer fans, that might not be such a reassuring sign.

But perhaps that is beside the point: after all, it’s not called “St. Pauli Beer,” but “St. Pauli Girl,” with the emphasis on the lady rather than the liquid. While the cult Scottish beer maker BrewDog is allowing its fans to choose the next beer it produces, St. Pauli Girl is allowing its fans to select which model should represent the brand. In other words, fans of the beer are choosing the “girl” both when they vote online and when they order the beer in a bar. And in that sense, it’s probably very easy to find a new and appealing St. Pauli Girl — as in the spokeswoman — every year.

Just as long as you like them golden, bland and fizzy.

Radio Prague has a piece on a story that made headlines here this week: Pilsner Urquell is now cheaper in Germany than in the Czech Republic. I performed the role of the talking head in the story, a complicated mess of pricing, market share and currency fluctuations which ultimately boils down to the following:

Pilsner Urquell is now cheaper in Germany than in the Czech Republic.

Not everything I said made it into the web version, and there were quite a few things I didn’t get to mention before the interview ended. One part that got cut off from my take on the German appreciation for Pilsner Urquell was the fact that German Pilsner-style beers use a place name as an adjective in connection with the word, such as “Bamberger Pilsner,” in homage and in deference to the original.

However, I did get to mention something that has been bugging me for a while: Heineken is being promoted in the Czech Republic at the expense of quality local beers.

Recently my neighborhood supermarket was selling a half-liter bottle of Heineken “Pilsner” for 19 Kč, then about 72 cents in euro terms, about what it might cost in a supermarket in Amsterdam (now more, due to the recent strengthening of the Czech crown against the euro). This is not what anyone would possibly consider a fair trade: Pilsner Urquell is more expensive at home than outside the country, and supermarkets here compensate by offering us Heineken? (Edit: more to the point, this particular supermarket doesn’t stock any beers from small brewers like Primátor, Svijany, Opat, Herold, Černá Hora, Platan, Rebel, Louny, Velké Březno or Rychtář. From Klášter, it only stocks the 11° světlý ležák; from Bernard it only stocks the sváteční ležák. Everything else is a mass-production brew like Heineken.)

It’s hardly coincidental that the supermarket chain in question, Albert, is part of Ahold. Ahold is based in Rotterdam, while Heineken is based in Amsterdam. From the outside, this appears to be a case of “o nás bez nás,” or “about us without us” — in other words, decisions affecting consumer choice in the Czech Republic seem to be made in far-away countries without regard for local tastes, history and traditions.

It’s enough to make you want to write a letter to Ahold Czech Republic, saying “Please improve your beer selection at Albert. We don’t want Heineken. We are in the Czech Republic. We want to buy a variety of quality Czech beers, including beers from small producers like Primátor, Svijany, Herold or Opat.”

Or:

“Prosím zlepšete svou pivní nabídku v Albertu. Nechceme Heineken. Jsme v České Republice. Chceme mít možnost nakupovat různá kvalitní česká piva, včetně piva od malých výrobců jako jsou Primátor, Svijany, Herold nebo Opat.”

Feel free to copy and paste. And if you have the time to print that up and stick it in an envelope, the mailing address is:

Ahold Czech Republic
David Šátek, Purchasing Department
Radlická 117
158 00 Praha 5 — Nové Butovice
Czech Republic

In any case, Czech beer prices are all going up, as I mentioned last week, meaning we’ll have to get used to paying more for everything, not just Pilsner Urquell. The photo at the top of this page was taken in July of 2006, when you could still buy a half-liter of the original Pilsner in Prague for 23 Kč. Heineken may be many things, but it is no substitute for a great beer from a small Czech producer.

Though the Czech Republic’s overall beer output rocked an all-time high of over 20 million hectoliters (12 million barrels) last year, growth is slowing as it hits the top of the arch. One category is still rocketing forward, however: nonalcoholic beer. In 2007, production of Czech nonalcoholic beer fully doubled from the year before, hitting half a million hectoliters of fine-to-drive lager containing .5% alcohol by volume or less.

That’s quite a change from just a few years ago, when nonalcoholic beer was rarely seen. Now nearly everyone offers nealkoholické pivo in bottles, and several varieties are even available on draft, with more versions showing up every month: Svijany introduced its nonalcoholic beer in 2006; Chodovar sent out its brew in 2007. Growth appears in every corner of the country: Litovel’s nonalcoholic beer production jumped 57% in 2007; Primátor expanded its distribution of NA beer by 65% from the year before; Budvar grew its sales of nealkoholické pivo by 55% last year.

Two reasons for the pick up:

1 . The Czech Republic has a zero-tolerance policy for drinking and driving. (It might be flouted, but that is the law.)

2. Some Czech nonalcoholic beers actually taste good.

In fact, some nonalcoholic beers are pretty darn amazing. Budvar’s very hoppy nonalcoholic beer turned the heads of more than a few drivers (and passengers) when it first appeared. Even better versions have come from fave small producers like Bernard, who combined the interest in driver-friendly brews with its own unpasteurized aesthetic, introducing an unpasteurized, nonalcoholic golden lager called Bernard Free that rated at the top of the list for at least one taster, as well as SPP.

Then, in a nod to the continuing local love affair with amber beers, Bernard came out with Bernard Free Jantarové — an unpasteurized amber brew roughly akin to a Vienna lager, but without alcohol. There’s not much nose, but it has a nice taste of malt and mixed whole grains in the mouth. The finish is mild and lasting, but not overly sweet. Most beer lovers wouldn’t be desperate to order this over a regular Bernard amber beer, a lovely brew itself, but if you can’t or don’t feel like consuming alcohol, you could do far worse for a decent sip to go with lunch.

Oh, and that slogan on the label? It’s “Bernard s čistou hlavou,” literally “Bernard with a clean head,” and it shows brewery owner Stanislav Bernard — something of a rock star in these parts — with his characteristic curly locks shorn clean off. Normally, he is substantially more hirsute. Here’s how he appeared when he and brewer Josef Vávra accepted SPP’s award for nonalcoholic beer of the year 2007:

There’s certainly more room for innovation in the market: as far as I know, no Czech producer makes anything like Franziskaner Hefe-Weissbier Alkoholfrei, a bottle of which I brought back from Starkbierzeit in Munich last weekend. As the name implies, it’s a non-alcoholic Hefeweizen, arriving with a visible yeast deposit at the bottom of the bottle. In general, it is the same as your average Bavarian wheat: it pours a cloudy gold with a thick, well-set white head; the nose is of citrus blossoms and fruit; in the mouth it is just slightly acidic, then slightly malty, finishing with a hint of banana, if not clove.

It’s spot-on for the taste of yeast and wheat, and only afterwards do you notice that one normal aspect of a good beer is missing: the astringent feel of alcohol in the mouth. At the same time, you might notice that something else is unexpectedly present: a perfectly clear — if not clean-shaven — head.

We’re just back from Munich, where Starkbierzeit kicked off last weekend, running through March 8 of this year. A few notes about the festival whose name means “strong beer time.”

1. With 7.5% alcohol by volume, the beers really are quite strong.

2. The use of the Maß, a 1-liter serving vessel, makes it very easy to underestimate your intake. (When it comes to Starkbier, “I’ve just had two beers” can be parsed as “I’ve just had four half-liters” and in amount of alcohol is equivalent to saying “I just drank six premium lagers.”)

3. If you want to check out people wearing traditional Bavarian costumes — young codgers as well as old — the best spot is outside in the Paulaner beer garden at Nockherberg.

4. Starkbier mostly seems to be a time of year, not a set style, at least not beyond the high original gravity of 18° or more. Some breweries produce an amber strong beer, some golden; some serve crystal-clear beers, some cloudy Naturtrüb versions.

5. The Forschungsbrauerei is one of the smallest breweries around and is a must-see for their St. Jakobus Blonder Bock, an outstanding golden Starkbier brewed at 19.5°, though still finishing with 7.5% ABV. It has more hop notes (with 100% Hallertau, mostly in the form of whole cones) in the finish than most brews in this part of Bavaria. Take the S6 train to the Perlach station and either carry a GPS, use Google maps, or bring a copy of the map on the website.

6. Second-favorite Starkbier: the unfiltered Naturtrüb Unimator at Unions-Bräu. (Nice Helles, too.)

7. Third-favorite Starkbier (and one of the best among the town’s high-volume producers): the malty, deep amber Maximator at Augustiner-Keller, which also had some of the most agreeable atmosphere.

8. Munich is about four hours from Prague by car and just over six hours by train. If you’re here, Bavaria is an easy getaway for a weekend. If you’re there, consider coming here. (Once again, beer travel between Prague, Pilsen, Munich and Bamberg is quite doable.)

I’ll be writing a longer piece about Starkbier for the American drinks and culture magazine Imbibe, but that’s the gist of what I can remember. The well-kept local traditions in Munich are truly impressive, so much so that after a while you feel odd because you’re not wearing Lederhosen. Furthermore, the wonderfully social aspect of a European beer garden is something that I’ve never quite found in America — people can actually get together, make friends with their neighbors, meet up with old acquaintances and celebrate (the end of winter in this case) by raising a mug or two without burning down the neighborhood or shooting anyone, even after knocking back some truly strong stuff. There’s a lesson in this for sure.

There’s a lot more to Bamberg than just Rauchbier — the town is said to produce brews in some 50 different styles, including the buzz-worthy U, aka Ungespundetes, an “uncorked” or “unbunged” style of Kellerbier best-known in the versions from Mahr’s and Spezial, as well as very good wheats from places like Kaiserdom. If you’re tempted to take something home with you, the very last chance before you leave town is a small shop in the train station with bottles of Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier as well as one of the local oddballs: Zwergla from Brauerei Fässla.

The Fässla pub was one of my favorites on my first trip to Bamberg, if only for the atmosphere, as I got caught up in conversations with the Stammgäste there. And while Zwergla’s “Lil’ Dwarf” moniker is fairly distinctive, I couldn’t remember ever trying it. Grabbing a bottle in the Bahnhof, I figured I’d check out what I missed and compare it to some beers from back home.

On the brewery’s home page, Zwergla is listed as a Dunkles, but there’s quite a bit of red glinting through (especially if you backlight the glass with a tea candle, as in the shot above). In normal light it is a clear deep amber with very moderate carbonation and a loose tan head. The nose is honey with light ginger notes; in the mouth, it has a rich, full mouthfeel with moderate sweetness followed by a surprisingly bitter finish.

That’s pretty good, I thought. And then I made a big mistake: I opened a bottle of Herold’s Bohemian Granát from the Czech Republic. I’m not sure if it says more about Fässla or Herold, but after sampling Bohemian Granát’s rich, sweet-and-sour caramel bite and even stronger bitter finish, I wouldn’t recommend going to Bamberg just for the Lil’ Dwarf.

Of course Beeropolis has much more to try, like the newish brewpub Ambräusianum. Although we missed the Fastenbier at Schlenkerla and Spezial by a matter of days, Ambräusianum’s version, the perfectly named Ambräusiator, was ready to go. It’s the same very dark amber as their normal Dunkles, though clear instead of cloudy, with a thin, short-half-life head, due to the consciousness-altering ABV of around 7.5%. It has a malty, peppery and peach-scented nose, with a filling rich flatness in the mouth followed by tannic notes in the finish. Additional sips bring out tastes of stewed forest fruits and jam. It’s chewy, thick and unctuous, though probably not something most people would order twice, if only because of the kick.

I don’t think the same can be said of Mahr’s Ungespundet-hefetrüb, probably the closest thing in Bamberg to a Czech-style brew, and served on site in an earthenware Krug, my favorite type of drinking vessel. (More on drinking vessels soon.) As I raised the glass, I thought of Alan, who seems to like Mahr’s pretty OK. Maybe even more than just OK.

This particularly gratuitous shot is for him.

Continuing with the report from Bamberg, and now on to Rauchbier, the local specialty made with smoked malt. Above is a post-first-sip shot of Spezial’s Rauchbier, shown in the taproom on Obere Königsstraße. In Bamberg itself, there are two main producers: the oh-so-famous Schlenkerla, aka home of Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier, and Brauerei Spezial. (While a few other producers in the larger region also make Rauchbier, I’ll focus on Bamberg for now.) Before I compare the two, I’d like to talk about something else for a second: wine.

Hang on — there’s no need to choke on your Double IPA, bro. This is still Beer Culture, and of course beer and wine have much in common, not the least of which is the fact that they both make life worth living. And just as extreme beers — with more alcohol, more hops, and of course higher prices — have taken off in the past few years, winemakers have gone through their own forms of extremism, producing wines with more alcohol, more oak, more fruit, more malolactic buttery flavors and mouthfeel, and of course ever-higher prices. And not everyone has been happy with the changes.

Much of this was catalogued in the lovely film Mondovino, which pointed out how the preeminence of just one critic, Robert Parker, has single-handedly changed the way French wines are made. A high rating from Parker’s Wine Advocate can take your vineyard from obscurity to sold-out status in a matter of days. If your winery is struggling to survive, why wouldn’t you consider making wines that are just a bit more in line with what the world’s most important wine critic seems to prefer?

Another factor, of course, is the fact that many big wine tastings are done with dozens if not scores of bottles at once. (There’s a reason why they spit it out, and it’s not because the stuff doesn’t taste good.) I’ve been a judge in several blind tastings of 20 wines or more, and honestly, after trying two dozen sauvignons blancs in thirty minutes, it’s very hard to keep track of subtleties. At that point, just about the only wines that have a chance of getting noticed are the ones with more: more oak, more butter, more alcohol or more fruit. This is not the same as saying they are the best, and individually, compared one to another, the more modest, more balanced, less extreme wine might very well be every judge’s favorite. It’s just that when you’re tasting a large amount of samples over the course of an afternoon, subtlety, modesty and balance are often hard to grasp.

Well, that’s what seems to be happening with beer — not in the sense of the preeminence of a single critic, not in the sense of people tasting 20 Doppelbocks in a session, and not in the sense of judges spraying the world’s greatest brews into a spittoon. Rather, it’s happening in the sense that the loud, noisy beers, if you will, are the ones that are getting noticed in the crowd, rather than the elegant and understated beers that you’d want to bring home to Mom and Dad.

Which brings us back to Rauchbier.

As I said, there are two producers of Rauchbier in Bamberg town, and of them, Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier is about as Rauch-y as it can get, so assertively smoky that people compare it to liquid bacon. The smoke first hits your mouth like a Montecristo #2 torpedo, lingering with bacony, porcine flavors before heading off to a bittersweet finish, like the point when your maple syrup gets on the last bite of your breakfast links. For smoked beers, it is extreme, and if you’ve never had one, it pretty much blows your mind (and your gustatory papillae) the first time you try it. It is literally awesome.

And yet I think I prefer Spezial. Compared to its cross-town competition, Spezial is moderately, even modestly smoky. Instead, it’s easier to taste the malt, and much easier to taste the meal you have with it. Another bonus: after you have a Rauchbier from Spezial, you can still enjoy something else. You could have another Spezial Rauchbier and still like it, or you could move on and enjoy the subtleties of the brewery’s very nice Ungespundetes.

Whereas after you have one from Schlenkerla, it’s hard to taste anything else.

Well, that’s a brief take on Bamberger Rauchbier as it looked last week. There is another interesting beer from Schlenkerla, the Rauchweizen (“smoke wheat”) beer. It has a slightly lighter body than the Rauchbier, with a wheat beer’s spicy clove finish, and isn’t quite as aggressive in its smokiness. The Czech Republic’s new Pivovar Kocour Varnsdorf is set to produce a Rauchweizen, and beer fans here can’t wait to check that out. Both Bamberg breweries also produce a strong version known as Fastenbier, available only during Lent, meaning right now.

Oh, and one more thing about wine: while extreme wines aren’t disappearing, there are rumors of winemakers in California scaling back the alcohol and fruit. I mentioned this as a possible sign for a coming sea-change in brewing trends in a discussion about extreme beers on A Good Beer Blog which Stephen Beaumont also cited in his post on the subject at On the House.

Of course the extreme will continue to get the attention from the hoi polloi, but consider Lew Bryson’s Session Beer Project in the US and CAMRA’s attempt to rekindle interest in mild in the UK. Consider the fact that non-alcoholic beers are one of the growth segments of the Czech beer market, and that cult producer Bernard is emphasizing its lehké pivo (“light beer”), an uncommon style of table beer brewed at 7.99° or less and, in this case, containing just 2.2% ABV. With that in mind, you could make the case that the next big thing — at least at the leading edge of beer culture — just might be smaller beers.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to plan my trip to Munich for Starkbierzeit.

Let’s say you’re about to get married and, hypothetically, you like beer. (Use your imagination for the former, if not the latter.) Let’s also suppose, hypothetically, that your beloved enjoys a good pint as well. The day arrives; you finally say “I do.” Where on earth do you go for your honeymoon?

That is precisely the question that faced us last week. After several years of traveling around Central Europe, taking photographs and writing about travel and food and drink, Nina and I were finally married last week in Libeňský zámek, the chateau in our corner of Prague. After the ceremony, we had lunch with family and witnesses at the neighborhood brewpub, Richter Brewery, then headed home, grabbed our bags and hit the train station for a honeymoon in the region’s most beautiful city for lovers of great beer.

That is to say: Bamberg.

I’m surprised that more hasn’t been written about the connections between Bamberg and Prague. Not only are there historical ties (a house near Bamberg’s Obere Brücke has a sign noting that Albrecht von Wallenstein stayed there; Prague’s Wallenstein Palace is the home of the Czech senate), but the beer culture is similar in both cities, as is the cuisine — we had a very good goulash, for example, at Schlenkerla. Furthermore, the travel connections can be as difficult as falling off a log: a fast train from Prague to Nuremberg (with enough time there to pick up a delicious snack of Nürnberger Rostbratwurst), then a 45-minute regional express to Beerville. Total minimum travel time: 6 hours, 8 minutes.

Of course, there are plenty of hotels in Bamberg, and most zymurgical tourists will want a guest room at a brewery like Spezial or Fässla, both of which have decent lodgings at moderate prices, with both breweries almost directly facing each other on Obere Königsstraße. However, we wanted something a little more memorable, so we took a recommendation for Hotel Sankt Nepomuk, a reconverted mill on its own island in the Regnitz with a panoramic view of the Rathaus, the river, the bridges and the cathedral, and named after the Czech saint who was drowned in Prague in 1393. (Seriously, the connections are practially Swedenborgian.)

We were a few days too early to try Schlenkerla’s Fastenbier, which was only tapped this week, and which I loved last year. Instead, our second bryd-ealu was the pub’s standard Rauchbier, that not-so-far-from-Bohemian goulash and a couple of perfect Schnitzels, followed by a pint of Schlenkerla’s Rauchweizen. (I’ll write more about the beers in a separate post.)

In any case, Bamberg was an excellent choice. Lest you think it’s all about Rauchbier, the city is also a UNESCO World Heritage site, due to its pristine Gothic and Baroque architecture and rich history. It’s also home to great pastries like the Bamberger Hörnchen, reminiscent of the best croissants you’ve ever had, only flakier and more buttery. There’s a lively pedestrian zone with lots of cafés and bakeries along and around the Grüner Markt, with the Bamberger Dom, founded in 1004, overlooking everything from the top of the hill.

If you do go, give yourself enough time to wander the city’s narrow lanes and cross the many small bridges over the Regnitz. Check out Ron Pattinson’s Bamberg Beer Guide online; Fred Waltman’s downloadable Bamberg Beer Guide booklet is very highly recommended. And I would especially suggest contacting the Bamberg tourist office, which is open seven days a week and which offers maps, books and self-guided beer tours to the city’s 10 functioning breweries.

Even if you aren’t crazy about beer, Bamberg is a lovely place to visit. And if you do enjoy a good pint, you’ll probably feel the same way we do.

Best. Honeymoon. Ever.

Here’s an interesting bit from the Czech news wires: an article at actualne.cz notes that the term “Czech beer” is moving closer to protected name status. Much like the AOCs and DOCs of the wine world, the special status will mean that brewers in the EU can only use the term “české pivo” if the beer is, in fact, brewed in the Czech Republic, as well as if it meets certain requirements of ingredients and quality.

If the application is successful, “české pivo” will join 10 other Czech geographically protected names in the EU, including “žatecký chmel” (“Saaz hops”). The big one that’s missing outside the country itself (barring “Budweiser,” of course), is “Pilsner,” used all over the world for widely different beers of varying ingredients and varying quality, even though it originally meant a certain style of beer from a certain place: a clear golden lager from the west Bohemian town of Plzeň, known as Pilsen in German. I can’t remember how many times I’ve heard people say it’s too bad the Czechs didn’t retain control over the name.

Ah, but they tried.

According to an article in the New York Times of December 25, 1910, “United States Circuit Court Judge Hough is considering an application by the Brewers’ Association of Pilsen, Bohemia, for an injunction restraining an importer from using the word ‘Pilsner’ to describe the Bohemian beer brewed outside that municipality.” The upshot: a distributor in New York was selling beer from the Bohemian town of Aussig (in Czech, Ústí nad Labem, presumably today’s Zlatopramen brewery) under the name “Pilsner.”

“The contention of the Pilsen Brewers’ Association is that no genuine Pilsner beer can be brewed outside of Pilsen,” the article continues, noting that US Treasury Department rulings on sardines (from Sardinia) and Malaga grapes gave their case legal precedents. The article, however, undermines their argument by itself referring to Pilsner beer as a style, not a specific product from a specific place. “It is contended that Pilsner has become by usage in the beer trade simply a descriptive title applying to beer brewed in a certain manner,” it says, noting that a local brewer “makes a specialty of brewing Pilsner beer in Brooklyn,” selling it as “Pilsner” in conjunction with the name of his brewery.

I mentioned this in an email to Garrett Oliver, author of The Brewmaster’s Table and brewmaster at Brooklyn Brewery, who noted that German brewers use the name “Pils” in order to avoid just this conflict. (And when “Pilsner” is used as the name of a German beer, it appears with an adjectival place name so it’s clear precisely where the beer is from, as in the case of Radeberger Pilsner, brewed in the Saxon town of Radeberg, just outside Dresden.)

It’s pretty clear how the US ruling from 1910 worked out, as many American beers — and indeed, beers all over the world — now call themselves “Pilsner.” Here, of course, I use the terms “Pilsner-style beer” or “Czech golden lager” when referring to brews that are not Pilsner Urquell. That is because in the Czech Republic, there is only one Pilsner, and everything else that is similar is pivo plzeňského typu, or “beer of the Pilsner type.”

In the big picture, this story is just a small historical footnote, but it does provide an interesting context to the story of Budvar’s fight with Anheuser-Busch today, as well as Pilsner Urquell’s decision to brew new beers with the same name in Russia and Poland.

Just imagine, for example, if Anheuser-Busch were somehow forced to rename their product “Budweiser-style beer.” Or imagine if every brewery in Germany produced a golden lager called “Bud,” alternately labeled something like “Radeberger Budweiser.”

It’s a weird image, I admit. As for “Czech beer,” it doesn’t seem like a bad idea to limit its use to beers that are in fact Czech, produced from 100% barley malt and Saaz hops. But labels can only do so much. If consumers don’t pay attention to how beers actually taste — buying, for example, low-quality brews ostensibly produced from high-quality ingredients — the term “Czech beer” could end up being a distinction without much difference. In many countries, that’s exactly what happened to “Pilsner.”