August 04, 2010 by Ben Hallman

    A good beer is hard to define. For every beer you think is dy-NO-mite, some other guy will think it’s crap. Thus is the nature of the beast when trying to discuss something steeped in subjectivity.
    It’s easier to call out bad beer. And two words conveniently help to separate the keepers from the put-backs: Corn and Rice. Here’s how you can use these words to your advantage when hunting for a quality brew, plus a nifty little history lesson to boot.
    Germans, for whom beer is more of a fundamental bedrock of Bavarian society than a way to enhance sporting events, created a law five centuries ago that stated true beer has only three ingredients: water, hops, and malted barley.
    This law, known as Reinheitsgebot (literally translated as, “We like our beer so much we will legally dish out purple nurples to anyone who makes it wrong,”) was created before the existence of yeast was discovered, so they missed out on one key ingredient. Addendums to the law have fixed this oversight, and it now stands as an unofficial international standard for what constitutes beer.
    This law tends to be the reason American beer is scoffed at by so many beer snobs at home and abroad. The most popular beers in the U.S. buck German standards by adding corn and/or rice in addition to malted barley as ingredients to their brews.
    Sure, many breweries toss random foodstuffs into their creations; I’ve consumed beers with ingredients ranging from tea and black pepper to yams and basil. The purpose of their added ingredients are to enhance the flavor of the beer, and create a complex, multi-tiered nature.
    But when a brewery tosses corn and rice into the recipe, the reason is most definitely not for consumer benefit. They do it because it’s cheap.
    Corn and rice cost less than malted barley — which means the major American breweries get by with the cheapest recipes possible. They don’t enhance the taste of a beer in any way, instead serving as near-flavorless filler.
    More importantly, they deaden the palates of billions of beer drinkers the world over, giving them the impression that good beer tastes like a metallic alcohol-infused corn-banana soda rather than, well, good beer.
    (And, since I’m in near-rant mode, “beechwood aging” is a crock, too. It means exactly the opposite of what you think it means. Beechwood is not meant to tarry about in maturing tubs of beer, adding delicious woody flavor in a slow melding of liquid and foliage. No, beechwood speeds up the progression of lager yeast, or, in other words, makes the beer ready faster. That’s it.)
    So we now know how to easily identify bad beer. But dude, you say, your column’s header says it’s about good beer. Quit being such a downer. (No idea why my interior monologue gives the voice of the reader Tommy Chong’s accent.)
    Great news, beer drinkers. Good beer is all around you. The craft movement has managed to turn the corner from fringe group to established market share. We’ve entered the modern age of beer, where a universe of information at one’s fingertips meets with ever-widening distribution networks to create a place where -pant- finding a good beer is easier than ever before. Here’s an example or two:
    In my hometown, a few miles down the road from the house where I grew up, is a tiny convenience store settled at an intersection in the middle of nowhere. And by tiny, I mean tiny. This store comes dangerously close to causing the fabric of space-time to collapse into itself.
    Yet, the last time I was in this store, I was shocked by two six packs: New Belgium Fat Tire, and Abita Purple Haze. Granted, not the most exotic of choices, but still a welcome sight when all other options have “Light” somewhere in the name, and the nearest beer specialty shop is 30 miles away.
    The crappy chain sit-down restaurant down the street from your apartment? They’ve got Sam Adams to drink with your bowl of Cheesesteak Pizza Alfredo. The dive where your little brother’s emo-funk band is playing? The owner stocks Magic Hat #9.  The bait shop by the boat ramp? Damned if it isn’t selling Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.
    Once you find yourself buying these beers rather than the metallic alcohol-infused corn-banana soda, you’ve crossed the divide. Slowly you realize that proper beer is a world away from what you previously thought.
    And you come to understand why people like me are up on the hills, giving sermon after sermon on the importance of craft beer: it promotes a community of small businesses run by artists and pioneers, versus giant multinational beverage corporations that dispense inferior products. It’s a no-brainer, really.
    No, I’m not naïve enough to believe that at least a small percentage of what I spend on craft beer doesn’t go towards the big boys of brewing. The hand-in-pocket nature of beer distribution assures that the bosses always get their cut. But support is support, and small brewers need us to help them continue their art. Good beer is right around the corner. You just have to buy it.

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