The main reason I was in Yakima was also the reason so many commercial brewers were in Yakima: hop selection, the hands-on process of choosing specific hops for the coming year. Because brewers buy hops through futures contracts, the quantities and varieties had been determined at least two years earlier, but the selection process allows brewers to customize their orders by choosing between lots. Brewers only missed out on hop selection for things like births or deaths in the family. Otherwise they spent a few nights in Yakima every summer, filling the gaps between appointments with growers and brokers with farm visits and beer drinking. I hoped watching a brewer do hop selection would help me better understand the nuances of hops and why those choices matter for a brewery.
I’d e-mailed a slew of brewers, asking if I could watch their hop selection, and I ended up making plans to shadow Cam O’Connor, brewmaster at Deschutes Brewery. As one of the largest craft breweries in the United States, the Bend, Oregon, brewery buys a lot of hops. Unlike most breweries, Deschutes and just a handful of others, including Sierra Nevada, brew exclusively with whole hops as opposed to the more common hop pellets. Whole hops, which are also called “leaf hops,” cost slightly less than pelletized hops because they require less processing. I’ve heard brewers argue the merits of pellets versus whole hops, a technical nuance that revolves around brewing style and willingness to clean up wet, heavy, boiled whole hops. (Pellets usually dissolve during the boil and turn into particulates, which makes them easier to manage.)
At the John I. Haas pellet plant in Yakima, most of the twenty-three buildings onsite are chilled to below freezing, a welcome mat for the average of three thousand bales of hops that arrive every day during the four or so weeks of summertime harvest. A team tests every bale for moisture content and every third bale for temperature to ensure the bales won’t spontaneously combust. (Building number 12 burnt down for this reason in 1999—and the next year, building 18 caught fire too.)
To make pellets, one thousand bales of hops a day are milled into a fine powder on machinery, most of which is chilled to prevent lupulin from sticking to its metal surfaces. Most of the machines used in the plant were originally designed to do other things. One was made to mix industrial portions of cake batter, for example. Brice Hiatt, plant manager of pellet operations at John I. Haas, said that pelletizing creates a “clean product,” because the pellet-making process removes unwanted matter from the bales of hops, such as rocks, stems, and dirt clods. The hop cones and powder travel over a magnet, which removes any metal before being pressed into pellets. Brice mentioned the magnet had even snagged Capri Sun bags and screws. In the end, Brice said proudly, every carton of a specific variety is identical. From the moment the bales are opened to when the last box of pellets is sealed, the process takes seventy to ninety minutes.
Because the alpha acids begin to disappear the moment the hop cone leaves the bine, the pellet plant roars into action as soon as the first bale of hops arrives on the day after Labor Day. Then the pellet plant operates 24/5 until sometime in May, when all the whole hops from one season have been successfully pelletized.
Cam O’Connor and his four-person Deschutes team examine whole hops, not pellets, during the selection process at five different brokers during their five-day road trip. They travel in a hulking black Suburban that moves them from Bend to Yakima and back to hop farms in Oregon’s Willamette Valley.
I was late to arrive at Hopsteiner, the first appointment of the trip for the Deschutes team, but everyone else managed to get there on time. Inside a meeting room, a table of somber-looking people were flipping through binders and glancing at a screen with a digital chart. I didn’t see a single hop cone in the room, whole or pelletized, and hoped I hadn’t gotten the wrong impression of what happens during hop selection. I gave Cam a nod and sat in an empty chair at the table. Someone from Hopsteiner was presenting a State of the Union–type overview of the hops industry. More hops were being grown and harvested in Yakima, he reported. Supposedly, there was a local farmer who had ripped up apple orchards to plant hops. “I’m not sure that’s ever happened before,” the man said with amazement. From what I’d already learned about the cost of land in the Yakima valley and the profit margins of hop growing, this story seemed unlikely, but I understood the implications. If hops became more valuable than other crops, farmers might shift the agricultural landscape here, which would mean more business for brokers and more hops for brewers.
Cam volleyed back with his own view of the hop industry. Deschutes’s newest flagship beer, Fresh Squeezed IPA (the beer that inspired our recipe at Lady Brew Portland), was selling more than expected, a ringing endorsement of the consumer’s preference for citrusy hops in large quantities. Veronica Vega, a former biologist who was now a brewer at Deschutes, added that she saw sessionable, low-alcohol beers as the latest trend, especially ones with a strong hop presence. “We’re seeing more and more consumers who know their hop varieties,” she said firmly.
After the meeting, a procession of air-conditioned cars—including the Deschutes Suburban, which looked like it was designed to transport a family of ten—headed to a nearby building used just for hop selection. Inside, a table was covered with brown-paper-wrapped rectangles of dried hops—what are known as “brewers bricks.” The bricks were sealed with brass tacks and marked with three-digit numbers. Each member of the Deschutes team brought a three-ring binder filled with evaluation sheets to the table. I asked to see a sheet, which had blank spaces for notes on the appearance and aroma of each brick, which represented hops from a particular lot. Like any agricultural product, hops are affected by variations in soil, sunlight, wind, the timing of harvest, and processing. Everything, from the temperature of the air at the time the hop bine was cut from the ground to the length of time the hop cones spent in the kilning room, affects flavor and aroma. Theoretically, each brick captured those nuances.
The Deschutes team started with eight bricks on the table at one time, all of the same variety. They opened the brown paper packages to reveal loosely pressed, dried hop cones. The five of them stood around the tall table, where they’d systematically scoop up a handful of dried hops, vigorously rub their hands together, bury their noses in their hands, then inhale. After each “rub,” they’d dump the hops into a hole in the center of the table before scribbling notes on their evaluation sheets. By choosing the right hops for the coming year—the ones that would help best execute existing beer recipes and bring new beers to life—these five people would help elevate the sales and reputation of the Deschutes brand for the next year and, most likely, beyond. Just as fermentation tanks empty and fill, so do brewery bank accounts, and the room felt electric with focus.
“It’s so quiet in here,” I whispered to one of the Hopsteiner reps.
“This is important,” he whispered back. “It’s how you build a brand.”
Not all brewers worked in silence, though: Some arrived with portable stereos so they could analyze aromas to the sounds of AC/DC. Others verbally argued the merits of certain lots like a high school debate team. As I watched the Deschutes crew, I started to understand the genius of their method. After each round of rubbing and note taking, Cam asked if everyone was finished. Once all pencils were down, each person held up a pointer finger. On Cam’s word, they pointed at the one brick they would choose from the eight. The lot with the most votes would be shipped to Deschutes in increments throughout 2015, in accordance with hop contracts created years ago. By having each person form an opinion before voting, Cam ensured no one person held too much sway, although he cast any tie-breaking votes.
After a few rounds, I approached Cam and said in a whisper, “Can I try?”
Even though I knew I wouldn’t be held accountable for whatever messes or victories happened during hop selection that day—unlike the rest of the people in the room—I wanted to understand what making those big decisions felt like. Did I have the ability to detect the key differences between dozens of hops that looked exactly the same? “Sure,”
he said. “Go for it.”
I took a place at the table and picked up a small handful of Cascade hops, which felt light and airy, like confetti. I started rubbing the hops between my hands, slowly at first, then faster, as though I were trying to start a fire with two sticks. Then I pushed my nose into my cupped hands and inhaled. The smell was so warm and familiar yet juicy, I wanted to stop and just enjoy the aroma. But the five other people at the table were pushing past any such simplistic reactions. A hint of lemon and fresh grass, I thought. I dumped the hops into the hole in the center of the table, just like everyone else, and grabbed another handful from a different brick. The difference in aromas was immediately obvious. Hay sitting in sunshine. The next lot seemed smoky. Another reminded me of Earl Grey tea. I silently picked my favorites for each round, and a few times my choice overlapped with the group’s.
I snuck a few peeks at their evaluation sheets, where I saw “nice, bright, herbal,” “blah!,” “tea,” “bright orange,” and “cat piss.” Once in a while, the group would share descriptors after a vote. “Smoky bacon.” “Rotten dairy.” “Sulfur.” The lead brewer, Matt Henneous, sneezed. Everyone laughed then quickly went silent again, as they continued to rub, sniff, scowl, and scribble. They were still evaluating Cascades, a variety that kept coming, an endless parade of nuances tacked in brown paper.
The group took a break and went outside, where the hot dry air smelled like car exhaust, warm asphalt, and dirt clods baked in the sun. When they reentered the building, they wiped their hands with Hopsteiner-supplied hand wipes, which, Veronica pointed out with disgust, had a lemon scent despite their “scent free” label. She didn’t have to say what I already knew: artificial lemon scent was the last thing anyone in this room needed on their hands. The Deschutes team came back to the table and started opening more bricks. I started to feel like hop selection would never end. Matt kept sneezing. They kept using words I never imagined could apply to hops: Red Vine, Twizzler, jammy. Coconut. Chocolate. Hop leaves fluttered across the table and onto the floor. Finally, the team closed their binders.
I’d given up participating rounds ago. Even so, my hands were covered with a sticky yellow-green residue that seemed to be turning black the longer it sat on my skin. When I clapped, my hands stuck together in an unnatural pause. In the bathroom, I scrubbed my soapy skin with a little plastic brush and regretted that I hadn’t taken off my wedding ring before I scooped up that first handful of Cascades—just one of many moments that revealed I was an amateur.
Before everyone left, the Hopsteiner employees pulled a couple of beers from a minifridge. Veronica and Amanda Benson, the sensory manager at Deschutes, quickly identified off-flavors in every beer they poured, which made it seem like either the fridge had some bad juju or these two women had supertasting powers. I would put money on the latter. As soon as they said “canned corn” and “buttered popcorn,” I smelled those aromas in a burst, but I could tell my senses were exhausted, worn down by round after round of Cascades. I longed to smell something neutral, and I remembered the back-of-your-hand trick. But when I put my nose to my hand, my skin smelled like oranges, lemons, and the broken leaf of an aloe plant. If only I could reset my senses by slipping into an oxygen mask, I thought. The Deschutes crew, on the other hand, was just getting going.
A few weeks later, back in Portland, I was standing under a tent at an old-timey amusement park with a rickety roller coaster on the banks of the Willamette River. The inside of my mouth felt coated with a dank, resinous residue verging on chewy. I was sampling dozens of fresh-hop beers, beers brewed with hops fresh from the field, not dried or pelletized. Soon after I had moved to Portland, I declared fresh-hop beers as one of the perks of living in the Pacific Northwest. Fresh hops must be added to a beer in progress within twenty-four hours of being picked, and since most brewers weren’t yet chartering planes to carry fresh hops across states or countries, fresh-hop beers are still regional treasures. I looked forward to drinking them every fall; by November, the beers were usually gone or stale. You had to get them while you could.
Even though I’d tasted something like ten beers at this point—sipping each one then dumping the rest of it into a trash can so I could taste as many as possible—I had yet to find one beer that expressed my idea of the essence of fresh hops. I wanted to smell and taste the juiciness I’d seen inside the hop cones, along with some hint that the flavors came from a plant. My ideal fresh-hop beer hummed with the life of the bines, ladybugs, and harvesters. When I looked at the people around me, who were just drinking and relaxing on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I envied the way they seemed happy with what was in their glasses. But I’d had perfect fresh-hop beers in the past, ones that whispered the secret of the bine. They are rare, like a dish that expresses the personality of a fresh, ripe truffle. I kept searching. One beer took me tromping through damp grass. The next made my mouth tingle with spearmint and pine, like a mild toothpaste. By the time I unlocked my bike for the ride home, I felt just like I had at the end of hop selection: completely dull to all flavors and smells. So I put the back of my hand next to my nose and inhaled.
JOIN THE CROWD
The crowd makes the ballgame.
—TY COBB
SEPTEMBER MARKS THE END of one beer festival season and the beginning of another. Festival goers say goodbye to summer’s shade tents and sausages grilled en plein air. They start to daydream about warm weather and begin eating sausages grilled indoors. September is the month of Oktoberfest in Munich and fresh-hop beer festivals in the Pacific Northwest. It also marks the annual Feast Portland, a four-day food and drink festival that includes gluttonous dinners made by famous chefs and workshops on how to butcher a pig and make your own cocktail ingredients.
This year, the beer programming for Feast Portland included a panel about lagers, and a woman named Sarah Jane Curran was listed as a panelist. Sarah had worked as the beer director at Eleven Madison Park, the famous Michelin three-star restaurant in New York City. The title of beer director is rare at fine dining restaurants not only in the United States but around the world. I had to meet her. Not only was I curious how a restaurant like Eleven Madison Park orders and serves beer, I wanted to meet a woman who’d made beer such an integral part of her career. I e-mailed her a few weeks before the festival, and we agreed to meet after the panel.
Sarah looked poised and professional on the stage as she fielded questions about how much water breweries use and the flavors of a Spanish beer. After the panel was over, I stood on the cement loading dock of the art museum drinking beer out of cans with Sarah and the other panelists.
“Come on!” brewer Van Havig said when he caught me and Sarah pouring our beers into a dump bucket before we left. “You’re not going to drink that?” His teasing wouldn’t prevent me from pacing myself. The Feast festival required endurance. As Sarah and I walked to a shaded bench in a long, rectangular park that stretches across the city like a green Band-Aid, the late afternoon sun illuminated the green canopy of hundred-year-old trees. After she graduated from the Culinary Institute of America in New York City, she told me, she got a job at Eleven Madison Park as a food runner, the starting position for everyone who works at the restaurant. That’s when her fascination with beer blossomed. As she worked her way up the ranks, from assistant server to dining room manager, she joined “the beer team.” Eventually she took charge of the beer program, which in my mind made her the ideal person to consult about beer and food pairings.
When I asked her how she’d recommend I study pairings for the Cicerone exam, she recommended challenging myself with unexpected pairings: an English bitter with Mexican food or a strong Belgian ale with pork.
“The Belgian ale is full of stone fruit flavors,” she said, “so it’s like peaches and barbecue.”
I was starting to get hungry.
“Foie gras,” she said bluntly.
“Really?” I replied. It was hard to imagine what kind of beer would work with such a rich food.
Gueuze, a blend of aged lambics, which are spontaneously fermented beers that originated in Belgium, got us talking about travel. Sarah told me that, the one time she visited Belgium, she was there with non-beer drinkers. While she’d visited some of the world’s finest art museums and eaten lots of waffles and exquisite chocolate, she hadn’t visited a single brewery. I may have gasped. It was like she’d gone to Napoli and didn’t eat the pizza.
Of all the countries in the world, Belgium has the strongest reputation for producing great beer with great variety, a result of the country’s geography. Bordered by France, the Netherlands, Germany, and Luxembourg—and just ninety kilometers of sea away from the United Kingdom—Belgium is saturated by many cultures and traditions. The country had been a highway for soldiers, a sanctuary for monks, and fertile ground for brewers who have had the freedom to make beers with fruits and spices, wild yeast strains, and dark sugars, traditions that originated with Trappist monks and French farmers.
“Do you want to go to Belgium with me in the spring?” I blurted out, to my own surprise.
I hadn’t been to Europe since I fell in love with beer, and when I came up with the idea of studying for the Cicerone exam, I dreamed about heading to The Continent, where I could learn about beer styles that aren’t brewed in the United States and about a brewing history that goes back centuries before the Pilgrims ever arrived on Cape Cod—a landing spot historians say was chosen partly because the Mayflower was running out of beer. I considered going to England, Germany, or the Czech Republic, but I was leaning toward Belgium because I saw it as a place of contradictions. There, brewers seemed free from the strictures of German and English brewing traditions yet still tied to heritage beer recipes, antiquated equipment, and ancient hop farms. I also liked that Belgian brewers are notoriously rebellious and mock Americans’ obsession with categorizing beers by style; I saw them as arrogant expressionists enamored with creation, not categorization. Also, there was one clear reason to choose Belgium: I love the country’s beers, from tart lambics to spicy saisons.
My Beer Year Page 7