When I got home, I wasn’t sure if I needed a drink or a nap. Tony had the answer. He opened the fridge and produced a slightly chilled Drie Fonteinen gueuze, the beer Armand Debelder had handed me after our dinner in Beersel. As Tony and I stood in the kitchen, I tried to describe the test, but I didn’t feel like talking much. Instead, I wanted to focus on this beer.
“2004,” Tony said, as he looked at the label. Then he set the bottle back on the counter. “It was made the year before we moved to Portland.”
“The year before I got into beer,” I said, straightening my spine so I stood a little taller.
The beer was older than my fascination, a reminder I was a dust particle in the vast universe of beer making. Tony and I clinked glasses, and right then, I felt victorious. I had successfully given beer the kind of gravitational pull it deserved by giving in to my gnawing, genuine curiosity. Along the way, I’d walked under cobwebs in Cantillon, stood next to the gnashing machines in a hops-processing plant, and poured heavy bags of sugar into a steaming kettle of wort. I’d spent time with many passionate people—the ones who judged beer, made beer, and saved beer. I’d made new friends while waiting in beer lines, driving across Belgium in a rental car, and disassembling sticky faucets. Each moment helped me move toward a place that had seemed unimaginable when I started. Finally, I’d arrived.
Later in the week, a friend would take me out for a celebratory lunch, and another would bring me flowers. These were people who’d never heard of Cicerone certification, and had little interest in its significance in the world of beer. They just knew I’d finished something that mattered to me.
I turned to look into the eyes of someone who never stopped telling me I could do it.
“To you,” Tony said, and I smiled. We clinked glasses.
The gueuze in our glasses seemed equally alive and dormant, the same quality I sensed in the farmlands I had ridden my bike past near Watou. Inside the beer, things were still happening. Microbes were inciting chemical changes, a continuation of what they’d been doing for more than a decade. Even though the action was invisible, I could detect the changes below the surface. All I had to do was pay attention.
One afternoon in May, five weeks post-test, I stood in my kitchen, scrolling through e-mails on my phone. It was the end of my workweek and almost Memorial Day weekend. Tony, Oscar, and I were getting ready to go on a road trip to Montana for a wedding. When I saw the subject line, “Certified Cicerone Exam Results—Lucy Burningham,” my heart pounded. I read the e-mail once, twice, then three times, before I started pacing around the house. A minute later, Tony walked inside. He had a smudge of dirt on his cheek from working in the shop.
“OK, OK, OK,” I said rapidly. “I’m not sure if I passed the test. Read this e-mail and tell me what it says.”
“Well,” Tony said slowly, squinting at the screen. I jumped up and down impatiently. “It begins, ‘On behalf of Cicerone Program Director Ray Daniels and the Cicerone Exam Management Team, I’d like to congratulate you on passing the Certified Cicerone exam.’ I’m pretty sure that means you passed the test.”
I ran into the living room, flopped down on the rug, and put my hands over my face.
“I can’t believe I did it,” I murmured.
“I can,” Tony said. “You worked really hard. Congrats, sweetie. You did it. You’re a Cicerone.”
EPILOGUE
The larger the island of knowledge, the longer the shoreline of wonder.
—RALPH W. SOCKMAN
AN ARMY OF SMALL, clear plastic cups filled with beer multiplied on the table in front of me as rain pelted the single window in the room. Eight months after learning I had passed the exam, I was back at Breakside Brewery, this time not as a student of beer but as a judge. One of the city’s alt weekly newspapers, the Willamette Week, had assembled a group of judges—people they called “industry insiders”—to choose the winners for the Oregon Beer Awards. We would blindly taste beers by style, like other professional beer competitions, including the Great American Beer Festival. Today were the preliminary rounds, which meant I would spend the day tasting and discussing beers with rotating panels of judges.
In many ways, the Cicerone title hadn’t changed my life. I didn’t open a brewery, go to school to become a hop breeder, or launch a beer-and-bike-tour company in Belgium (although that option remains tempting). I still loved beer, but in a different way: my preferences about what I liked and didn’t like felt clearer and more pronounced. I noticed I had little patience for beer that seemed average or missed the mark. I knew what good beer was—and how it was made—and that’s what I wanted to drink. In subtle ways, the moment I became a Certified Cicerone marked the beginning of a new chapter, one in which people paused to hear my opinion after I took a sip of beer and expected me to bring exceptional beers, accompanied by juicy side stories, to dinner parties. Those moments felt validating.
When I arrived at my judging table, which was wedged into a small room in Breakside’s offices, I found Bill Schneller, my beer professor, sitting alone and looking expectant.
“Bill!” I exclaimed. “Are you judging at table six?”
“Indeed I am,” he replied with a smile.
The other judges arrived at the table: a growler-fill shop owner, a head brewer, and a sales manager for a brewing-ingredients distributor (he was also a GABF judge). An experienced beer judge had been preassigned to be the captain at each table, and I was right when I guessed our captain would be Bill. I felt nervous—not Cicerone-exam-day nervous, but the kind of low-level nervous that reminded me I hadn’t done this before. Not only was Bill there, and I wanted to show him I knew my stuff, but I wasn’t evaluating homebrew in some obscure competition. Instead, I was judging some of Oregon’s finest commercially brewed beers in a competition with medals that would be widely publicized. The task felt important.
Ben Edmunds, who was in charge of the competition, popped into the room with the list of thirteen beers we’d judge in the first round—part of a catch-all category called “Classic Styles,” which the judging manual said could range from Irish ales to English barley wine. The actual beers we’d judge included a dark lager and a golden lager.
“This is the perfect category for you,” I said to Bill, remembering his impassioned monologues about British bitters and German lagers. He nodded.
I set my trusty copy of the 2008 BJCP style guide on the table. The 2008 version had finally been updated in 2015, but since we weren’t judging precisely to style—we had been instructed to reward stand-out, “harmonious” beers, even if they deviated from classic style parameters—I thought it wouldn’t matter much. I needed a safety net, something that could gently nudge me to remember the precise properties of, say, steam beer. After all the beer samples were delivered to our table, I started vigorously swirling, sniffing, and sipping. For each beer, I jotted down notes about the aromas and flavors, familiar actions that, even though I was doing them for the first time as a judge, felt routine. One beer, the Märzen lager, exuded butterscotch. “NO,” I wrote next to its number. “Diacetyl.” While I’d like to think that a year ago I’d have been able to identify the compound, I had doubted my pre-Cicerone self. Today, no problem.
We only had an hour to choose three beers that would advance to the next round, which didn’t seem like enough time. Each beer was a universe in a glass, one that deserved my full consideration. When I tried to work faster, I sloshed some beer on my pants.
“I already spilled beer on myself,” I announced. The four men were silently squinting, smelling, and furrowing their brows as they wrote notes. They chuckled.
“It’s bound to happen,” said the brewer sitting to my left.
Finally, I circled the three beers I thought should advance and put my pen down. Bill proceeded to announce the number of each beer, then we talked about its attributes.
“Ooh, that Märzen,” Bill said. “What a shame.” The other judges shook their heads in disappointment because, as I expe
cted, diacetyl was not an acceptable attribute of a competition beer. We took turns pouring that beer into the dump bucket.
When it was time to talk about beer 9091, I jumped in.
“I think this is a great beer,” I said, “but I might like it because it’s the crispest, most refreshing beer in the group.” This is where judging the catch-all category seemed especially tricky.
“I agree,” the brewer said. “It passes the would-you-order-another test.”
“Just think about having this beer on a hot summer day,” Bill said dreamily. “Man oh man, I would happily drink it all day long.”
For a brief moment, I felt like I was back in Bill’s beer literacy class. Then I snapped back to the task at hand.
“Let’s hold on to this one,” I said.
When I got home, it was almost seven in the evening, and I was exhausted. Never had I spent that many hours so intensely focused on beer. By the last round, which included one beer made with cinnamon sticks soaked in bourbon and another made with cocoa nibs from Ghana, the conversations between the judges seemed to have deteriorated into inane conversations about personal preferences. To me, one beer tasted like rancid peanuts, while another judge said it tasted like Nutter Butter cookies. He liked Nutter Butter cookies, while I considered peanut butter a last-resort food, something that belonged in emergency kits.
A pan of warm chicken enchiladas and a pot of rice were on the stove. Oscar’s portion, which was cut into neat squares, was still on the kitchen table, a tableau of a child who’d probably snacked too much that afternoon. In the living room, Tony and Oscar were putting together a jigsaw puzzle of a Porsche to a soundtrack of Black Sabbath. I pulled a bottle of beer out of my bag and handed it to Tony.
“Beer!” he said, grinning. “You always know what I want.”
“I had a hard time deciding between this and the straight-up IPA,” I said, “but I thought you might like to mix it up a bit.” We’d had the Breakside IPA earlier in the week, so I’d chosen the brewery’s Wanderlust IPA, a close cousin with a hint of tropical fruit that came from Mosaic hops.
“Do you want me to pour you some?” Tony asked, as he headed to the kitchen.
I laughed. “It may be hard to believe, but after tasting fifty beers today, I’m just going to eat enchiladas and drink a gallon of water.”
As I lifted a slab of enchiladas onto my plate with a spatula, I realized I did actually want a beer, but not one I would find in my fridge. I was thinking about 9091, the beer I’d liked so much during the first round. Our table agreed not to advance the beer, which felt slightly heartbreaking, but like the right thing to do. It was too much of an outlier in the category, like a plum in a group of tomatoes. The only thing I knew about the beer was that the brewer listed it as a Dortmunder export, a pale German lager invented in the 1880s to compete with pilsners, a style the GABF manual said was “on the decline” in Germany in recent years. I thought about sipping the Oregon-made version one more time, so I could smell its sublimely subtle perfume. Drinking it had made me feel like I was waltzing into spring wearing a crisp cotton sundress.
When I was cramming for the Cicerone exam, Oscar once said, “Mama, did you know a pilsner is a lager?” I’d been proud, of course. He was paying attention. Maybe one day Tony, Oscar, and I could ride our bikes through Germany together. Before we arrived in Dortmund, the industrial city where the Dortmunder export was invented, we’d ride past fields of barley, tour the maltster where the grains were roasted to pale, and see the river that fed water to the city and its breweries. When I finally tasted a Dortmunder in the place it was invented, and I’d understand the beer with new dimension. And inevitably, that sip would lead to my next question.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to my editor, Jennifer Urban-Brown, who took a chance on this book, and to the talented team at Roost. Thank you to my agent, Michelle Tessler, who believed in the project from the beginning.
I’m humbled by the kind and generous people of the beer community, from brewers and beer writers to hop farmers and homebrewers. This book exists not only because of the beer they make but also because of their willingness to let me in. Thank you, John Harris, Phil Roche, Ben Edmunds, Denver Bon, Sarah Pederson, Bill Schneller, Jeff Alworth, Alan Taylor, Stan Hieronymus, Rik Hall, Garrett Oliver, Mitch Steele, Nicole Erny, Cam O’Connor, Gayle Goschie, Adrienne So, the Widmer crew, and Lady Brew PDX.
Thank you to Sarah Jane Curran for being an intrepid adventurer, Klara driver, and friend. I couldn’t have done Belgium without Evan Coen, Diana Rempe, Emilien and Hélène, the +/– brewers, Kris and Jan Schamp, and Dimi. Prost and santé to all the German and Belgian brewers who let me drink their beers.
I had some wonderful readers along the way, especially my writing group, Helmet and Boots, which supplied me with plenty of encouragement and smart critiques. Members past and present include Deborah Reeves, Ian Reeves, Marnie Hanel, Fiona McCann, David Shafer, Bethany Gumper, Greg Tudor, Sam Davenport, and Lola Oyibo. Thanks to Christina Cooke, Megan Flynn, and Katie Vaughan. Gratitude to the professors and students in my master’s program all those years ago, in particular Paul Collins, who still finds the time to offer me good advice.
To all the dear friends who told me to be brave—and there are too many to name here—you are my scaffolding. I owe everything to my parents, who taught me the value of education, and supported me when I applied that philosophy to beer. All the love to Tony, my partner in this sweet life. Oscar, you are my sunshine. Don’t ever stop showing me how curiosity and discovery lead to joy.
BEER TASTING SHEET
A PDF of the Beer Tasting Sheet can also be downloaded at www.shambhala.com/mybeeryear.
Try completing this form for any beer you’re drinking. Attributes for each category are listed in progressive order. Use the Points Scoring Key below to help you score each category.
Beer Name______________________
State/Country of Origin____________
Style___________________________
Brewery________________________
ABV%__________________________
APPEARANCE
Color: Pale Straw, Gold, Copper, Amber, Red, Honey, Caramel, Brown, Root Beer, Black
Clarity: Clear, Hazy, Cloudy
Head: None, Diminishing, Lasting | Fizzy, Rocky, Creamy | No lacing, lacing
APPEARANCE SCORE (5):_______________________
AROMA
Malts: Sweet, Biscuity, Caramelly, Chocolaty, Nutty, Toasty, Roasty, Smoky
Hops: Floral, Citrusy, Leafy, Grassy, Piney, Herbal, Earthy, Spicy
Yeast: Clean, Estery (Fuits, Spices), Floral, Barnyard, Sour/Tart
Other: Alcohol, Metallic, Oxidized, Skunked, “Off”
AROMA SCORE (15):_______________________
TASTE
Malts: Sweet, Dark Fruit, Biscuity, Grainy, Caramelly, Chocolaty, Nutty, Toasty, Roasty, Smoky
Hops: Floral, Citrusy, Leafy, Grassy, Piney, Herbal, Earthy, Spicy, Bitter, Resinous
Yeast: Clean, Estery (Fruits, Spices), Floral, Barnyard, Sour/Tart
Other: Alcohol, Metallic, Oxidized, Skunked, “Off”
TASTE SCORE (25):_______________________
MOUTHFEEL
Consistency: Crisp, Smooth, Silky, Velvety, Creamy, Viscous
Carbonation: Delicate, Light, Creamy, Champagne-like, Prickly
Body: Light, Light-Medium, Medium, Medium-Full, Full
Finish: None, Fades Quickly, Average, Long, Everlasting | Dry, Wet | Warming
MOUTHFEEL SCORE (5):_______________________
NOTES / ASSESSMENT
TOTAL SCORE (+50 POINTS):_______________________
OVERALL DESCRIPTION OF THIS BEER
(circle one): Crisp Balanced Fruity Malty Hoppy Complex
POINTS SCORING KEY
CRAFT BREW ALLIANCE SENSORY VALIDATION BALLOT
This is a reproduction of the Widmer taste panel mentioned in chapter 2. See if you can detect any of these flavors or co
mpounds in beers.
FLAVOR
DESCRIPTION
Acetaldehyde
green apple, solvent, painty, pumpkin
Acetic
vinegar aroma, sour, “sharp” sourness
Caprylic
goaty, waxy, crayons, roller rink
Caryophyllene
carrots, spicy hop, floral, noble hops
Clove
spicy, phenolic, cloves, Belgian
Diacetyl
buttery, buttered popcorn
DMS
creamed corn, canned olives
DMTS
garlic, onion, rubbery
Ethyl Acetate
nail polish, solvent, fruity
Ethyl Butyrate
Juicy Fruit gum, tropical fruit, pineapple
Ethyl
Hexanoate red apple, anise (black licorice)
Fusel
whiskey, alcoholic, hot, solvent
Indole
jasmine, floral, fecal, barnyard, mothballs
Isoamyl Acetate
banana, circus peanuts
Isovaleric
cheesy, sweatsocks
Lactic
sour, no aroma, “smooth” sourness
Mercaptan
natural gas/propane, hot garbage
Metallic
blood or coins in the mouth
Myrcene
green hop, Cascade hops
Papery
wet paper, cardboard, oxidized
FURTHER READING: A BEER MASTER’S BOOKSHELF
These titles deeply informed my studies, and I can’t recommend them enough to anyone who wants to expand their beer knowledge.
Ambitious Brew: The Story of American Beer by Maureen Ogle. Orlando, Fla.: Harcourt, 2006.
The Beer Bible by Jeff Alworth. New York: Workman, 2015.
Brew Like a Monk: Trappist, Abbey, and Strong Belgian Ales and How to Brew Them by Stan Hieronymus. Boulder, Colo.: Brewers Publications, 2005.
The Brewmaster’s Table: Discovering the Pleasures of Real Beer with Real Food by Garrett Oliver. New York: HarperCollins, 2005.
My Beer Year Page 24