The woman becomes a convert and wonders why a beer could be so different from the typical Mexican light lagers she is accustomed to disliking. The year is 2004, and José has begun his own small revolution.
José Gonzales, Tijuana Beer
José Antonio González comes from a beer family. All his life he has been surrounded by beer. His father moved from state to state, distributing and selling beer for the large Mexican breweries. José dreamed of one day having his own brewery and developing the Mexican beer drinker’s appreciation for microbrewed beer.
The beginning of his microbrew adventure took him to Germany and the Czech Republic, where he discovered the pleasure and drinkability of Czech pilseners. Experiencing the house-brewed dark lager at the Prague Brewery U Flecku, José asserts, “I would drink all day this wonderful beer. My face would feel warm. I would sleep well at night and wake up the next morning with my head feeling wonderful—and by 12 o’clock noon I wanted to drink more beer. I never had these kinds of experiences with the beer I knew in Mexico.”
On a visit to Prague, José asked a brewmaster how much corn, rice and sugar was formulated into these beers. The brewmaster explained, “Rice is for making sake. Corn is for making whiskey. Sugar is for making rum. Malt is for making beer.” José’s world was turning on edge. He had been touched by the passion for good beer. He did not know it at the time, but he was in the company of family brewers from Pilsner Urquell and Královský pivovar Krušovice (Brewery Krušovice).
Soon thereafter a Czech brewhouse, a Czech brewmaster and Czech malt, hops and yeast were on a voyage to Mexico’s northwestern coastal city of 3 million, Tijuana. In the year 2000, Cerveza Tijuana was brewing, bottling and distributing all-malt Czech-inspired pilsener (Güera) and dark lager (Morena) along with other specialties available only on the brewery site at its Czech-styled pubtaverna. If you visit and José is there, you will recognize him by the twinkle in his eye and his excitement about Czech-style lager.
José and his son Ozbaldo have become impassioned and recognize that one of their major challenges is the education of the Mexican beer drinker about beer variety and things like foam, drinking out of a glass, hops, malt, flavor and the fact that lime is not needed for his beer. These are the same challenges microbrewers have faced throughout the world as they return the flavor, culture and tradition to beer.
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CZECH-MEX TIJUANA URQUELL
Czech-style pilseners are something special. They are the original pilseners. They are traditionally unique with their soft, almost honeylike malt aromatics and flavor. Czech hops are flavorful and deliciously herbal, with a thirst-quenching character. This is a modern-day formulation of traditional Czech pilseners with a touch of Mexican lightness that deserves your attention. The recipe can be found in About the Recipes.
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In the land of Modelo, Corona and Tecate, there are now a few more lagers from which to choose.
The Oldest Brewery in America
ETERNALLY SPRING, at an elevation of nearly 10,000 feet, surrounded by volcanoes towering over 20,000 feet and only 50 miles from the hot, humid tangle of the world’s largest jungle, stands America’s oldest existing brewery. As though its surroundings were not spectacular enough, the brewery’s history inspires the mind while contemplating the origins, wisdom and tenacity of its founders over 470 years ago.
The high Andean air in the city of Quito, Ecuador, is bright, clean and easily calmed by the country’s readily available pilsener and Club Premium lager beers. Ecuador, a country situated on the equator and the size of Colorado, has a lot to offer: the towering mountains of the Andes; tropical beaches; the Amazon basin jungle; brilliant deserts; Indian, African and Spanish culture; and America’s oldest brewery.
As part of the Spanish conquest, the city of Quito was founded in 1534. It was only a matter of days before work on a church and monastery was initiated. Seven monks who had traveled to the South American continent from Flanders (now part of Belgium) brought their yearning for beer as it had been brewed in the old country. Wheat was imported and cultivated, and soon America’s first brewery was malting, brewing and fermenting America’s first wheat beer.
In the garden of the monastery one of the padres gave me a short history of the brewery, which has now been restored as a museum. Through an interpreter, he explained that cultivation of wheat was followed in later years with the introduction of barley. The small, simple brewery was popular with the growing population at the monastery and expanded into a more “serious” brewery in 1595.
Up until 1957, the five-to-six-barrel (U.S. size) brewhouse malted its own barley and sun dried it. The brewery continued operation until 1967, when according to the padre, the Pope issued an order halting brewing operations. The tradition of the Franciscan Order of Monks embraced a vow of poverty and humility, and the new Vatican’s interpretation did not perceive beer brewing as part of those values.
However, up until the brewery ceased operation the monks were brewing 12 batches of beer per week, half of which the monastery church kept for itself and the other half of which was distributed to other churches and monasteries in the area. Wheat beers and pale beers as well as very dark beers were regularly brewed, according to the padre’s story.
These beers are now only a memory in the minds of a select few people residing in Quito. The manager at the small hostel where I stayed in told me that his father used to work in the brewery. He couldn’t recall very much except a locally produced proteinous substance that was used in the brewing process. I figured it must have been some sort of clarifying agent similar to isinglass, which is derived from the swim bladders of certain fish. It is often used in traditional English ale brewing.
The brewery was preserved as a museum with the help of two Ecuadorian breweries, Cervezas Nacionales of Guayaquil and Cerveceria Andina of Quito. Adjacent to and part of the museum is a preserved beautifully small, beer hall. The flavor of it all seems to linger as a cross between Flemish and Germanic brewing traditions. A visit to the monastery brewery is well worth the effort if you ever find yourself in the city of Quito. And I know the padre appreciated the bottle of my own homebrew that I gave him after our tour of the brewery at the monastery of San Francisco.
The following is partially excerpted from an article by Paul V. Grano about the brewery and the brewing of one type of beer by the monastery. The article appeared in the January 1966 issue of The Brewers Digest.
Established in 1534 the brewery at the San Francisco Monastery, Quito, Ecuador
The brewhouse consists of a copper-lined concrete mash kettle, a wooden lauter tub with a bronze false bottom and a hot water tank made of an old German hop cylinder. All heating is by direct wood fire. Thirty-three pounds of pilsener malt plus 50 pounds of caramel malt and 20 pounds of black malt (milled in a coffee grinder in the monastery) are mashed in and the usual infusion method is followed. Since the agitator, which was installed for the Fathers, is inadequate they have to take turns in stirring the mash in order to avoid burning on the bottom. This is quite a hot and heavy job.
The mash then runs to the lauter tub by gravity, and the wort is pumped back to the mash kettle by hand. Here 100 pounds of brown sugar dissolved in hot water is added. The hop rate for the batch is two pounds. When the boiling of the wort is finished the wort once again runs by gravity to the surface cooler and is left there over night. The next morning, the yeast that we [La Victoria Malting/Brewing Company] provide them is added and fermentation goes on at about 60 degrees F (15.5 C). The original extract is about 10.5 degrees balling and when the beer has fermented down to one degree balling above the end fermentation the beer is bottled immediately. The bottles are filled through four siphons and crowned by hand. The empty bottles as well as the crown corks were [recently] given to the monastery by our brewery when this type of bottle was discontinued for commercial purposes some years ago.
The fermentable extract still in the beer produces about .5 percent CO2 by weight or
2.7 percent by volume after 10 to 12 days of storage when the beer is ready for consumption. The alcohol is about 3.4 percent by weight and the taste is very pleasant. The Fathers are served one glass for lunch and one for supper. About one hour before serving, the crown corks are lifted slightly; otherwise the beer would pour like champagne.
To conclude, I would mention a small episode, which took place a few weeks after we had first agreed to assist the Fathers. I went over to the monastery to ask the “Brewmaster” how the beer had turned out, to which he answered me with a smile that where he had previously used one padlock to close his storeroom, he now had to use two!
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QUITO ABBEY ALE—1534
Taking the proportions of malt, sugar and hops as revealed in the 1966 recipe, I’ve formulated a small-batch recipe that closely matches the character of beer brewed in the final and 432nd year at the monastery. This recipe can be found in About the Recipes.
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The Brewing Soul of Cuba
THE ELECTRICITY and lights are out in my neighborhood, Charlie, but not to worry. There is no problem.” No problem—yes, the universal phrase spoken in every language, taking on infinite degrees of unreality. We found ourselves winding our way through the streets of Havana, ending in a western suburb. One street block was electrified; another was night dark. We stopped, and the noise of his Russian-built automobile slowly gave way to the vibrancy of the tree-lined neighborhood. The engine pinged as it cooled. I slowly rolled up my window and sat bewildered in the front seat, noting the sounds of the neighborhood, breathing the tropical night air. A hum of conversation filled the air, yet no one could be seen. It was dark—very dark.
Then I noticed the open-air porches above me on the second story of each home. The orange glow of a lit cigar slowly swayed in a silent and languid arc. In his rocking chair an old man bided time, as most Cubans are apt to do in these difficult times of “austerity.” Then I realized the night air was filled with dozens of these tiny orange, swaying, arcing embers. The embracing aroma of Cuban tobacco deliciously filled the evening. Laughing, crying, teasing, joking and serious conversation seemed to gently abide in every household visible and invisible.
We walked through a gate and into a secretly lit, small but comfortable home to have one of my first beer tastings in Cuba. But as I left those moments behind, I knew I would never forget them. They so typified my impressions of today’s Cuba: mysterious, intriguing, friendly, incredibly complex and a country constantly on the verge of anxiety.
I was 13 years old in 1962 during the Cuban missile crisis. I can recall listening to my younger brother’s six-transistor Sony pocket radio (a new invention at the time) in the darkness of our bedroom, wondering if the world were about to end. That was my first and lasting memory of Cuba. Now, with this educational and journalistic trip hosted by the Cuban government I was on my way, in search of the lost beers of Cuba. I knew that beer was being brewed in Cuba, but little else. In my pre-trip research through commercial literature and in conversations with international brewing colleagues, I was surprised to discover that there was virtually no outside knowledge of the Cuban beer market and brewing industry. Curious, I wanted to find out what very few knew. Months of preparation and attempts at organizing this trip proved mostly futile, but as I was determined I went unconfirmed, assuming the most but expecting the least. Through a series of personal and diplomatic contacts I was unofficially told that the Cuban government and the Minister of Food would officially host me as a journalist. Embarkation day arrived with nothing certain, except my determination.
I boarded an airliner in the tropical heat. I certainly could have used a beer, but only rum was offered. Cool air cascaded from overhead vents into the cabin. As it collided with the humid air, a cold, moist cloud mystically layered the aisle a foot deep. I was in the clouds before we took off. I must admit to a few fleeting moments of panic—“Where am I going? Where am I? Am I crazy?” These were real-time thoughts. My heart pounded with the anxiety of the unknown as we headed toward Havana. The clouds swirled both inside and outside the cabin at takeoff. I was on my uncertain way. But as I always realize, anxiety is a very highly overrated experience. Forgive me; I did not have a homebrew with me.
Approaching legendary Havana, I looked down with some trepidation. From high above and among the billowy clouds we glided past dozens of baseball diamonds and deep blue swimming pools languishing in the stillness below. “There has to be beer down there somewhere…there just has to,” I thought to myself. And with beer there are always fine people.
As I disembarked the plane I was met on the tarmac by a translator and the Ministerio de la Industria Alimenticia (Minister of Food). My bags, passport, visa and transport were being cared for through the diplomatic lounge as I was offered a rum mojita and introduced to the possibilities for the next few days: the breweries of Havana and the surrounding area, a flight to the eastern post-revolutionary city and brewery of Holguin, a road trip to Cerveceria Camagüey and a return by air to Havana for an opportunity to give a presentation to the marketing, operations and brewery managers of Havana.
Given several options, I chose to make the most of my visit and accepted an offer by my Cuban government hosts of a full itinerary. From this point on, for five days and six nights I immersed myself in the culture and leisure of Cuba. But beer is my business, and I was working overtime.
What little I had read and heard about Cuba before the trip proved to be quite inaccurate. I must admit that I developed a great admiration for the people of Cuba after seeing and touring the existing facilities, listening to the government’s assessment of existing conditions and future efforts, freely roaming the streets and seeing and talking with the local people. Yet both during and after my visit, Cuba remained an enigma. What was really going on there? The issues were complex. The opinions were passionate. I left no more certain about Cuba’s beer culture and brewing industry, though I know that it truly exists and remains to be explored. Discovering the soul takes time.
Soon I began to shatter the myths of my imagination, but not without a flood of long-forgotten memories of people, places, cars, food and feelings of what it was like for me, growing up in the 1950s and early 1960s. In a time warp, the cars, the music, the spectacularly beautiful art deco Spanish-American architecture of the 1950s are still much intact. But sadly, there is more crumbling and disrepair. Old Havana is the historic port of the early 1500s as well as a favorite haunt of Ernest Hemingway. I enjoyed a daiquiri where it was invented and a mojito (rum, lime, sugar, ice and mint) at the bar where it was first concocted. Although I was not visiting Cuba as a tourist, my hosts easily found cold beer for my enjoyment. The quality was variable but mostly acceptable.
Cuba’s potential for economic development is quite staggering. In 1959 more than 2 million American tourists came to Cuba, many for gambling and an experience of decadence. After the revolution, the government nationalized all industry and property. Gambling fled and later emerged in Las Vegas. Many Cuban businesses and individuals lost fortunes; many who left still hate the existing regime, vowing someday to return and recover their lost property. But this will be difficult for the brewing companies, for at this point there is little left to recover but the earth on which these fading breweries barely exist.
Havana brewers
On the road, one of every 10 or 15 cars is a 1951–1954 Chevy, Oldsmobile, Plymouth, Packard, Cadillac, Ford or Pontiac. They are truly a breathtaking sight to behold and one of the real and unique tourist “resources” in Cuba. Cubans have kept them running for 40 years with haywire and bubblegum. Carburetors are reconstructed from tin cans if necessary. It would be a crime to see them sold and leave the island to languish in the garage of a car collector. In Cuba these are real cars used by real people. They certainly are proud. Though they have little, it doesn’t show in their physical appearance. They are a determined and hard-working people. And they make things work, inside or outside the system. The same is tru
e of the brewing industry. They have developed some incredibly creative ways to remain operational.
During my visit the streets were spotlessly clean—there was no trash to discard.
Stagnation has characterized the brewing industry for the past 35 years. The state “owns” and manages all seven brewing factories. Similar products are produced by more than one brewery and often under different formulations. The lack of capital and materials has drastically affected the manufacture and quality of the products. Almost all of the beer is brewed with 50 percent sugar, few bottles are labeled (labels are in scarce supply) and working equipment is continually being cannibalized to provide spare parts for downsized operations.
Early 20th-century Havana brewery
Miraculously, the brewers of Cuba continue to brew beer with equipment that by industry standards would be virtually unacceptable elsewhere. But I noted one exception at the post-revolution brewery in Holguin, which was fitted with East German brewery equipment and a canning line. The spirit of the brewers and operations people was inquisitive and searching for many answers during my visits, tours and seminars. Their persistence produced the best product possible under difficult circumstances and was a testament to the league of brewers everywhere and the tenacity of the Cuban people.
Microbrewed Adventures Page 20