Take a seat, kid. You're not in trouble, I just have some bad news.
What is it, boss?
You've been duped.
What are you saying, boss?
You know that Cream Ale you've been smoochin’?
Sure I do, boss.
Well, kid. There ain't no cream in there.
What do you mean, boss?!
It's hows I says it, kid. No cream. None. Nada.
What about lactose, boss? Please tell me there's lactose!
Kid, there ain't even a whiff of dairy in there. You were seduced by one of Mascarpone's goons. Plain and simple.
What are you gonna do, boss?
I'm gonna have to get someone else on the case, kid. You did your best.
***
Fineee, I'll look into it. Twist my arm why don't you.
You did hear the boss correctly, I'm afraid. There is no cream in The Cream Ale. ‘Well I knew that,’ you're thinking, ‘not only have you listed the ingredients on the can, but you’ve also chucked in a style description for good measure, just to avoid such confusion. It’s genius, really.’ I know, I know. All the clues were there, and in plain sight. It's like that end scene in The Usual Suspects. The Cream Ale will stop limping and brazenly walk off-screen any minute now…
Unfortunately some people can’t be helped, though. Just take a look at these schmucks on Untappd:
‘Smooth, hoppy and creamy with good citrus flavours.’
- Dean.
‘Why isn’t this creamier?’
- Rich
‘Not far off from milkshake IPA’s of today.’
- Laurence
‘Wouldn't say it was creamy…’
- John
‘Floral, cream soda-esque beer.’
- Justin
‘No sweetness, no hints of corn flakes or cream.’
- Vincent
‘Cream Ale? Nothing creamy here.’
- Rick
‘Crème de la Crème.’
- Ben
‘Creeeeamaaaaay.’
- Gus
I mean, Gus, what on Earth were you thinking? Of course I don’t really think our delightful customers are schmucks. It’s just a brilliant word and I've been watching too much film noir lately. Well, Bugsy Malone anyway - now there’s something with cream in it.
What with today's 'donut' this, or 'Aunt Bessie's roast dinner' that, it's completely understandable to think there's milk in something with 'cream' on the tin. Instead, what we have is a modest beer style that’s been muddied by mystery, but nonetheless desperate to be woven into a national narrative; that of the United States of America.
‘A true American classic.’
I absolutely adore American history. So when Joe "The Egg" Hiscocks, our marketing extraordinaire, asked me to delve into the backstory of beer's biggest misnomer, I positively creamed. The story of the cream ale is a true American classic; a distillation of the American spirit, if you will. It begins, as you would expect, with religious and political persecution, humble, skilled European migrants and fresh economic opportunities.
Germans weren't the earliest European settlers to arrive on the New World's shores, which is surprising, but they weren't far behind. Without them there'd be no hamburgers, hotdogs or pretzels; schoolchildren wouldn't attend kindergartens, Pennsylvanians would talk normally and the 2008 financial crash wouldn't have happened.
Wait, what?
Marcus Goldman of Goldman Sachs and the Lehman brothers were German, that's all I'm saying. Goldman and the Lehmans belonged to a larger movement of Germans to America during the first half of the 19th century, of which we're particularly interested. Between 1820-1860 approximately 1,500,000 enterprising hopefuls were pulled by America’s cheap, available land, and pushed by religious sectarianism and the German Revolutions of 1848-49. Classic Europe was up to it’s Old World tricks again. ‘But look here, Tulip. This New World comes with land and liberty. Pack your things and wake up little Günter. We’re moving!’
‘Barley in America just wasn’t the same.’
These Germans famously brought with them their unique knowledge in husbandry, and of course, beer-making. So intoxicating were their newfound freedoms, however, they were willing to commit the biggest cardinal sin of all; breaking the Reinheitsgebot. This infamous bit of Bavarian legislation decreed beer could only be made with barley, water and hops for purposes of purity and taxation. Saying it outloud is scary enough, but fortunately for them Germany was very far away. Barley in America just wasn't the same as that in Europe. Higher in proteins, this American stuff produced huskier tasting, murkier looking beer. Simply unacceptable.
Corn in lager; makes you writhe in anger, doesn't it? Mouths froth at the mere contemplation of such mass-market, corporate swindling. 'Keep this nonsense up, buddy, and you'll spawn some sort of craft beer revolution.' But it wasn't always like that. Instead of big business boogey-men pulling the strings, there were Germans in need of practical solutions to practical problems. And all in the name of good, clean, crisp beer. Now isn't that nice? They achieved this by adding highly fermentable adjuncts grown locally in abundance, such as maize, embellishing the lager style with a signature slice of Americana. Of course these beers weren't American. They were German.
'Come on, Ben. Where’s the cream?'
Glad you asked, Gus.
‘A novel way of undermining competition.’
Cream ale belongs to a short list of indigenous beer styles of America, and it’s thought to be a direct response to these popular German adjunct lagers. The English-styled ales Americans in the Northeast were used to drinking simply paled in comparison to these new, effervescent and exceedingly moreish beers. Rather than sulk and get the law involved, banning all bottom-fermented beers like they did in 17th century Cologne, American alesters responded to the market dynamically by adjusting their recipes. They did this with the inclusion of corn and lager yeast strains. Interestingly both scenarios resulted in similar beers; Kölsch ingeniously bypassed Cologne’s local legislation by being a top-fermented yet cold-conditioned style. Whereas Cream Ale was a novel way of undermining competition by hybridising the brewing process, resulting in a lager-esque ale but in half the time.
As for the name? Well, here’s where my all too neat narrative utterly falls apart. We simply don’t know. Author of The Beer Bible, Jeff Alworth, seems convinced by the theory that ‘cream’ was a 19th century example of good ol’ American marketing gloss. Jeff mate, cream does not scream light and refreshing. You’re competing with tantalising German lagers, glassware all perspiring, glistening gold with a tight, frothy European size head - excuse me. The last thing you want is a stodgy pint of pudding. Names don't come about in vacuums. There's usually a practical reason. Pale ales are pale, porters were enjoyed by porters, stouts were strong, lagers are lagered, and cream ale because some marketing clairvoyant said so;
I say, I say, boys. What sells well?
Cream, sir. Off the charts.
I say, I say, we’ll call it cream ale!
To be fair another beer emanating from the west coast at a similar time is just as obscurely named; Steam Lager. But there doesn't seem to be any evidence to support Alworth's claim. I can also think of more marketable words they could have used back then, like 'better', no 'best' - hang on.
‘Corn was more American.’
It brings into question another thing Alworth insists; the use of corn. Other adjuncts were also used at the time, such as rice (which, granted, he acknowledges), but corn was more American. This all falsely paints cream ales as these all-American, proto-mass-marketed beers from the get go, and I desperately want to agree, teasing them as such myself. In reality, however, they just seemed to be regional responses to German lagers that re-emerged after prohibition as a weaker, but slightly more cohesive style. This was undoubtedly spurred by the Gottfried Krueger Brewing Co. making cream ale the first beer to be sold in cans in 1935, right around when Mascarpone, sorry, Al Capone was at large.
I dunno. It just feels like Alworth took what we know of cream ales today, and then worked backwards, making some logical leaps along the way. But I could be wrong. Maybe they were consciously targeted at dairy farmers back in the day.
A few staples of the style from the 1960s, such as Narragansett and Genesee, have since shaped what we expect from cream ales, all the while reaffirming their Americanness in their marketing. But even they seem confused. Narragansett on their website tenuously justifies the style name by their use of ‘2-row pale, Munich, Vienna, and Cara-malt for a creamy head!’ (as if all heads aren’t creamy. Also, where’s the corn?). They call it a ‘session ale’ (at 5% - pushing it) and ‘pre-prohibition’ which would suggest strength, not sessionability. At least they lagered it. Genesee, on the other hand, just says ‘smooth like a lager, crisp like an ale.’ Crisp like an ale? Surely lagers are more crisp. Come to think of it, aren’t ales smoother? What is it with this beer style?!
‘I’d love to call it authentic.’
Modern, craft iterations just do what they want. Some have lactose, others blend yeasts. Who knows. We use maize in ours, and the slightly nobler American hop, Loral, to replicate the earthier qualities of hops likely used back then - probably Cluster. I’d love to call it authentic (it’s definitely delicious), but I have absolutely no way of verifying that. There doesn’t appear to be a consensus between early recipes, if you can get your hands on one in the first place. People don’t even know if lager yeast was used. They just assume it was - like I did earlier.
I don’t mean to have a go. I’m merely venting a broader frustration with beer history, and how it is relentlessly riddled with supposition and hearsay. Since time immemorial, when someone was meant to be jotting this stuff down, they got pissed instead;
Titus Livius!
Yes Praetorian?
Have you completed your History of Ale and the British Isles yet?
Well, see. Here's the thing. I was doing some sampling, to get in the zone, as you do, and, erm, well one thing led to another and I ended up on what the natives call, "The Mega Lash."
I've been afflicted with the most barbarous hangover since and forgotten everything.
For Christ’s sake! Caesar's going to be pissed!
Who’s Christ?
There’s another theory behind the name that more sober writers have suggested, like Jeremy Marshall, that I almost agree with. Almost. Six-row American barley is higher in an amino acid called S-Methyl Methionine, which following the brewing and fermentation process, can be perceived as cooked or creamed corn in the finished beer. It’s a practical explanation for a name that makes sense. Except wouldn’t all American, six-row produced beers taste and smell like that? And if they were also putting maize into the beer, why not just call it ‘corn ale’? Maybe someone smelt creamed corn and thought ‘cream’ was more appetising than ‘corn’ and it stuck. I guess we’ll never know.
I feel bad, though. I took you on a seemingly smooth journey, only to pull the rug from beneath your feet. But then again, if you really think about it, that’s what cream ale is all about.
Cheers.
Drop Ben a line on ben@anspachandhobday.com
If you fancy trying our absolutely delicious cream ale, order some from our webstore here.