Let the internet tell you when I've done something productive...automatically!

Join 14,891 other followers

Email Address:

Browsing Tags yeast

So you want to be a Beer Writer? – Yeast 101

October 12, 2015 · by Oliver Gray

Uh oh. Your homebrewing buddy just said something about “brett” and is asking your opinion about buying a stir plate. This conversation is getting dangerously yeasty.

But that’s OK! I’m here to help put the “you” back in “Eukaryote” with a primer about yeast, and why it’s so damn important to beer.

Much like the other posts in this series, this primer will cover the basics (yes, I left quite a bit out) for those who want to write (or speak) with a little more confidence. If you’re looking for a journey to the center of fermentation, check out Chris White and Jamil Zainasheff’s book from Brewer’s Publications.

Yeast as a Living Thing

Yeast is literally everywhere. You breathed some in just now. You probably ate some that was resting on your lunch. The little buggers are all up in your shit (literally), and play an important bit part in maintaining your body’s homeostasis. Fret not; it’s an integral part of our immune system and you’d have to ingest a very large amount of it to experience any ill effects (see: auto-brewery syndrome).

Biologically, yeast falls under the Fungi kingdom (here’s a quick reference if you forgot your high school taxonomy). They are technically eukaryotic (meaning their cells contain a nucleus that houses genetic information), but are the only single-cell eukaryote ever described by science. Despite any deeply romantic feelings you may have developed for your favorite IPA, yeast reproduces asexually, through the very painful-looking process of mitosis.

It’s tricky to organize yeast because they don’t all fit under one taxonomic group. But generally (please don’t kill me, biologists reading this) the yeast we use to brew can be classified by species, which are often sold to brewers as strains. Homebrewers and bakers will be familiar with Saccharomyces cerevisiae, which is probably the mostly commonly used yeast in ale. Lagers use Saccharomyces pastorianus. Then there’s the popular Brettanomyces, which is known for its distinctive and sort of gross qualities.

But that’s just a few, easy to recognize examples. There are ~1500 described strains of yeast, many of which we don’t use in brewing. The yeast in our bodies – often responsible for a number of nasty infections – is called Candida albicans. In healthy humans, this yeast is kept in check by bacteria. Fun fact: lactobacillus, a bacteria use to make some kinds of sour beer and sourdough bread, is one of the natural counter-balances to the yeast that grows in our guts.

Somewhat amazingly, we didn’t even know that yeast was a thing until one very cool French dude named Louis Pasteur described yeast and what is does in 1857. Although a scientist named Leeuwenhoeck (yea, I have no idea how to pronounce that, either) visually saw yeast in 1680, he didn’t really know what is was. Prior to Pasteur’s badass book, “The Diseases of Beer, Their Causes, and the Means of Preventing Them” some people assumed fermentation was spontaneous, and as White and Zainasheff note in their book, some people even thought it was the work of god(s).

Wooden brewing paddles were passed down through generations of brewers, all of who were apparently oblivious to the fact that wood was porous, and that the yeast from previous batches of beer were hiding deep inside all of their tools, just waiting to inoculate the next batch.

Yeast as a Brewing Ingredient

There’s a classic quote beer writers should know:

“We brewers don’t make beer, we just get all the ingredients together and the beer makes itself.” — Fritz Maytag

Yeast is going to do its thing regardless of what we do. The brewer’s job is more interior decorator than creator: she needs to turn the wort into a welcome, clean, inviting home that the yeast want to move into to start their family. But the yeast aren’t picky; they’ll move into any home that’s got plenty of sugar to eat, even one infested with other nasty tenants of less reputable backgrounds. The brewer has to do everything she can to make sure the yeast and its family are the only ones living in the house, and that they’re as healthy and comfortable as possible.

Yeast can come from third party labs as dry cells, or ready-to-use liquid. While pre-packaged yeast can be used (I’ve used it dozens of times), many brewers will create a yeast “starter.” This is basically a sugary proto-beer that kick starts the growth of the yeast. A starter ensures you’ve got plenty of healthy yeast to begin and maintain a strong primary fermentation. Some companies sell “smack packs” which are a sort of all-in-one starter (that includes an activator) where you just “smack” the bag of yeast to mix up the contents and create a mini early fermentation before pitching it into the wort.

Logistically, yeast is added after the wort has been boiled, hops have been added, and the combined concoction has been cooled. The drop in temperature in very important: yeast are living things, and adding them to hot liquid can easily injure or kill them. To properly reproduce, yeast need oxygen, so wort is aerated. This is tricky, because oxygen is a mortal enemy to fermented beer.

Oxygen before yeast? Good! Oxygen after yeast? Bad!

Yeast’s primary role is to eat the sugars extracted from the base malts during mash, and turn them into ethyl alcohol and carbon dioxide (C02). That’s an incredible oversimplification though; the amount, type, and length of sugars, the temperature of the fermenting beer, and the type of yeast used all dictate how the yeast will perform. Fermentation is what makes beer taste like beer; you couldn’t just add alcohol to hopped-wort and expect beer. Yeast is responsible for hundreds of other compounds that produce flavors we’re all familiar with (banana and clove and fruit esters, oh my!)

Yeast is the prime mover for the Original Gravity (OG) and Final Gravity (FG) equation. By measuring the original amount of sugar in the beer, and the comparing it to the final amount when fermentation in done, a brewer can calculate how much sugar is left in the beer, how much was eaten by the yeast, and how much alcohol it created. The amount of sugar the yeast ate is also called the amount of “attenuation.”

The trick to remembering the difference between ale and lager is that they are brewed using different yeasts (see above). Ale yeast ferments “on top” of the beer, while lager yeast ferments “on the bottom.” This is not a perfect rule. Yeast generally moves through the entire body of the fermenting beer, but this describes where “most” of the fermentation activity occurs.

More important than where they ferment is how they ferment; ale yeasts prefer warmer temperatures (55-70° F), while lager yeasts prefer colder temperatures (40° F). Ale yeast would go dormant and sleepy at such cold temperatures, but certain strains of lager yeast can and will ferment at higher temperatures, resulting in estery, fruity lagers a la “Steam Beer.”

Yeast as a Word

Yeast is almost always a noun. While I’m sure some intrepid wordworker could use yeast as a verb (I may be guilty of that), “yeasted” and “yeasting” don’t exist in a traditional vocabulary.

While it can be used as an adjective (yeasty) I’d warn against using it too often, because like “malty” or “hoppy,” it’s not overly descriptive. It functions perfectly well as a general label, but different yeasts perform and taste different, so when describing it, try to pull out words that capture the essence of what the yeast has done to the beer, not just that it is in fact, in there.

Writing about yeast tends to get biological very quickly, so be sure to balance your diction appropriately. No one wants to read a text book, but no one wants juicy scientific details left out either. Above all, respect yeast’s role in making beer, and remember that even though it’s not as glamorized and talked about as hops (or even malt), it’s (arguably) the single most taste-defining ingredient in the entire brewing process.

Don’t believe me? Try drinking straight, uncarbonated wort.

TL;DR – Remember that yeast is the “living” part of beer, ales and lagers are classified as such by their yeast strains, and the scientific names are always italicized.

You’re Allergic to What?

December 18, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

Yeast. Legion eukaryota responsible for bread and beer and wine. They’re quite literally everywhere. In the water you just drank. In the food you just ate. I don’t mean to alarm you, but you’re probably breathing some into your mouth and lungs right now.

Normally, that’s no big deal. Our bodies love to play host to microorganisms, especially bacteria and other single-celled-soldiers that keep our homeostasis all homey and stasis-y. To a healthy, balanced body, neither the infection causing candida albicans nor our beloved saccharomyces cerevisiae pose much of a physical threat. Despite populations beyond count, yeast aren’t exactly challenging ebola and influenza for the title of “most dangerous tiny thing in the world.”

When we write and talk about beer and wine, lose ourselves in the revelry of recording good times, it’s easy to forget there are quite a few people out there who don’t drink. Some abstain for moral or religious reasons. Others, while it may seem baffling to me and my kin, legitimately don’t like the taste of alcoholic beverages. Others simply grew up in households without, and as adults, hold a casual indifference towards libatious sorts.

And then there are those who love beer and wine, and would drink it if only they could. Those unfortunate souls who have developed a yeast allergy. Not an alcohol intolerance (which is bad, but not nearly as miserable), but a full-fledged histamine reaction to yeast. They’re the real victims in this crazy kettle of fermented life; willing but not medically able, banished from enjoying pales ales or sandwiches or any products spiked with nutritional yeast, lest they incur the wrath of the anaphylactic gods.

Yeast allergies can be serious and life threatening (like allergies to nuts and bee stings) but they generally present through the antibodies IgG (Immunoglobulin G), which slowly build up sensitivity to certain foods over years of exposure. IgG allergies sneak and snake through your system, presenting very subtly, and getting worse over time. There’s also no (known) genetic marker for a yeast allergy, so in theory, anyone could develop one at any time.

As a beer lover who has woven brewing into the fabric of his being, that’s sort of terrifying.

The symptoms are bad enough: sudden weight gain, complete lack of alcohol tolerance, frequent headaches, dehydration, sometimes even dermal rashes. Worse are the treatments: there are none. Well, no medications. The only real remedy is to avoid foods that contain yeast.

Sounds simple enough, right? Stop drinking beer and wine. There will be a ten minute period where you’re completely inconsolable, but hey, life goes on.

But much like aspartame and high fructose corn syrup have dastardly crawled into more products than expected, yeast can be found in many things you might not have imagined. Cheese fan? Bleu and brie both contain large amounts of yeast. Pretty much all leavened bread? Yeast-city. Many restaurants season broths and soups with yeast, and “nutritional” yeast is a staple in some vegetarian and vegan dishes. Suddenly eating becomes a game of gastrointestinal Russian-roulette, hoping yeast isn’t in the chamber when you pull the dinner-trigger.

It may seem trivial, as yeast allergies constitute a very small percentage of all allergies suffered in the United States. But new research suggests that yeast allergies and intolerance can be linked to celiac disease, the very real and very serious immunological monster that spawned the gluten-free food craze. It’s entirely possible many people who do not have diagnosed celiac but do feel better when they avoid products with gluten – breads, beer, cereal grains – are partially recovering because they’re limiting their exposure to yeast. Both cause your body to reject certain proteins, both present with somewhat similar symptoms.

All medical woes aside, the allergy can also have social impacts for the sufferer. Fellow writer Sheryl Rivett suffers from a yeast allergy she developed in 2007. After years of being a social drinker, her newly developed allergy forced her to dramatically change her lifestyle:

“I’ve found that people often react as if you’re a recovered alcoholic or a teetotaler or even a wet blanket. It can be awkward to explain, “I’m allergic, but please enjoy one for me!” There is such a social element to drinking. Some friends were so uncomfortable with our lack of social drinking that they stopped inviting us to events…I could choose to just drink wine and beer, but I’d weigh an extra 20-30 pounds, I’d never sleep, and my GI system would be my worst enemy.”

The relatively innocuous allergy even changed her plans for the future:

“In the beginning, I had hope that I would one day travel with my husband to Italy or France and drink wine. I still really love the image of the two of us sitting at a Parisian café with glasses of wine in our hands. But as I’ve faced additional health challenges, I’ve come around to embracing a full, healthy life without alcohol…My philosophy, coming through these changes, is that life is to be enjoyed; the trick is to figure out what that life looks like for you specifically. And in my case, it means learning new ways of enjoying life and social situations.”

Yeast allergies don’t command much attention in the medical media, but they’re a serious reality for a lot of people, even if not because of immediate, mortal consequences. Having to remove beer and wine (it should be noted that distilled spirits contain no yeast, so they’re still fair game) from one’s lifestyle may be easier on paper than in practice. It may mean a radical change in behavior and diet. It may mean completely changing activities and groups of friends. It may even mean rebooting what you consider fun, realigning your life in a way that involuntarily but necessarily shuns fermentation.

The good news, as I noted, is that even if you do develop a yeast allergy at some point, you can still drink scotch.

(It may interest the more beery folks to know that the bacteria, Lactobacillus acidophilus [the same bacteria that makes some sour beers sour], helps to naturally balance the amount of yeast in our bodies. Sheryl noted that she can eat sourdough without much problem, a bread made with a heaping scoopful of lactobacillus. It also helps facilitate lactose digestion, so if you’re lactose intolerant [like me], it’s basically the most glorious bacteria in the world.)

Many thanks to Chris White and Jamil Zainasheff for their literary help.

Millstone Cellars – Fruit, Funk, Fermentation

August 31, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

I stuck my nose deep into the little glass of pale yellow, letting my nostrils swim in a smell I’d never expect from a cider: blue cheese.

Kyle Sherrer played thief-wielding, sample-slinging host to us this weekend, as he lead us around his cidery, Millstone Cellars. With his father, Curt, Kyle makes cider and mead using old world methods: wood barrels, wild yeasts, spontaneous fermentation. They’re creating dry marvels from a forgotten time, using locally sourced ingredients (even some from their own backyard).

I could wax voluble about the intriguing apple, honey, and berry fermentations; the spicy wood and musty stone of the building; or the puckering joy of sour meads, but I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

In Defense of the Alternative Beer Review

May 13, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

If you’ve been around for some of my Beer Fiction Fridays it’s not exactly breaking news worthy of auto-tune treatment that I don’t write traditional beer reviews. Sure, I’ve written quite a few nonfiction, more review-ish reviews, but even those tend to fall more on the side of narrative story than they do classic, “here’s what I think and why,” no-frills review.

An article from Focus on the Beer had me doing a Ctrl+F on my soul this weekend, delving deep in my psyche and emotional past for the reasons I write beer reviews at all. I think the obvious reasons are because I like beer and because I like to write. The rest just seems inconsequential, the unimportant details that seem to work themselves out without much extra thought.

But I’ve never been the type to actually read reviews of food and drink with an air of seriousness, never acted like the opinion of the critic or reviewer or dude in his basement somehow matters. I do often find my browser landing on Beer Advocate because, hey, checking out what the collective hive-mind thinks can be fun and a hands-on lesson in collective sociology. But I’m pretty sure I’ve never consciously recalled any of those reviews in the liquor store, saying to myself, “beerstud1991 only gave it a 2.63, no way I’m buying that junk.“ I can say with confidence that I’ve never let a beer’s “score” influence whether I’m going to purchase it or not.

Why?

Because taste is subjective. More so, I’d argue, than any other sense. We can pretty much agree (short of color interpretation) that we all see the same things. Aside from the thickness of different ear drums slightly adjusting incoming MHz, we all hear the same things. We can also agree that week-old cat litter smells bad and a freshly baked apple pie smells good. We can even agree that 300 thread count sheets are soft, 60 grit sand paper is rough, and a baby’s butt is the unequivocal standard unit of smoothness against which all other smoothness should be measured.

But taste has few standards; it is permeable, water soluble, in constant flux. Some people out there legitimately don’t like cupcakes. Others legitimately do like tripe. Every late-to-work scalding coffee burn, every jalapeno charged capsaicin rush, every chewing-too-fast-bit-the-side-of-your-tongue is part of the formula that always equals how you go about tasting, no matter what variables are added or changed. Your tongue, like a gross pink snake, sheds its skin and taste buds often, reacting to all kinds of things you put in your mouth, making it so you can’t even trust your own opinions over the course of your life.

And because taste is flawed, the classic beer review is flawed. Just because you liked a sextuple dry-hopped Imperial IPA, doesn’t mean everyone else will. Just because your palette isn’t as open to bitters and coffee malts, doesn’t mean that a coffee stout is bad. Reviews will always be biased and tainted by the reviewer’s in-born, unavoidable subjectivity and thus can’t logically be universally valid. There is no basis against which the goodness of a beer can be measured (although the BJCP is certainly trying to establish one) and as a result, what another person thinks about a beer will remain forever nebulous, floating in a foamy, lacey, off-white head of doubt.

I sound like I’m about to give up on the beer review. Far from it. Actually the opposite. The beer review is still a great thing, still has a place in our writing and beer worlds, but maybe not in the traditional Appearance+Smell+Taste+Mouthfeel form.

When you drink a beer, you’re doing a lot more than just putting some water, malt, hops, and alcohol into your body. You’re doing a lot more than just tasting a drink and reporting your findings. You’re becoming part of an ancient tradition that dates back ~10,000 years. You’re joining a enthusiastic community of like-minded brewers, maltsters, yeast-biologists, and hop-farmers who toil away to bring life to a beverage, a drink that has shaped and supported mankind’s rise to greatness like a pint glass supports an ale. You’re raising a glass to salute the infinite muse of alcohol, and sharing good times with your family and friends. Beer is more than the sum of its ingredients, it’s a glorious gateway, a cultural connection.

When you write a review, you’re telling the story of how you made that connection. You’re filling your reader’s head with the same warm, spinning buzz that filled yours, via a story or anecdote or worded snapshot of life. You’re not just telling them about the beer, you’re taking them with you on the experience you had drinking the beer. Write your reviews to show us the truth that was hard-brewed into the beer, the connection to that timeless tradition that inspired you to take bottle-opener to cap in the first place.

Don’t be so caught up in what people expect from a review. If you want to write about the hop characteristics because that’s just your thing, go for it. If you want to write about a memory that this beer brought surging back to the front of your brain, by all means. If you’re like me, and you want to write a story based on the taste and appearance of the beer, don’t let anyone stop you.

Drink what calls to you. Write what the beer inspires you to write.

“How much easier it is to be critical than to be correct.”
― Benjamin Disraeli

Review: Sam Adams Belgian Session

May 1, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Guys! Guys!

Guys. (And I use the term “guys” androgynously, like “dude”, so don’t feel left out ladies)

I found another session ale. If you remember my review of Smuttynose Star Island Single, you’ll also remember that I’m a big fan of these session ales. I love that they possess a certain drinkability due to their low alcohol, but simultaneously pack a lot of taste, unlike their domestic, “carbonated piss”, brethren.

They’re pretty awesome beers.

While the Smuttynose version was hoppy and a tad sweet, the Sam Adams Belgian Session is wheaty, sour, and yeasty. It sits at 5% ABV, putting it very slightly higher than what others might consider a session ale, but it tastes light and refreshing.

I’ve gotten so used to bitter and hoppy (from drinking so much IPA) that yeasty and sour took me quite by surprise. This beer smells very strong and hearty, reminiscent of Chimay White, Leffe, or Hoegaarden.

If you don’t like yeast, you certainly won’t like this. If you do like yeast, and a beer that is refreshing and quenching, you will like this. As I sipped this yellowish ale from my glass, I started wondering why Belgian beer is so yeasty and sour. To the Internets!

Here comes the science: Brewer’s Yeast, or any yeast in the family Saccharomyces cerevisiae (literally, sugar fungus of beer), is used to make beer. There are 2 main sub-types within this family, the top-fermenting “ale yeast” and the bottom-fermenting “lager yeast.” There are hundreds of strains of yeast out there, all of which offer slightly different character, flavors, and aromas.

There is also a way to brew beer (or wine) using wild yeast by simply leaving the wort (or must) exposed to the open air called “spontaneous fermentation.” This method allows naturally occurring yeast to process the sugars into alcohol, resulting in a much more sour, unfiltered, cloudy beer. This is the way beer and wine was made pre-1836 (when French scientist and lush Cagniard de Latour discovered that yeast was alive and made alcohol as a by-product of eating sugar); a period in history when people assumed tiny, invisible fairies swam around in their beer, creating magical happy-juice in the process. This method is highly volatile, often resulting in gross, possibly dangerous, undrinkable beer.

While there are dozens of varieties of Belgian beer their brewmasters are fond of a particular strain of yeast that results in sulfur-like smells and leaves a substantial amount of yeast flavor in the beer. This may have something to do with the 15th century Trappist Abbey beer, which was originally brewed by selfish monks who wouldn’t share their delicious brown ales. Or weren’t allowed to share it because of Catholic doctrine. I can’t remember. Either way, their work set the bar for how Belgian ales should be produced and how they should taste.

As a result, contemporary nods to Belgian ale are packed to the brim with certain strains of yeast that make them – unsurprisingly enough – iconically Belgian. Belgian Pale Ale sits at an almost perfect juxtaposition to the England-born India Pale Ale.

It’s a battle of hops versus yeast.

The winner? My tongue.

8.75 out of 10.

Those Belgians sure like their yeast. And waffles. And chocolate.

Next up: Flying Dog Road Dog Porter!