Morrissey’s Perfect Pint

Neil Morrissey

&

Richard Fox

MORRISSEY MAXIM

There’ll be plenty of time to drink Kaliber when you die.

Introduction

‘For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.’

The Winter’s Tale

So Foxy and me are in this pub: the staff really wish we weren’t there, the beer tastes like badger poo, the food’s been through Abu Ghraib and the music is so loud our teeth are bleeding. I shout at Foxy, ‘Mate, it doesn’t have to be like this’, and the picture of the perfect pub floats into our minds. At this moment the idea is born to set up our own pub and brew our own beer in an on-site microbrewery. Bloke Heaven: beer, pub and home become one. ‘Fancy a pint?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘Love, just nipping downstairs. Be back in an hour …’

We need a different kind of pub now to the pulling joints of youth. Pulling is still on the cards, but in a more genteel way: tugging, let’s say. Pubs need to reflect our age and our desire for the three Qs: quality food, quality beer and quality service. This is what The Perfect Pint is all about.

The problem is that our generation created the monster of the high street chain bar. It is exactly what we wanted when we were 18 (instead of those sticky carpet horror shows of the 70s and 80s) but the monster has escaped and killed every other kind of boozer in its path. The opportunity for beer drinking, as we now want to do it, is getting squeezed out by these characterless, sterile vomit hovels. At this point in our lives we want something different.

Pubs are closing their doors at the rate of nearly 60 a week. But these ‘establishments’ where you get crap service, crap beer, crap wine, crap food, crap atmosphere and a crap fight at the end of the night are taking over the high street. Nothing about them has anything to do either with pubs or continental cafés – they’re the spawn of corporate marketing departments interested in creating a template for ‘customer experience’. Britain’s attempt at sophisticated la-di-da café culture has replaced sticky carpets with sticky stripped wooden floors and cardboard food with cardboard canapés. The pub’s evolution seems to have missed out a stage, the stage in which there is a place to drink, in a community, with decent local food and decent local beer. And good service!

The plan, then, was simple: find a pub, buy it, renovate it to the way we want a pub to look, brew our own beer and cook great food. In other words, create the perfect pub serving the perfect pint. Of course, the logistics are staggering, it’s costing us an arm and a leg and there are no guarantees that the whole venture won’t go tits up. But we believe that people respond to quality, and that’s what we’re all about. Great beer, great food and a great atmosphere to drink and eat in.

Our first attempt at a brew is described on page 15. While we were waiting for it to ferment, we decided to write down everything we love, hate, know and don’t know about beer, pubs, women and life. And drinking. Oh yes, drinking. This is the result – a beer book for blokes. Keep it in the little boys’ room.

Beer

Drinking

The Pub

Food

‘If God had intended us to drink beer, He would have given us stomachs.’

David Daye

Beer in history

Beer, when you get down to it, is about life. The kind of beer you drink (or don’t), where you drink it, the mates you drink it with, all define you more than your job or your clothes. Beer has a history and a culture that reaches right around the world and way back in time to Ancient Egypt and then some. It was with us at the dawn of civilisation and will be around until we end up in the gutter of this or another planet.

But what do we know about it?

Morrissey: Beer is the national drink of Britain, about the only thing that will always come in imperial measures (milk, petrol, anyone?) and thank God for that. And thank God for natural yeasts. Fermentation was probably discovered accidentally, when some stored grain got wet, thereby softening the kernel of the grain and allowing yeasts in the air to do their magic.

Foxy: So beer is also, contrary to widespread opinion, the reason we’re civilised. The need to store grain to make beer led to settled communities, where the art of brewing was developed, and we could all get down to some serious drinking – excellent!

M: Beer brewing, from barley, was actually well-established in Britain by the time the Romans got here in the first century ad. The Roman Emperor Julian thought beer smelt disgusting compared with wine – like ‘goat’ compared with ‘nectar’. Maximus Toolus we call him.

Anyway, making wine was a no-no in Britain because of the climate which is much better suited to growing grains than grapes. It is to our eternal chagrin that it was Germans, in the form of colonising Anglo-Saxons, who brought the beer habit with them to England in the fifth century ad. The Germans! I suppose we should be grateful that it wasn’t the French. Anyway the Germans called it ‘ol’ or ‘ale’ and from about the sixth century beer, from the Latin word ‘biber’, meaning drink.

F: I knew you had a good education. Right through the Dark and Middle Ages, making beer was quite rightly seen as an essential part of everyday life. It was safer than drinking water because it had been boiled, and provided nutrition in the form of carbohydrates and protein when food was scarce. Brewing was women’s work, and ‘alewives’ prepared the beer alongside the bread, until the 16th century, when commercial brewing and the influence of the Church prevailed.

M: People don’t realize what a big part the Church played in the development of beer. They brewed beer to refresh pilgrims, and licensed binge drinking among rural folk to help them let off steam safely and raise money. Three-day sessions weren’t uncommon! Monasteries brewed untold amounts of ale and monks drank a skinful. The daily allowance for monks at Burton Abbey in the year 1004 was two gallons (16 pints) of ale!

F: That explains why they took brewing to new heights of sophistication – they needed advanced techniques to guarantee copious amounts of quality product. The most significant development was the use of hops which gives beer its ‘bitter’ taste but, more importantly, preserves it. Dutch traders brought beer to Britain and by the 1520s was here to stay. The basic recipe of beer as we know it was created: barley, yeast, water and hops.

M: Celebration ales were brewed to mark everything! ‘Bride-ales’ or ‘bridals’ (or ‘bridles’ if the wife-to-be was a bit of a horse) were made to celebrate weddings. They were brewed by the Lucky Lady herself, and sold to raise a dowry for the couple for whom, in those days, ‘life meant life’. Eye-weepingly strong ‘groaning-ales’ were fermented, often for seven or eight months, to help mothers-to-be through the painful birthing process – and the expectant fathers, of course. The baby was then often washed in the beer because …

F: …it was safer than water! Recycled grain was used to make ‘small beer’, which was the piss-weak everyday stuff given to women and children and served at breakfast. The better stuff was given to farm-workers, prescribed by doctors, used in religious ceremonies and other celebrations. You didn’t need to have a drink problem to have a drink problem in those days.

M: Which isn’t to deny that getting muntered was high on everybody’s agenda. Because there was no way to measure or control the alcoholic content, apart from re-brewing the grains to make ‘small beer’, ale was often wickedly strong. The eighth-century missionary, St Boniface, wrote that in Britain ‘the vice of drunkenness is too frequent. This is an evil peculiar to pagans and to our race. Neither the Franks nor the Gauls nor the Lombards nor the Romans nor the Greeks commit it.’

F: Interestingly, drinking from glasses didn’t occur until much later. People drank out of pigskin pitchers, horns and bowls which couldn’t be put down like a glass, so ‘down in one’ was common. Communal bowls were marked by pegs and pins, indicating where one customer’s portion of ale started and finished. Drinking more than your fair share became known as ‘taking someone down a peg or two’. One novelty of the late 17th century was the whistling tankard, which had a whistle at the bottom so you could call the landlord when you needed a top up!

M: That’s one for the Innovations catalogue, methinks. Another change in the 17th century was a bit of a disaster. Because they were worried about losing revenue, the King and Parliament cut duties on gin to encourage people to drink it instead of French brandy. Imagine their surprise when this produced an epidemic of gin-necking which made today’s so-called binge drinking look like a tea dance in Rhyl.

F: And gin in those days was the original rocket fuel, often over double the strength of today’s sophisticated aperitif. This had the unintended but gratifying effect of making beer drinking respectable by comparison. William Hogarth, the 18th century artist, made two engravings called Beer Street and Gin Lane that showed the former as an ordered, happy, pleasant environment and the latter as a horror-filled chaos.

M: Like Harrogate on a Saturday night but actually much worse. The 18th century saw the big commercial brewers establish themselves and take most of the business from small, independent brewers who had been the backbone of British beer-making. Science helped with devices like the steam engine and hydrometer which allowed larger quantities to be brewed with greater precision. Also, better roads meant cheaper, mass-produced beer could be transported to places that had previously relied on alewives and alcoholic monks for their bevvy.

F: Ah yes, science. In the 19th century Louis Pasteur dealt the small beer producers a double whammy when he grew yeast in the laboratory, meaning that brewers no longer had to rely on wild, airborne yeasts for fermentation. He also invented ‘pasteurisation’, which meant beer could be easily treated to stay fresh longer. Beer-remained a mainstay of the working man’s diet until well into the 20th century when food became more plentiful. Industrialisation also saw a drop in the demand for physical labour, which meant more machines powered by oil and less men fuelled by beer. The world changed, Neil.

M: Indeed it did, Foxy. The invasion of bland German lagers, in the 60s, when TV advertising emerged and teenagers flexed their drinking muscles at the pub, saw a big decline in beer drinking, but there are signs of a comeback, with the growth of artisan breweries and specialist beers. It may not be the lifeblood of the nation, as it was in pre-industrial times, but it is still a vital part of life and undoubtedly our national drink. Cheers!

Our first brew

So, how do you make it? Do you want to try? Honestly, you would not believe how easy it is to come up with a good brew. Seven days, a bit of kit, and a lot of patience is all you need. Look in the directory at the back of this book for a list of top suppliers. The stuff you can get these days is way ahead of the pot noodle in a bucket they sold back in the 70s. Here’s what you need.

Brewing beer is as easy as cooking pasta. If you can boil a kettle and follow a recipe, you can make your own home-brew. The ingredients you need are:

1 Malt Malt is mostly made of barley. The barley will give the whole tone of the beer; it’s the canvas on which you paint your flavours. The colour of the beer is strongly linked to the malt from which it is made.

2 Hops Each type of hop adds a different level and variety of bitterness. Using more than one variety or type of hops add to the depth of flavour of the beer.

3 Yeast This is the ingredient that transforms the sugar in the wort (the liquid) into alcohol, so treat it with respect.

4 Liquor Traditional brewers call water ‘liquor’. And good liquor makes good beer. The most prized water contains happy balances of minerals, particularly calcium, and plays a vital part in brewing beer. At one time, Burton-upon-Trent was home to more than 200 breweries largely because the water supply made it ideal for the production of English ales. Breweries today can adjust almost any water supply to produce just the right balance of minerals.

You’ll also need some basic equipment: 25-litre plastic bucket with lid (the mash tun); bottles and caps; hydrometer (for checking sugars and alcohol strength); thermometer; measuring jugs which can hold more than 20 litres; siphoning tube; fermentation bucket; sanitisers.

Here’s our first brew recipe. And guess what, we thought it was fucking marvellous.

Morrissey and Foxy’s Blonde Ale

MAKES ABOUT 40 PINTS

Ingredients: |
4,080g | Golden Promise malt
260g | Light crystal malt
39g | Styrian Golding hops
32g | Fuggles hops
10g | Irish moss
15g | Cascade hops
1 | packet fast acting yeast

Method:

Add 23 litres of water heated to 77°C to the mash tun. Allow the temperature to drop to 72°C and add both malts. Stir to form a thick porridge. Maintain temperature between 62°C and 69°C for 1½ hours. Strain wort (the liquid) into a large pan very slowly. If the liquid is not clear, return to the mash tun and repeat until a clear wort is produced. Using a watering can, spray the leftover malt with water heated to 77°C. Continue to do this until a reading of 1005 is reached on the hydrometer. Top up the boiler to the desired level and heat to a rolling boil. Add the Styrian Golding and Fuggles hops and the Irish Moss. Boil vigorously for 1 hour. Add the Cascade hops and boil for a further 15 minutes. Cool very quickly and transfer the liquid only to the fermenting vessel. Add the dissolved yeast, cover and place in a cool (22°C degree) room for two days. Carefully siphon off the clear liquid into another fermenting vessel, leaving behind any flotsam and jetsam. Ferment for a further three or four days with an airtight lid. Siphon off the clear BEER and enjoy!

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