“The German culture is rule governed,” says Dornbusch. (Ya think?) “They like laws dictated from above. It’s sort of bred into them.” He laughs. “That’s why I’m here. I wasn’t obedient enough.” When it comes to beer, however, he’s happy to play by the rules.
Dornbusch identifies three great beer cultures in the world. The British styles — primarily malty, fast fermenting ales, using English hops like Fuggles and East Kent Goldings — are a little simpler, technically speaking, and more forgiving of variation. The Belgians still follow brewing techniques developed in the Middle Ages, making ales with any ingredients they fancy — raspberries, peaches, candy sugar, lactic bacteria, you name it.
The Germans, on the other hand, tried to “un-Belgify the beer by making it clean tasting,” says Dornbursch. In the days before Pasteurization and microfiltration, that was a tall order. “They took a route that was trickier. It took them 300 years, from the 16th century to the 19th century, to sort of perfect their way of brewing. They knew all the odds. They were up against bacteria and up against yeast. They pursued something that was very difficult. Eventually they came up with a perfectly controlled set of lager styles.”
In the process of waging war against microorganisms and the stylistic excesses of their European neighbors, Dornbursch says, “the Germans became perfectionists in the 60-odd styles that they decided to be dedicated to. They played to their strengths.” As a result, German styles are rigid. Rule-bound. But rewarding. “The Germans went for the stylistic straightjacket,” he says, “and strove for meticulous perfection.”
The rules don’t stop there. For a libation meant to be consumed in large quantities, in a spirit of bonhomie — or, since we’re talking German, gemütlichkeit, meaning a feeling of warmness and cheerful belonging — the Oktoberfest style is trussed up in some strictly enforced definitions.
The O-word is a registered trademark, in fact. It may legally be used only by six Munich breweries: Hacker-Pschorr, Paulaner, Löwenbräu, Spaten, Hofbräu, and Augustiner. And only those six are allowed to set up tents at Oktoberfest, where a full third of their annual output, nearly two million gallons, is consumed in just 16 days.
“You can sue companies for using the name,” says Dornbusch, noting that the Big Six have been known to “squander resources [suing] poor little breweries who dare release an Oktoberfest beer.” (Some breweries get around the prohibition with a bit of lexical legerdemain; note the well-placed space and hyphen in “Ayinger Oktober Fest-Märzen.”)
But you’re not in Munich. The rules don’t apply here. So you can try the proper Oktoberfest beers — all can be found easily stateside except Augustiner, which doesn’t export — as well as American approximations of the classic Märzen/Oktoberfest style.
Löwenbräu Original
Not strictly an Oktoberfest beer, Dornbusch started us off with this ordinary Munich helles — a pale, slightly maltier version of a pilsner — as a sort of base line. It’s a fine beer, but nothing extraordinary: there’s a little aroma, cleanness up front, a vibrant maltiness in the middle, and a lingering aromatic finish imparted by Saaz hops. (PS: it’s pronounced lerven-broy.)
Hacker-Pschorr Original Oktoberfest
This one’s much darker than the Löwenbräu, a deep, regal amber. There’s slightly more malt in the nose, with a touch of hop astringency toward the back. It’s very drinkable. Dornbusch’s verdict: “a concession to modern taste. More of a mass-market commercial Oktoberfest.”
Paulaner Oktoberfest Märzen
The bouquet here is similar to that of Hacker-Pschorr’s but is somewhat more complex. (Interestingly, since their merger, H-P and Paulaner are owned by the same company and are made in the same brew house.) The flavor has more substance, too, with a more pronounced caramelly malt and a vaguely citrus kick of hops at the finish.
Spaten Oktoberfest Ur-Märzen
This is the first official Oktoberfest beer, rolled out in 1872 and still beloved. It’s medium bodied, with a clean nose, a little less malty than some others, with a pleasant hop note toward the back. “Good quaffing beer,” says Dornbusch. “Probably the most drinkable. Give you a liter and you can guzzle it.”
Hofbräu Oktoberfest Dornbusch
Wasn’t able to track this one down, but I found some on draught at the venerable Jacob Wirth in the Theater District. Pouring golden and refulgent in its dimpled glass mug, this one is considerably lighter than its brethren. A good deal hoppier, too.
Ayinger Oktober Fest-Märzen
Not one of the official six, but a fine beer nonetheless. It’s got a gorgeous copper color, with some serious toffee-like malt notes. (But no roasted, toasty flavors, which, Dornbusch reminds us, are a no-no in Bavarian brewing.) Its restrained sweetness makes it an ideal food pairing: match it with a rich beef stew on a chilly October night.
Erdinger Oktoberfest Weissbier
Erdinger’s weissbiers (a variation on hefeweizen, or wheat-beer, style) are the best selling in Germany. Why shouldn’t it get in on the Oktoberfest fun? This one is not a Märzen, but rather sort of a hybrid of the two styles: cloudy, but with a touch more caramel sweetness than your usual hefe.
Sam Adams Octoberfest
Boston Beer Company’s American spin on the style is a mite too malty for my tastes. (Adding just a bit more aroma hops might counteract that.) But it’s still a very fine beer, standing up strong even when compared with the big boys from Bavaria.
Wachusett Octoberfest Ale
Interesting. Every aforementioned beer has been a lager. But this is an ale. (Ales are brewed using top-fermenting yeasts, and lagers, slower and colder, with bottom-fermenting strains.) But if, geographically and formally, it’s not an Oktoberfest beer, it does have the hallmarks of the style, with a copper color and heavy malt character.
And, hey, why not break down the barriers even further? As Dornbusch says, “Why not a pilsner ale? How about a Burton Lager? Or a Bavarian Stout? Why don’t we have Bohemian IPA?”
Indeed, in this month’s All About Beer magazine (High Times for the bearded and big-bellied set), Randy Mosher argues that Germany’s reverence for rules need not inhibit American brewing ingenuity. The Reinheitsgebot, he writes, that “hallowed and ancient document, scribed onto goatskin, the symbol of all that is Germanic brewing, has intimidated us all into keeping to the straight and narrow.” Why not, Mosher asks, a “Porterbock,” or a stronger, darker “Novemberfest”?
After all, the hidebound solemnity of German brewing is admirable. But that doesn’t mean we can’t give it a jolt of extreme-beer adrenaline. Sometimes rules are necessary. And sometimes they’re meant to be broken.
For more information on German beer, visit Horst Dornbusch’s site: germanbeerinstitute.com.