Beer Frontier. Aventures of a Beer Activist.

The object of the tradition is straight forward. Eat bread and drink beer all day, and make sure that it all tastes good. So long as it does, the Portreeve will “pronounce it Good,” and award a certificate to the baker or publican certifying its quality. A sprig of evergreen is hung on the door, publicly signifying the Portreeve’s inspection. The Portreeve’s procession perambulates about the town, eating and drinking until every loaf and beer has been duly ‘tested.’

A righteous street party ensues.

Sit On It Portreeve
The Portreeve also re-enacts a tradition of somewhat questionable historical accuracy. It is said that ‘Ale Conners,’ as the testers were once called, would bring a wooden bench to the ale house they intended to inspect. Some beer would be poured onto the bench, and the Ale Conner, wearing special leather britches for the job, would have a seat on the sudsy stool, where he would remain for a while, drinking beer, discussing matters of import with the brewer.

When the taster eventually arose, his britches might stick to the bench. If they did, it was supposedly a sure sign that the beer had been adulterated with sugar – an absolute no-no by medieval brewing standards, as well as today’s (unless it’s a Belgian ale with candy sugar, but that’s a story for another day). On the other hand, if the britches detached from the bench without sticking, then the beer was ‘Good.’

This passage from Frederick W. Hackwood's Inns, Ales and Drinking Customs of Old England, recounts this supposed tradition:
" The official ale-tester”, we are informed by an authority, “wore leather breaches. He would enter an inn unexpectedly, draw a glass of ale, pour it on a wooden bench, and then sit down in the little puddle he had made. There he would sit for thirty minutes by the clock. He would converse, he would smoke, he would drink with all who asked him to, but he would be very careful not to change his position any way. At the end of the half-hour he would make as if to rise, and this was the test of the ale; for, if the ale was impure, if it had sugar in it, the tester’s leather breaches would stick fast to the bench, but if there was no sugar in the liquor no impression would be present—in other words, the tester would not stick to the seat.”

What Have I Dung Wrong?
Brewing bad beer was no joking matter. Records show a fine of one penny being levied against 13th century brewers of dubious ale. Other historical punishments for transgressing the public trust in brewing included sessions in the stocks, and being tossed on the village dung heap.

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13th century punishments for transgressing
the public trust in brewing included being
tossed on the village dung heap.
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In modern times, the Ale Tasting ceremony is attended by all of Ashburton’s traditional officials, including Viewers of the Markets, Inspector of Trees, Searchers and Sealers of Leather, Pig Drovers, Scavenger, and the Viewers of the Watercourses. Of course, they all wear Elizabethan style apparel, evoking the appropriate look and feel of ‘Merrie Olde Englande.’

It’s a wholesome family affair. The kids perform a traditional Maypole dance, while their fathers dance the somewhat eerie, bordering on bizarre, Morris Dance, clacking the road with sticks, jingling bells, chanting and shouting, and in the case of Ashburton’s dancers, looking devilish in black and camouflage cloths with faces smeared with black. The town Bishop partakes his share of the spiritual elixir too and the day winds up with an auction of bread loaves collected during the procession, with all proceeds going to the Portreeve’s favorite charity, and everyone goes home feeling quite warm inside.

In modern times this tasting tradition is merely symbolic, with no real danger of quality controls being actually enforced. But undoubtedly there are many discriminating English beer drinkers would welcome a return to the day when a vendor passing off ‘alco-pops’ as beer might be flung unceremoniously onto a heap of pig shit.

Oh, but for the good old days.

A Can of Real Ale?
Speaking of returning to the good old days, it occurs to me that the good old days of beer are very much alive and well in the country known to tourists as ‘The Land of 13 Months of Sunshine.’

Ethiopian real ale is brewed and served in ways that have yet to be corrupted too much by the menace of adulterations and technological gadgets. This ale is brewed and drunk fresh. The ingredients, including the malt, are fresh and often home made, occasionally even grown in the yard right outside of the dwelling where it is ultimately served.

However, one technological adaptation has curiously crept in to common usage. Ethiopian real ale often comes in a can. I don’t mean the ‘pop-top’ aluminum beverage cans we’re familiar with in the U.S. No, I’m referring to something more along the lines of an empty 20 oz. tomato paste container. Or perhaps a 32 oz can of ‘Girl’ brand ghee. (The male mind whirls into dangerous territory at the juxtaposition of the words ‘girl’ and ‘ghee,’ but you’ll have to surf to another web site to satisfy that tantalizing thought.)

Tella Me Another One
This ale is called tella, and it is brewed from barley malt and the leaves of a green bush called gesho (scientific name: Rhamnus prinoides).

In the past year I have had some pleasant adventures drinking this stuff in the highland towns and villages of this ancient kingdom. Just a couple weeks ago I visited the islands of Lake Tana, fabled to have once been the home of the holy Ark of the Covenant – you know, that old testament relic thing that Indiana Jones was seeking in Raiders of the Lost Ark?

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Men of the Cloth always seem to have the best beer.
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Well, the Ark was nowhere to be found, but I did stumble across some of the best tella I have yet to taste. Somehow that figures since this batch was brewed exclusively for the monks inhabiting this particular monastery. Somehow, men of the cloth always seem to have the best beer, be it the Trappists of Belgium, or the Orthodox priests of Ethiopia.

In any case, I was glad they did. And when our guide noted that my interest had obviously been piqued by the prospect of a taste of this brew, he offered me a large can-full straight from a huge crock turned on its side and stuffed closed with something or other. Despite the brew’s primitive trappings, I was only too eager to oblige.

It was surprisingly soft, well-filtered, pleasantly bitter, slightly herbal in aroma, and damn thirst quenching, especially after a several hour equatorial trek.

I was even more surprised that Vincente, the Spanish-via-Dublin development official-cum-tourist who had joined us for the day, hesitated only briefly before joining me in a cup. Having lived in Africa a number of times, I knew these development types fairly well, I knew it was quite unusual for one of them to be so intrepid as to try something like this: a murky brownish liquid served from a vessel kept at well beneath the sanitary standards of the West, and vaguely categorized as beer, which might well cause him to go blind as far as all his development training might have him believe. I, of course knew better, and wasn’t the least bit worried about getting sick from a beer, so I was pleased to see him enjoying one as well.

That night I went tella beat (beer house) hopping, intent on learning what I could of the varying tastes and recipes of the local styles. My guide was patient, polite and persistent in helping me acquire knowledge along these lines. In all we visited three houses, each with a distinct beer style on offer. And here I discovered another similarity between Ethiopian tella and Belgian ales: each house had a unique drinking vessel suited to its own brew. As advanced beer drinkers know, each of Belgium’s famed beers is served in a glass designed specifically for the beer served in it. Wasn’t I surprised to see this same sophistication demonstrated be these quite modest home brewers?

In the months that I have been researching African beer styles, the Western world’s complete disregard for them has become glaringly obvious. Finding research on this vast topic has been almost entirely futile. The few mentions I have uncovered are always vague and often incorrect. Worse still, they are often quite uncomplimentary, carrying tones of disdain or pity. Consider, for example, this glowing report from Philip Briggs in the well known guide book Ethiopia: The Bradt Travel Guide:
Locally brewed beer, made form millet or maize, is called tella. This is similar to the local brew of East and Southern Africa, and no less foul in Ethiopia than it is elsewhere in the region.

The ignorance of this statement is betrayed by the fact that Ethiopian tella is made primarily from barley malt, and only occasionally includes sorghum, millet or maize as an adjunct, and then normally only because barley is either unavailable or too expensive at the moment. This is obviously a man who knows next to nothing about beer and yet feels quite authorized in making a sweeping and patently inaccurate assessment of the brewing products of an entire country, nay, region! One must wonder if he is perhaps a teetotaler.

And just so you don’t think this is just one egregious exception, I offer you another somewhat less obviously biased description, but just as incorrect, and reproachable for its meagerness, from John Graham in Ethiopia Off the Beaten Trail:
The traditional drinks in Ethiopia are: talla, the beer made primarily from a particular leaf. . .

That’s it. In a 342 page guidebook there are nine words on a beverage that is widely drunk throughout the entire country. And even these nine he manages to get horribly wrong. It goes without saying, but in case John happens to be reading this article (and by the way John, if you are reading this, I pretty much liked your book outside of this conspicuous short coming), no beer is ‘made primarily from a particular leaf’, ever.

And yet these brief and odious guidebook mentions are some of the most words I have managed to find written on the subject! Indeed it is time for a well researched book or twenty to be written on African brewing styles, their histories and the drinking cultures surrounding them. I invite any publishers out there to contact me to discuss book contracts.

In a round about way this brings us back to the ale-conner’s beer pants. For I suspect one is as likely to insure the quality of an English ale by sitting on it, as one is to discover the quality of African homebrew by reading about it in a guidebook.

And with that, I will conclude this month’s rant by extending an open invitation to all readers: come to Africa! Visit me in Addis Ababa, or ramble somewhere on your own. But either way, make sure to try the homebrew, and then write about it or tell your friends so that the rest of the world can emerge from its ignorance and learn about beer from the people who might well have invented it.

As the Ethiopian’s say: Latenacha!