Smithsonian.com

Thanksgiving table with food, courtesy of Flickr user Mr. T in DC

Legend has it that the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock in present-day Massachusetts, rather than traveling farther, because they were running low on provisions—namely beer. The first structure they built is even said to have been a brewery.

Like so much about the Thanksgiving story, though, this anecdote is probably bogus. As Bob Skilnik, author of Beer & Food: An American History points out on his blog, the pilgrims were indeed fond of beer, but the evidence doesn’t support either the beer shortage or the hasty brewery tale.

But even if the Pilgrims didn’t hoist frothy mugs of ale at the first Thanksgiving, there’s no reason you shouldn’t.

In fact, in all the turkey vs. sides chatter going on lately, let’s not forget the liquid portion of the meal. Even if your family doesn’t drive you to drink, why not put as much thought into the beverages as the rest of the feast?

The Washington Post suggests serving up “iconic American wines” with the holiday meal, from California chardonnay, zinfandel and sparkling wine to Oregon pinot gris, Washington riesling, and local wines—which have been popping up in all sorts of unlikely places.

Another strategy is to go with a cocktail that highlights some of the flavors of the season. Chow has a couple of tasty-sounding candidates: the Log Cabin combines the classic fall ingredients of maple and apple, and Spiced Cranberry Sangria sounds like the perfect accompaniment to turkey with all the fixin’s (or, just the fixin’s, as the case may be). Leite’s Culinaria offers up a recipe for a Fall Spice Cordial that seems like it would cap off the meal nicely.

You could also opt for a thematically appropriate cocktail. The Pilgrim is made with rum (New England rum would be proper, according to the CocktailDB recipe, but since it hasn’t been made there since before the Prohibition era, other rums will do), lemon or lime juice and orange liqueur (such as Cointreau or Orange Curacao). Some recipes (like this one at Drinks Mixer) also call for angostura bitters and pimento herbal liqueur. The Mayflower cocktail, with brandy, Cointreau, Pernod, dry and sweet vermouth and orange bitters, sounds like it would make you feel like a passenger on a transatlantic sea voyage.

Of course, let’s not forget those frothy mugs. According to Serious Eats, “Malty beer resonates with the caramelized skin of a turkey and brings out the herbal flavors in stuffing. Beer’s carbonation and bitterness cleanses and refreshes the palate between bites.” Their recommended beer pairings include French-style farmhouse ales, American ambers and yeasty Belgian beers.

Whatever you decide to drink, be sure to raise a glass to all that you have to be thankful about—not least that you don’t have to spend a dismal, death-filled winter in a strange new country, like the Pilgrims did.

On Saturday, I visited “Beer Planet,” as the Smithsonian Resident Associates invitingly titled their latest program at DC’s Brickskeller. Captained by Horst Dornbusch, a crew of about 100 boldly trekked through a global history of beer that featured 13 tastings.

Actually, I think the title was a bit overzealous. The tasting menu was divided into four categories: Germany, Belgium, British Isles, and North America (Maryland and Maine). Beer…Planet, you say? Well, I guess “Beers of the North Atlantic” doesn’t sound quite as cool.

Dornbusch, an engaging speaker who epitomizes the term “beer nerd,” attempted to cram a college course’s worth of world history into four hours. I groaned and settled in for a long ride when his first Powerpoint slide asked: “How long has homo sapiens been on this earth?” But somehow, we made it rather quickly through evolution, the dawn of civilization, the Sumerians, the Babylonians, and the Egyptians, all while still sipping our first beer, a gentle, malty ale called “Old Brown Dog” from New Hampshire’s Smuttynose Brewing Co. (Not clear what the connection was between the beer and the topic at that point; other than the word “old.”)

Beer bubbles, courtesy Flickr user Attilla1000

No one’s sure exactly when beer was invented—it was referenced as early as the 6th century B.C. in Sumeria—or how. Dornbusch’s personal theory, that beer was invented by accident during bread-making, goes something like this: One day, someone was making bread outdoors when their work was interrupted by a big rainstorm. They ran for shelter and forgot about the dough for a day or two, then came back to discover a soupy, fermenting liquid in the bowl. They tried it, got tipsy, and said, “hey, this is good.”

Eh, that seems like a bit of a stretch, but as I don’t have a better theory to offer, we’ll go with it. Dornbusch says brewing spread to Egypt and continued to grow until Cleopatra instated a beer tax (at this, a rumble of “booooo” went around the room—the tasting seemed to be taking effect) and declined drastically after Arab conquest of the region in the 7th century, since Islamic laws proscribe drinking alcohol.

But while beer’s popularity waned in the Middle East, it was gaining ground in northern Europe. People there somehow figured out brewing (perhaps via another soggy-bread epiphany) by at least 800 B.C., based on beer residues in a Celtic amphora found in modern Bavaria. Dornbusch says the Romans were the first to invent the modern brewing process—involving malting and mashing—based on the ruins of a 179 A.D. brewery discovered in a Roman settlement near what is now Regensburg, Germany.

For this portion of the tasting, we started with a Hefeweizen from Weihenstephan, which claims to be the world’s oldest continually operating brewery, founded in 1040 A.D. by Benedictine monks. I’ve been a fan of this beer since I lived in Germany a few years ago, so I was happy to taste it again; there’s a spicy, sweet quality to it reminiscent of banana bread. Then we moved onto a Jever Pilsener—crisp and refreshing, but unspectacular—and a Reissdorf Kölsch, a pleasant, light-bodied brew which Dornbusch compared to a British pale ale.

In the early years, German beer was flavored with whatever was available to cover up its rank taste in warmer months: herbs, bark, mushrooms, or even chicken blood and bile! In 1516, Bavarian Duke Wilhelm IV issued the now-famous edict restricting the ingredients of beer to barley, hops and water. For the past century this edict has been commonly referred to as the Reinheitsgebot, or “purity law,” which irks Dornbusch. (”Ninety-five percent of it was about price fixing; this was no ‘purity law!’” he told us, pointing out that it excludes wheat and even yeast, which hadn’t been discovered yet.)

Eventually we moved on to Belgium, whose more anti-authoritarian culture is reflected in its more inventive and eccentric beers. I was sure I’d find my favorite in this country, and I was right…sort of. The beer I liked best—a dark red ale called Ommegang—is named for a Belgian festival, inspired by Belgian Trappist ales and even made with Belgian yeast, but the brewery is actually in Cooperstown, New York. Ommegang’s spiced-fruit flavor reminded me of the “drunken fig preserves” I made a few months ago, and I imagine a bottle of it would disappear from my fridge even more quickly than those did! Same goes for the two true Belgians we tasted: Saison Dupont, a bottle-conditioned farmhouse ale with coriander and orange notes, and Liefmans Kriek, a cherry lambic that tastes like fruitcake (in a good way).

In Great Britain, archaeological evidence suggests that fermented beverages date back to Neolithic times, and brewing became an industry during the Roman occupation. Ale was drunk widely in medieval Britain (hey, it was safer than water), and hops had become part of the brewing process by the 16th century.

Although not as exciting as the Belgians, the two British ales we tasted (Fuller’s ESB, and Boddington’s Mild) were highly drinkable, and the O’Hara’s Irish Stout from Carlow Brewing was every bit as good as Guinness, my first love in terms of beer.

Finally, we landed (tipsily) in North America, where we tried two brews from nearby Maryland: Flying Dog Double Dog, an “insanely hopped” IPA which I found too bitter too drink, and Clipper City’s Great Pumpkin Imperial Pumpkin Ale, which tasted like, well, pumpkin pie that someone spilled beer on. The real star of the show was the Maine-brewed Allagash Curieux Tripel Ale, which had hints of coconut, bourbon and vanilla in it after aging for two months in Jim Beam barrels.

If you could plot a trip to your own “Beer Planet,” what countries would your tastebuds pull you toward?

The Shale Ale label features artwork by Murray Coppold. Image courtesy of the Burgess Shale Geoscience Foundation.

This year marks the 100th anniversary of the discovery of the fossil-rich Burgess Shale in British Columbia by Charles Doolittle Walcott, the fourth secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. The centennial is being celebrated many ways, from articles to conferences, but one tribute has caught more media attention than others.

The Burgess Shale Geoscience Foundation, a nonprofit educational organization, has partnered with Big Rock Brewery, in Alberta, Canada, to create Shale Ale. As Randle Robertson, executive director of BSGF, said in a press release:

This is the champagne of beers to celebrate the contribution geologists have made to science. Shale Ale kicks off our 1909-2009 centennial celebrations, which are designed to engage the public in geology, climate change and the history of exploration and discovery in the Rocky Mountains.

Combining beer and science, Shale Ale’s label features Walcott and recreations of animals whose fossils he found. The vast majority of fossils that Walcott recovered were of soft-bodied creatures that are normally not preserved, making the Burgess Shale discovery one of the most significant in paleontology. The time period in which the Burgess creatures lived also adds to their importance. The fossils date to 505 million years ago and give a glimpse into life in the Cambrian Period—a time described by some as evolution’s big bang.

Unfortunately, Shale Ale is available only through the Burgess Shale Geoscience Foundation because of provincial liquor laws.

Even if you can’t enjoy a bottle of Shale Ale, you can still relax while watching this animated video of the Cambrian ocean from the Field Museum in Chicago with a glass of wine; it’s oddly soothing.

An old Guinness poster, courtesy of Flickr user Joan_Thewlis

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, the one day of the year when eating your greens can mean cupcakes, beer, even bacon.

It’s oddly appropriate that we celebrate our country’s Irish heritage by binging on fatty food and drink; after all, Ireland is the home of the fry-up, a typical breakfast consisting of fried eggs, bacon (rashers), sausages and black pudding (made from pig’s blood), with a few other fried things thrown in for good measure. Not surprisingly, Ireland’s also near the top of the list of countries with the highest heart disease death rates.

But there is some good health-related news on the Irish front: You know those charming old Guinness beer ads that proclaim it to be good for you? Turns out, they might be right—though not for the reasons originally thought.

Back in the 1920s, when the “Guinness is Good for You” slogan was introduced, the claim was based on market research that found that people felt good after they drank a pint of the dark and foamy stout. Um, duh.

This flimsy claim was eventually bolstered by the fact that Guinness contains iron. Pregnant women were even advised to have an occasional pint. Of course, it would take something like a dozen pints a day for a woman to get her recommended daily allowance of iron, in which case the alcohol and calories would cause more harm than good.

But another health benefit was discovered in 2003: stout beer like Guinness (as opposed to lager and other light beer) is high in the antioxidant compounds called flavonoids—similar to those found in red wine, tea and chocolate—that can reduce the risk of heart attack from blood clotting. Researchers at the University of Wisconsin carried out laboratory tests on dogs (Irish setters, I wonder?) with clogged arteries, comparing the effects of Guinness and Heineken. Only those dogs fed Guinness had reduced clotting.

In the interest of having a heart-healthy St. Pat’s Day, I decided to double my antioxidant dose by baking a Chocolate Guinness Cake. A little tip from this novice baker: measure the amount of Guinness carefully. I lost track of how much I put in, and ended up with a cake batter volcano in my oven. Luckily, I was able to scoop out about a 1/3 of the batter and bake the remainder. I doubt it came out the way it was supposed to, but it was still pretty delicious—moist and flavorful.

And one last interesting fact I learned about Guinness—it isn’t vegan; it (and some other beers) contains isinglass, a fish product used in the clarifying process to get rid of excess yeast. Be sure to share that little nugget of wisdom at the pub tonight.

Now, get out there and celebrate.

Samichlaus beer from Schloss Eggenberg

Okay, let’s recap. In part one, I told you about Delirium Tremens and four beers from a recent Smithsonian Resident Associates beer seminar, but there’s still seven to go! So read on, if it doesn’t drive you mad with thirsty envy….

Even though we were sipping only a few ounces of each beer, by the time we got to the Brooklyn Monster, the notes of the woman next to me had devolved from detailed descriptions to “Mm, pretty good,” and two old men were quarreling loudly over the cheese platter (they were promptly shushed, of course). It dawned at me that the event’s name wasn’t just an exercise in alliteration—these beers were all “behemoths” in terms of alcohol content!

They seemed to be getting stronger as the lineup progressed: The Brooklyn Monster has 10.8 percent. It’s a classic barleywine, strong and sugary. I found it a bit too sweet, but it was well-paired with a musty blue cheese called Persille du Beaujolais.

The next pour was truly unique: A single batch of barleywine made by the brewmaster at the District Chophouse, which was clearly such a labor of love that I feel like a jerk for disliking it. It was tank-conditioned for a full year, then aged for several years (I think he said five?) in a used bourbon barrel. I took a sip and scribbled down, “Weird, licoricey, don’t like,” a sentiment the woman next to me shared. (But to be fair, I think maybe I just don’t like barleywine.)

On the opposite end of the taste spectrum, the Sierra Nevada Torpedo Extra IPA was an extremely bitter beer, one of the weakest of the day in terms of alcohol content (7.2 percent) but surely the hoppiest. The aroma evokes pine trees and lemons, which would be nicer if it didn’t make me think of cleaning products, but I still found it surprisingly drinkable. The brewery announced earlier this year that Torpedo is now on their year-round roster, so you can try it for yourself sometime. We also tried the Sierra Nevada Bigfoot, which I’d had before but never realized was a barleywine because it’s so hop-heavy. (And I liked it, so there goes my theory above…)

Among the biggest of the behemoths was Samichlaus, a 14-percenter which is brewed only on December 6 of each year at the Schloss Eggenberg brewery in Austria, then aged for 10 months before bottling. Samichlaus shares some of the sweet, syrupy, raisiny taste of barleywine, and it took me a few sips to make up my mind about it. I wouldn’t want a full glass—it seems more like a liqueur than a beer—but I liked it, especially with the cheese pairing (a semi-hard, raw cow’s milk cheese from Switzerland called Tete De Moine).

At the 10th-beer marker, just when my interest was starting to flag, I fell in love. The chestnut-colored brew that arrived in the next cup had the aroma and flavor of caramel…or was it coffee…no, chocolate…maybe vanilla? It was reminiscent of an expensive cognac and yet unpretentious. It tasted so smooth that I was startled to hear it had a whopping 12 percent alcohol, but I’m not surprised this delicious brew came from the folks at Dogfish Head in Delaware. I like everything I’ve ever tasted from them. This one was called Palo Santo Marron, named after the exotic wood it was aged in. All I can say is: Try it. Now.

The Sam Adams Imperial Stout is a brand-new offering from the Boston Beer Company, a robust black brew with hints of anise, chocolate and coffee. It’s fashioned after the English imperial stouts reportedly favored by 18th-century Russian empress Catherine the Great, which had to have a high alcohol content (9.2 percent in this one) and intense flavors to withstand the long journey. I’d say Catherine had very good taste!

I opted out of the brutally strong closer, Mikkeller Black from Danish craft brewer Mikkel Borg Bjergso, after just a sip. It’s an imperial stout packed with a ridiculous 17.5 percent alcohol. It reminded me of grappa mixed with blackstrap molasses (which is also what it looks like), and I thought Tupper’s description of it as a “heavy, pompous, violent” taste was apt. “It’s not for everybody,” he noted. No kidding.

Here’s the full list of beers we tasted, in order:

1) Huyghe Delirium Tremens 2) Gordon Biersch Urgestiner Dunkel 3) Vintage 50 Scotch Ale, 4) Chimay Grand Reserve, 5) Brooklyn Monster, 6) Chophouse barley wine, 7) Sierra Nevada Torpedo Extra IPA , 8 ) Sierra Nevada Bigfoot, 9) Samichlaus, 10) Dogfish Head Palo Santo Marron, 11) Sam Adams Imperial Stout, 12) Mikkeller Black

If you’re interested in participating in future events like this in the DC area, keep your eye on the “culinary arts” program listings from the Resident Associates, as well as the Brickskeller’s events page.