I don’t do “sweet.” My idea of dessert is a cheese plate. When I eat chocolate, it’s the kind that’s 80 percent cacao and tastes like the ground. As a result, my version of a sweet stout is a bit of a contradiction in that it’s not especially sweet—but you know what? Because of that, it manages to avoid the biggest style fault in most sweet stouts, which is a heavy, cloying, artificial-tasting sweetness. This is a beer that seems sweet, but isn’t, and therefore it’s a beer that can be enjoyed by the pint (which is consistent with its low-ish ABV and restrained character compared to its stouter brethren).
Style
A reading of the history of sweet stout (or “milk stout”—since it uses lactose) is pretty fascinating in that it was actually conceived as a fortified “milk beer” but became a crowd-pleasing sweet beer designed to appeal to a wider beer-drinking audience than bitters and porters could attract. It is a relatively light beer in ABV (around 5 percent, on average), has a medium-full to full body, and is more restrained in dark malt character than the other beers in the stout family.
Any number of sources will also tell you that it should be markedly and noticeably sweet, but, respectfully, actively making beer taste sweeter is a risky proposition and is wholly unnecessary to creating a beer that is “sweet enough” to differentiate it from other stout styles. The best examples have a subtle relative sweetness, but the sweetness should not be the kind of prominent feature that, for example, lactic acid is in Berliner weisse. If you don’t believe me, pick up some samples of recent GABF medal-winners in this style, and you’ll rapidly see that while they’re sweeter than dry stout (or oatmeal stout, another close relative), they’re quite balanced. If you take a sip and remark, “Wow, that’s sweet!” then you’re probably going about this the wrong way.
Ingredients
This recipe is based on the milk stout from a certain animal-hybrid-named brewery in North Carolina (you can do the math on that one). It derives its sweetness from a small addition of lactose, but more so from the relative restraint in its dark malts—they add enough roast to make the beer clearly a stout but less than you shoot for if you want the black malt character of other stouts.
The grist is actually pretty simple: it’s nine pounds (4.8 kg) of Maris Otter, one pound (454 g) of pale chocolate malt (215L), and half a pound (227 g) of Dehusked Carafa III. The Maris will add a good English bready background, the pale chocolate adds some roasty coffee and chocolate notes, and the Carafa III stands in for roasted barley or Black Patent as a color adjuster and adds a mild chocolate-covered-espresso-bean roast flavor (instead of the acrid, sharp roast of the other black malts). To this, we add half a pound (227 g) of lactose. I’ve tried the recipe without it, mashing high to increase the long-chain sugars and/or adding a bunch of crystal malt to get unfermentables, but none seem to turn out quite right. This light touch of lactose, though, seems to do the trick. You’ll end up with a beer that’s just about 5.5 percent ABV, jet black, and nicely (but subtly) roasty and sweet, just like I like my coffee.
Just as we want the roast to hold back to increase perceptions of sweetness, we also want a low bittering level. A little earthy hops flavor is a solid grace note here, so I like two ounces (57 g) of Fuggles at 20 minutes, which (depending on AA) should add about 20 IBUs.
Finally, Ringwood yeast from Wyeast (#1187) has some nice, low attenuation and at cooler temperatures avoids diacetyl and excessive esters—though either, if they come through, will impart a slight impression of sweetness as well, so no real harm done (and you might even like the flavors).
Process
A key question here is when to add the lactose. Conventional wisdom seems to be that later is better, and on this occasion, I agree. I like to add it at flame-out, and simply stir it in as I whirlpool. It dissolves nicely, and I’m already spinning hot, pasteurizing-temperature beer, so why not? If you don’t whirlpool, simple pull your beer from the heat with about five minutes left in the boil, stir in the lactose until dissolved, and then finish off your boil and chill as usual.
The second key step here is fermentation temperature; we want to avoid diacetyl and wild fruity esters (which aren’t uncommon with our yeast), so ferment cooler than usual for English ales (60°F/15°C is a great starting place), and raise the temperature during the last few days of primary fermentation for a diacetyl rest.
Carbonate to about 1.75 volumes. The slightly lower carbonation level will (you guessed it) also add an impression of sweetness without actually adding sweetness, though if the beer seems too thin as a result, increase carbonation until that filling mouthfeel returns.
In Closing
If anyone tries to give you guff that this beer isn’t “sweet enough,” ignore them. It will stand out for its complexity, subtlety, and balance—and it will certainly seem sweet next to any standard stout (with the likely exception of the tropical stout!). Seeming, in this case, is useful: a genuinely “sweet” sweet stout can quickly wear out its welcome, whereas you’ll be able to enjoy this one all afternoon and into the evening.
Still trying to figure out the “animal-hybrid-named brewery in North Carolina”? It’s Duck-Rabbit Craft Brewery in Farmville, North Carolina.