Few things in humanity’s long climb from the depths of prehistory have been as constant as the safety, the warmth, and the sanctity of the hearth and its fire. Smoke and flame have been totems that life was resoundingly good—or, at least safe for a few hours. With the exceptions of camping trips, winter cabins, and tending to long-smoked meats, modern life is surprisingly devoid of the pleasures of smoke. Our lungs are better for it. But what about our hearts?
Back in the misty history of American craft brewing—before the mist turned into a thick and hoppy pastry haze—there were certain rungs on the ladder of beer appreciation that every serious beer nerd would climb. The order might have differed a bit for each; maybe the first step was a fruit beer, a Kölsch, or something smooth, malty, and brown. Then there were some hoppy rungs—pales ales and IPAs—followed by barleywines, imperial whatsits, and big Belgians of every stripe. Somewhere up there were rungs for funk and acidity—worlds in which a geek can get lost and linger a while.
But near the top of the ladder—before stepping off, smugly, to rediscover wines and whiskeys—there were the smoked beers.