This might be the best time—and the worst possible time—to try to get Ukrainian golden ale more widely recognized as an established beer style.
Everything Ukraine-related has gotten a lot of traction since Russia’s invasion. But, believe me, I’d give everything just to stubbornly push the style’s cause without it getting swept into the limelight by a widespread wave of compassion. Getting people to support the style out of pity, just because of Russia’s war in Ukraine—that’s the last thing we need. Such support is as heartbreaking as it is heartwarming, but nobody in Ukraine’s brewing scene wants to ride on sentiments—especially since we got this unofficial movement going months before shells began raining down on my home city.
Besides, there are many cases of mislabeling the Ukrainian golden ale style. Hundreds of breweries worldwide are releasing beers brewed in solidarity with Ukraine, including the famous Pravda Brewery in Lviv. Its Putin Huylo—translation: “Putin is a Dickhead”—is technically a Belgian-style golden strong ale. However, since Pravda is a Ukrainian brewery, many have mistaken Putin Huylo for a Ukrainian golden ale, an idea further spread by local and international media. It’s a fine beer and serves a great purpose; it’s just not in the style that we’re trying to promote.
Even on our home turf, this has been a bit of a battle.
For years, we couldn’t agree on whether we as Ukrainians should even try to venture into the realm of respected, steeped-in-history beer cultures.
How could we attempt to own a beer style? How could we prove it’s not a cheap imitation of an established one? How could we prove it’s not just one brewery’s attempt to get as much fame as possible? Who will even believe us, if the beer has never technically been poured anywhere across the border?
I had some doubts myself … yet the beer persisted. The beer has never really cared how “craft” it is or isn’t. It never cared that some know-it-alls made fun of it, prophesying a quick and inevitable demise. People drank it anyway. Since 2009, Ukrainian golden ale has survived the wilderness of obscurity, and it has prevailed. It’s high time to share it.
So, what exactly is a Ukrainian golden ale?
Believe it or not: It all started with the Reinheitsgebot.
Or, to be more exact, it started with a Ukrainian brewer (Dmytro Nekrasov) who once thought that the best beer is German beer, brewed under the purity law—i.e., just water, malt, hops, and yeast. It also started with his friend (Vasyl Mikulin), who owned the brewpub and was eager to explore the panoply of beer styles. Those two were of Yuzivska Pyvovarnia—aka the John Hughes Brewery, since Yuz is the local way to say the name of the Welshman who founded the city of Donetsk. Yuzivska is an impressive, three-storied beer garden–type restaurant with brewing equipment on site in Donetsk.
After lengthy discussions and disputes, Nekrasov yielded to persuasion and went to Belgium to discover other beers. What he saw and tasted there, he says, shook his world to the core. The visit aroused his interest in a wider diversity of beers and ingredients—but he wasn’t a total convert. For the recipe he wrote when he returned, he decided that “coriander was acceptable, but still no sugar in my beers.”
The beer’s all-malt recipe with SafAle S-33 ale yeast and a light touch of coriander gave it a luscious body, sweet aftertaste, and 7 percent ABV. It also became the love of many patrons. Yuzivska Golden Ale enjoyed that love and fame for five years—until Russia occupied Donetsk in 2014. Mikulin and Nekrasov fled the city, leaving Yuzivska and their previous lives behind.
Here’s how it spread.
Mikulin and Nekrasov started anew in different places—Mikulin went to Varvar Brew in Kyiv, and Nekrasov to First Dnipro Brewery in Dnipro—and they both took golden ale with them. Many other people from the occupied territories also found new homes in those places, and they were thrilled to find something familiar at the bar. Nor were they the only ones who liked it. The allure of that golden hue, its sweetish aftertaste, and its drinkability despite its strength all won the style more fans. Soon, other breweries were following suit.
At that time, Ukraine had no specialized beer festivals—there were no invitationals or fests featuring the boldest and weirdest beers. Instead, you could find some beers at local or regional fairs and similar events. At such a gathering, you could find a range of beers to suit everyone from craft newbies to seasoned travelers. Yet the biggest sellers were styles that were widely familiar to everyone as “beer.” Golden—as lots of people lovingly called it—fit that bill perfectly: not too bitter, with a pleasant malty palate; flavorful enough to invite further exploration, yet not so challenging as to turn people away. It was, and it remains, a gateway beer.
Fast-forward a few more years, and at least 13 breweries in Ukraine have core beers that they call Ukrainian golden ales—some are sweeter, some drier, some lighter or stronger, but all are recognizable as such. Before, I never would have imagined a brewpub favorite spreading across the country, winning the hearts of thousands of people, somehow surviving the fashion for ever-changing variety, and growing to an estimated 1.25 million liters (330,215 gallons)—by the most conservative approximation—consumed per year. I never expected to see Ukrainian golden ale get shout-outs on beer platforms I respect, to find a place among the style categories on Untappd, or to land a category in the U.S. Open Beer Championship.
Yet all of that has happened.
However, the struggle is bigger than one style.
My personal crusade is not only to champion Ukrainian golden ale and get it recognized across various platforms and guidelines. If we consider the broader implications, then there are other styles missing from wider view just because they happen to be highly localized and, thus, unknown to the rest of the beer world.
Being generally out of sight doesn’t make them unimportant. In terms of golden ales, there’s another one—Argentina’s dorada pampeana, or Pampas golden ale—that’s listed by the Beer Judge Certification Program (BJCP) but nonexistent in other international guidelines. In Brazil, Catharina sour is a popular and exciting style that features an abundance of local, exotic fruit, yet few have heard of it, and it has no place in most guidelines.
Granted, guidelines are not the end-all and be-all. They tend to serve their own purposes—beer competitions, particularly—and add new categories depending on market popularity. However, I think that’s a perfect case of a chicken-or-the-egg dilemma. Even if a style is popular in its home culture, it can’t grow further without some degree of exposure and awareness.
The more we support local styles from elsewhere and the more we become aware of their existence, then the more variety we’ll get to enjoy. After all, weren’t the thirst for variety and the escape from mainstream homogeneity the whole point of craft beer in the first place—and the key to its success?
In the past couple of years, discussions about inclusivity and diversity have become a driving force in the brewing industry. If you ask me, welcoming people of all colors, ages, disabilities, sexual orientations, or gender identities also includes opening up to traditions outside our usual experiences.
So, let’s embrace new local styles and give them the chance to play in the global beer sandbox.
The more, the merrier, right?