German Altbier And Klsch

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But brewers in Düsseldorf and Cologne continued to brew in their cooler summers, and the yeast of choice remained the warm-temperature ale variety. Add the determined independence of these two wealthy trading cities—and their traditional rivalry—and you have the reasons that their local brewers didn’t go to lagering. There are other cities in northern Germany that still have indigenous ales: Berlin, with its strikingly tart Berliner weisse and the yeasty, spicy Leipzig gose. But they are not dominant like the beautifully drinkable altbier and kölsch.

I’m happy to say that prospects for the future of these two beers are good. Despite the consolidation that has shaken the German brewing industry, the local markets remain devoted to their city beers. The most serious problem facing the smaller altbier and kölsch makers is one that confronts urban brewers everywhere: There is no room for expansion.

In the Altstadt, I talked to Zum Schlüssel (To the Key) brewmaster Dirk Rouenhoff, who showed me where the brewery had been forced to grow onto the roof and into cellars. “We have nowhere else to go,” he said. The building is classified as historical, “so we cannot change it that much.” A quarter of the brewery’s 15,300-barrel annual production—about the same as that of a healthy American microbrewery—is sold in bottles. Rouenhoff has to send it to an off-site bottling facility because he has no space for a bottling line. It’s a good problem to have, but it’s still a problem.

Each beer type currently represents about 3 percent of the overall German beer market, and almost all of it is sold in or near the two cities. Don’t expect to find any crossover. The folks in Düsseldorf make it very clear that they don’t care for kölsch or Cologne: “You know, kölsch isn’t very good, and their glasses are too small,” I was told more than once in the Altstadt. People in Cologne ignore the existence of altbier and Düsseldorf altogether, offering a lofty indifference when the subject is raised.

When I’m in Cologne, I drink kölsch, and I’m very happy, whether it’s the fresh and grainy glass at the modern Paffen, at the northern end of the Heumarkt, or the malty, more old-style brew at Malzmühle, across the tortuous intersection at the southern end. When I’m in Düsseldorf, I’ll drink Rouenhoff’s fine altbier in its airy home or settle into the more warrenlike environs of Zum Uerige for glass after glass of its classically dry rendering.

It’s a pleasant step out of the pilsner mainstream, in either case, but, really, both city’s glasses are too small for beer this good.

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