The Misunderstood Glory of Bitter

No, it’s not boring—it’s sublime. Yes, it should be bitter—but balanced. Randy Mosher breaks down one of the beer world’s great classics and the context that makes sense of it. Ready for a session?

Bitter. Balanced. Sublime. Randy Mosher breaks down the classic.

BITTER IS THE SIGNATURE English beer style—the culmination of centuries of brewing know-how in an evolving cultural and historical context. Multiple forces have honed it into a drink that represents the best of what classic beer ingredients can become, perfectly suited to the unique drinking culture that pervades the island nation.

Viewed from the outside, however, it can be a bit confusing. Beyond a great lips-on experience, bitter needs a bit of explaining.

What Is “Bitter,” Really?

First, let’s define what we’re talking about. Built on the foundations of IPA and its forerunner, October beer, “bitter” is a term that seems to have arisen late in the 19th century, associated with a lighter, drier pale-ale style. Eventually, the effects of wartime deprivations, economics, and government reduction of alcohol consumption prodded the style into the lowish gravity range we know today. Uniquely, Britain has retained its traditional method of serving cask-conditioned “real ale”—although, since the mid-20th century, it has become a specialty product, sustained by consumer-driven promotion and preservation efforts.

The terminology can be confusing. Bitter and pale ale are somewhat interchangeable terms, although pale ales are typically associated with the stronger end of the range. The division of bitters into three distinct gravity/strength categories in North American competitions is simply a tool to split a (once) large category into manageable numbers for judging. Most brewers in England produce more than one strength, but they rarely offer three, and the terminology—ordinary, best/special, ESB—IS anything but consistent. The last, revered as a darker, balanced “style” in the United States, is actually the brand name for Fuller’s singularly rich and malty interpretation, which was widely distributed just as the burgeoning American microbrewing scene was looking for inspiration.

Real Ales, from the Pub

We can only understand bitter in the context of Britain’s deeply rooted drinking culture. The glasses are large—imperial pints, at 20 fluid ounces (568 ml). Since “pub” is short for “public house,” people enjoy hanging out and want to have more than a couple. Unlike the flat beer tax in the United States, Britain’s alcohol-based tax system generates very precise pounds-and-pence pricing rather than the even dollar amounts common here. Drinkers typically would rather save a little change by drinking the lighter versions and, perhaps, having one more than would otherwise be prudent. I’ve always said that bitter should be judged by how good the third pint tastes.

Since the common trope about bitter is that it’s “warm and flat,” it might be useful to focus on what it’s not. The proper temperature is that of a cool cellar, in the mid 50s°f (11–14°C) rather than the 38°F (3°C) typical for lagers. Cellar temperatures allow the aromas to blossom generously.

Bitter’s gentle carbonation is a holdover from the earlier use of wooden kegs, which can’t handle as much pressure as modern

Bitter and pale ale are somewhat interchangeable terms, although pale ales are typically associated with the stronger end of the range. The division of bitters into three distinct gravity/strength categories in North American competitions is simply a tool to split a (once) large category into manageable numbers for judging.

stainless steel. Rather than flat, it’s carbonated at about 1 to 1.5 volumes of CO2, as opposed to perhaps 1.5 to 2.5 volumes for other ales and lagers or the 3 to 4 typical of weissbier and Belgian ales. This lower carbonation reduces the masking effect of the gas, further enhancing flavor and making the beer easier to consume heartily.

What drives these characteristics is the cask ale tradition. This is beer carbonated in the vessel from which it will be served, without the use of added CO2. Bottle-conditioning is acceptable, but draft is the heart of the style. Cloudiness is generally viewed as a sign of poor cellarmanship.

The process for real ale is relatively risky for brewers, as they are essentially handing off the final stage of production to the pub. Beers arrive still fermenting, and they need to be coaxed into their final bright, carbonated form in the cellar, which obviously offers opportunities for things to go wrong. This may have been easier to manage when breweries had controlling interest in most of their pubs.

As those ties have weakened, breweries have had to rely on the enthusiasm and care of those running the pubs, with variable results. One of the reasons for cask ale’s decades-long decline may be inconsistent quality at the point of service.

It’s cliché to say that beer is better when you drink it in its homeland, but it’s especially true in this case. Sad to say, great cask ale is quite rare outside of Britain.

Elsewhere it is usually the passion project of a brewery or a pub. Nor does it travel well. I was involved in

Ray Daniels’ Real Ale Fest, which offered more than 200 firkins of real ale at its zenith in the late 1990s, mostly from U.S. brewers. A sponsor paid to fly in British casks, but the ales were often imperfect, and many were pulled from service— apparently, even a few hours of truck and air transport was all it took to pull them to pieces. Even under the best circumstances, there’s a tempus fugit quality about cask ale, as inflowing air brings