What did George Washington Drink?
In the spirit of authenticity, a home-brewer attempts to recreate a founding father's beer recipe.
It was last Thanksgiving. I had my heirloom turkey, local yams and organic cranberries. I had donned my waxed-canvas apron and consulted vintage recipe books. I was ready to eat. But on this, the most heritage-chic of holidays, what should one drink?
Wine felt too stuffy; a six-pack not ceremonial enough. I was stumped. Then I discovered George Washington's beer. Or, more precisely, a recipe for it, referenced in a few old home-brewing books. Scribbled on the last page of one of Washington's journals is a short, cryptic note: "Take a large Sifter full of Bran," it begins. Add hops "to your Taste," boil, mix in three gallons of molasses, ferment—"let it work"—for a week, then enjoy. Rugged Americana, from the pen of our most patriarchal founding father. This would be perfect. My only question: How would it pair with turkey?
I'm a home-brewer, and, to me, Washington's recipe made some rough sense. And it should be somewhat trustworthy: Guests at Mount Vernon reported home that their host's silver pint rarely left his side at dinner. Washington's farmhands were paid a bottle a day. In those days, the average American over age 15 drank 30-some gallons of beer every year. Today it's closer to 20.
William Bostwick on Lunch Break takes a look at five beers that will pair well with Thanksgiving dinner.
The docents at Washington's Mount Vernon estate recreated his recipe a few years ago, and I called them for advice. My first question, naturally, was, "Is it good?" Research historian Mary Thompson answered after a long pause, "Well, I'm not really a beer drinker. It takes two or three sips to get past the shock." I asked Dennis Pogue, who runs Mount Vernon's rye whiskey still. "The molasses gives it a real...different flavor," he said. "It didn't taste very good."
That was the problem with Washington's otherwise normal home-brew: molasses. Few brewers use molasses these days because when it ferments it turns sour and sharp, but Washington had no choice. Barley didn't grow well in the eastern Colonies, so he had to get his sugar elsewhere. I decided to keep the molasses, but cover up the flavor with chunks of roasted pumpkin, a few anise stars, ginger, cinnamon and licorice—odd today, but common beer ingredients at that time.
Ms. Thompson and Mr. Pogue are strict constructionists when it comes to Washington—"It is what it is," Mr. Pogue said of the recipe—but modern-day brewers like myself tend to be more liberal. When Jeremy Cowan, the owner of Shmaltz Brewing, made a replica of Washington's beer he augmented it with a heavy dose of toasted malts. The recipe, Mr. Cowan figures, "was shorthand for his pals, who were already home-brewers." Washington didn't have to spell everything out and he left room for personal flair. "It's like when you ask your grandma for a recipe and she'll forget to say how much cumin."
My additions improved on Washington's base, but not nearly enough. This is not the kind of beer we're used to: sweet, cloyingly spiced, dull but filling, like fruitcake. Surely I'm missing a piece. Tradition, particularly when it comes to food, is always a slippery target, and pinning down family recipes, from forefathers or founding fathers, can be like nailing cranberry sauce to the wall. So make the recipe and fill in the blanks with your own twists. It might not complement that heritage turkey, but it'll spur conversation. Just don't forget some back-up bottles. Say what you will about Washington's beer—at least he kept his glasses filled.
