| Perhaps you’ve spotted your bartender pumping pints manually from a long vertical wooden pull, filling the glass with beautifully cascading foam, then setting it aside to settle before topping it off. The mechanism is called a beer engine, and it is drawing beer from a cask, traditionally made of wood but now more often made of metal, and it’s become something of a novelty as of late. Unlike a keg, which contains fully fermented and artificially carbonated beer, the cask is used to store unfiltered and unfinished (or “living”) beer, which undergoes a secondary fermentation inside the vessel as the yeast devours the sugars creating natural CO2. The result is a softer, creamier, thoroughly enjoyable pint of beer.  Pulling a pint via a beer engine. Source: Lime Ventures By now, all you British readers are probably wondering, what’s the big deal? Cask-conditioned mild and bitter ales have been cornerstones of UK pub culture since the 1800s. Cask ale didn’t translate as well to the New World for a couple of reasons. First, cask ales aren’t filtered or pasteurized, so they have a shorter shelf life and don’t travel as well. Once German-American macrobrew barons started flooding the states with their pasteurized and refrigerated beer, American drinkers became accustomed to the homogenous style: light lager beers that were heavily carbonated, served cold and, if we’re being honest, not very flavorful. “People wanted a really cold, really fizzy beer,” says Robert Bell, co-owner and head brewer at Denver’s Hogshead Brewery, which has specialized in making and serving cask ales since 2012. “The quality of beer doesn’t have to be high if it’s cold and fizzy.” But with cask ales, he continues, “there’s a length of time for the melding of flavors,” allowing these more complicated brews to be served slightly warmer and with slightly lower carbonation so as to be all the more savorable. That refinement is a primary reason cask ale has long had a cult following among craft drinkers in the States—and why beer engines are powering more mainstream tastemakers today. “It’s a natural progression,” says Tom Bentley, a beverage manager with Lime Ventures, a California-based beverage importer. “In the beginning of the craft beer boom it was all IPA. But most people who got into the boom can’t handle drinking barrel-aged stouts all day. I’ve seen more people gravitating toward more complex, lower-alcohol beer. They want it to be super flavorful and they want to be able to drink it for a couple of hours.” Cask ales, especially English-style pub ales— stouts, porters, browns, milds (a light brown)—check both of those boxes. The spectrum of English bitters, which despite the name aren’t bitter at all, but rather a nice balance between hops and malt, are particularly well-suited to cask.  Dark Mild from Machine House, which specializes in cask ales in Seattle. Photographer: Tony Rehagen There’s the equally misnamed ordinary bitter, which comes in as low as 2.8% ABV but is usually more in the 4% range, a true “workingman’s beer,” according to brewer Bell. Next, the best bitter is a bit more of both hops and malt, with a nice bready warmth and often a touch of caramel or toffee sweetness. Then there’s my favorite, the more common extra special bitter (ESB), with earthier hops, more biscuity sweetness, a slightly fruity ester and a clean, dry finish. Even the ESB tops out at 5.8%, an easy trade-off for such a rich and multifaceted beer. “It’s really easy to drink,” says Bell. “Dangerously easy to drink.” Another reason for cask ale’s emergence is the ongoing craft pursuit of novelty. Just think about the buzz surrounding Guinness Draught (aside from “Splitting the G”) and its legendary creamy cascading head, achieved not by beer engine but by infusing the stout with nitrogen, which bubbles out to create that signature smooth mouthfeel. (Consequently, when you see a beer “on nitro,” it means that same nitrogen injection through specialized taps, essentially a way to fabricate the effect of traditional cask beer.)  Brewers are also using cask ale and beer engines to put a new spin on their existing recipes. For instance, two Novembers ago I happily discovered the Alchemist serves a special hand-pulled pour of its seminal hazy double IPA, Heady Topper, for guests at its Vermont brewery. While it’s served from a keg and not a cask, the beer engine delivers a less-carbonated version that emphasizes the 8% flagship’s Citra-based pine-and-fruitiness with a (yes, dangerously) smoother sipping experience. Bell says he regularly splits batches of his brews at Hogshead to showcase the difference in experiences.  Hand-pulled Heady Topper from the Alchemist in Stowe, Vermont. Photographer: Tony Rehagen But the historian (and beer romantic) in me gravitates toward another appealing aspect of cask ale: authenticity. If you’ve ever sat in a corner pub in London or Marlborough (and if you haven’t, you must), you know the incomparable warmth and majesty of a well-drawn imperial pint of English-style cask ale. Bentley, the importer, insists that we’re not alone. “The American craft beer scene is very young compared to other countries,” he says. “The longer you stay in that world, the more you’ll end up at this kind of beer. I’m more interested in drinking these more historical beers because they make you part of a story. You can drink that beer and you’re tasting a piece of history, a place and a time. You’re experiencing something that’s authentic and can’t be replicated.” Beers that made me … Zombie Dust—an APA, you say? | I generally don’t like to have the same beer twice. Part of that is wanting to remain a somewhat health-conscious professional drinker and optimize my caloric intake. But mostly it’s because as a beer enthusiast, I see every repeat as a missed opportunity to try something new. That said, like everyone else, I have my comfort beers. I can always drink a well-poured Guinness. If I’m back in my Ozark hometown or doing anything that reminds me of it, like canoeing, fishing or camping, I reach for a cold can of Busch Light. And when I’m craving hops, I’m never disappointed in a Zombie Dust American Pale Ale.  3 Floyds Zombie Dust. Photographer: Tony Rehagen When it was first released by Muenster, Indiana’s 3 Floyds Brewing in about 2010, Zombie Dust was a Bonafide Beer Whale, a rare bottle sought after by hopheads all over the country. It was one of the purest early expressions of Citra hops, a more tropical, citrus-forward variety of beer’s key bittering agent, which was revolutionizing the way American drinkers viewed IPAs. Ironically, I lived in Indiana at the time but was not yet into hop-forward beers. But years later, on a return trip to Indianapolis, after the sweeter, gentler Hazy IPAs had eased me into the bitter side of beer and Zombie Dust had become a bit more widely available, I discovered the magic of a balanced hoppy beer. The Citra, while prominent, was not overwhelming, and it was complemented by a crisp malt backbone and a medium body. It was much more approachable than the other West Coast-style IPAs I’d tried—because it was not actually a West Coast-style IPA. In fact, it’s not an IPA at all. Zombie Dust was my introduction to American pale ales (APAs), inspired by English pale ales but using more floral, fruitier and piney American hops. APAs are also generally less hoppy than India Pale Ales, using a pale malt that makes them better suited to accompany a range of foods without blasting your palate. Plus, APAs usually contain less alcohol than IPAs, somewhere in the 4% to 6% ABV range, so you can enjoy more than one or two. The undead APA gradually staggered westward to Illinois and Iowa before arriving in my current home of Missouri. Now I can even grab a 19.2-ounce stovepipe can of Zombie Dust at my local gas station. Rest assured, I always have at least one on hand in case I ever need a palate cleanser on my drinking adventures. What was a drink that made you? Beer, whiskey and wine, spirits or a cocktail—e-mail us at topshelf@bloomberg.net to share your recommendation for all our readers in a future newsletter. | 
