After a millennium of beer being utterly dominated by hops, it’s all too easy to forget that virtually all beers from the European traditions were once herbed beers. Before that, it was a free-for-all.
J.P. Arnold, in his fascinating 1911 book Origin and History of Beer and Brewing, sums it up evocatively:
“When we add to this list all the surrogates used in lieu of hops by ancient peoples, such as the konyce of the Sythians, the sorbum acidum of the Thracians, the tamarisk buds of the Tartars, and pine buds by all the Northern folk ... it will be found that the definition of beer as it existed in ‘ye good old times’ would read somewhat different from what most people, even those more-or-less versed in these matters, would imagine them to be ... through the Middle Ages and well into modern time, the time which neglected no herb or drug, no matter whether harmless or poisonous, in an endeavor to lend some new property or savor to the brew.”
Why botanicals? Because beer demands them, for a couple of reasons. Purely for culinary aesthetics, the sweet aspect of malt really needs to be counterbalanced by something bitter. And, while we’re born suspicious of bitter tastes, it’s clear that most of us can learn to be excited by them, so their presence adds some perceptual heft to a beer. Beer is also quite vulnerable to bacterial spoilage, and while herbs such as meadowsweet have some protective qualities, hops were so superior that once we adopted them, we rarely looked back.
Despite the hop’s triumph, brewers continued to use herbs and spices for centuries. Styles such as Belgian witbier still employ coriander, orange peel, grains of paradise, and others. Botanicals sometimes pop up in supporting roles in rustic traditions, such as Scandinavian farmhouse ales. Certainly, in times of hop shortages or deeper deprivation, all bets are off.
Even today, the modern craft spirit views the brewing rulebook as more suggestion than ironclad law. There’s also much more awareness of preindustrial or even prehistoric styles facilitated by work in linguistics, archaeology, experimental brewing, and especially the chemical analysis of vessel residues for which Patrick McGovern is so noted. There is a lot more inspiration yet to be discovered.
The Chemistry of Botanicals
The term “botanical” encompasses a wide range of plant materials, from bark to seeds to leaves and more, adding tastes, mouthfeel characters, and aromas to food and beer—often all at the same time.
Our 26 different bitter receptor types allow us to sense more than 1,000 bitter compounds. Although it doesn’t always feel like it, all bitterness is the same to the brain—mouthfeel effects such as astringency are likely involved in any perceived differences. Bitter botanicals are more common in spirits such as amaro and (surprise!) bitters than they are in beer.
Botanicals can induce mouthfeel effects: astringency from bark and woody spices; spiciness from pepper, chiles, ginger, grains of paradise, cinnamon, and more; numbing from thyme, citrus rind, and others, plus a vibratory sensation called “electric” from various species of prickly ash (Zanthoxylum), often called Szechuan peppercorns. Many of these effects can be intense, requiring thoughtful dosing.
Despite the wide variety of plant types and parts, there are just a few chemical families important in aromas here—especially terpenoids and volatile phenols. Whether you know it or not, your beer already reeks of terpenoids because hop aroma includes several hundred of these floral, citrusy compounds. Terpenes proper are hydrocarbons—barely soluble in water and somewhat unstable, they’re largely converted into terpenoid esters and alcohols during fermentation.
Terpenoids also are abundant across the entire carrot/parsley family (Apiaceae), including coriander, caraway, and others. They’re also responsible for the aromas of thyme, rosemary, and most culinary herbs, as well as more exotic spices such as nutmeg and cardamom.
Volatile phenols, meanwhile, are the basis for the broad family of “sweet” spices—including cinnamon, clove, allspice, and vanilla—many of which are also considered aldehydes. These have the familiar range of cake and confection aromas that are highly comforting to people—kind of a culinary hug.
With the right yeast, you don’t even need to add spices because phenol-positive strains such as hefeweizen and saison bring their own to the party. And one of the main reasons beer is occasionally oak-aged is to infuse phenolic odors such as vanilla and cinnamon into the beer.
Botanicals in the Age of Craft
It’s useful to strategize about what any of these flavorings might add to a recipe.
What do you want them to do, what character should they add, and how do they work with whatever’s already there? Sometimes you just want to showcase something lovely.
Ginger, for example, is bright and refreshing, blending well with citrus and floral aromas, and it can tolerate a bit of pungency. There are others worth showcasing: rooibus, sweet osmanthus, génépi, jasmine, bog myrtle, and endless others. Tasmanian pepperberries have juniper-like evergreen and berry qualities, but they also make everything taste a little sweeter for a few minutes. Chiles have star power, but they require some effort to get the aromatics, the base beer, and the pungency into balance. (Hint: Bitterness and alcohol make the heat hotter.)
With a different approach, Belgian brewers are masters of subtlety. I think of what they do as “creative warping,” using botanicals to push and shove the flavor center to one side or another. In the case of elderflower or chamomile—the latter said to be a favorite in the witbier of the legendary Pierre Celis—it can bring just a little more Juicy Fruit fragrance to the yeast character.
In saison, grains of paradise can add a dry, piney character and peppery bite to that distinctive yeast. Coriander shares a lot of characteristics with hops—especially the orange-lavender character of linalool, a terpenoid alcohol. It ends up taking the hop aromas into exciting new territory, which is a strategy I’ve employed with botanicals in everything from pilsners to IPAs. The beauty of this strategy is that it’s subtle—subversive, even. The herbs aren’t there to call attention to themselves, just make the beer a little different.
Another strategy is one I think of as “familiarity bombing.” More than liquid bread, darker beers to me resemble liquid cake, with rich layers of toast, caramel, cookie, dried fruit, and sometimes coffee and chocolate, too. It doesn’t take more than a pinch of spices to commandeer the whole flavor system to present the brain with the pleasant and positive feelings these foods engender in us. That’s the entire idea around the so-called “pastry” stouts and related creations—goading the hippocampus to recall a spookily pleasant emotional memory based on some episode in our lives.
Hitting that target depends on getting the cues just right, forming a pattern the brain will recognize—which is why it’s a good idea to look at an actual recipe. A gingerbread ale presented to me years back by a homebrewer was particularly striking: He had just followed the exact proportions of the ginger, nutmeg, and others from the gingerbread recipe, and it really had the desired transcendental effect. That’s supposed to happen with pumpkin ales, too, but they’re either overdone or not enough attention is put into trying to re-create the crust—not to mention the cooked pumpkin itself.
Cocktails are another worthy inspiration for this approach. At Forbidden Root in Chicago, we made a lifelike Negroni of a beer, served with the traditional swipe of orange peel. We also made an amaro-like beer based on cherry stems, and an entertaining collaboration with Filli Branca: a 9 percent ABV black ale that resembled a beery version of their broodingly bitter Fernet.
There’s much more to explore in that vein.
Getting It Done
First, be aware that botanicals are incredibly diverse and, like hops, terroir matters.
I have in my freezer four different types of coriander from India, China, Thailand, and Mexico. Aromas range from orangey-pine to eucalyptus or even camphor-like; some have savory notes of cilantro, an aldehyde indicative of less-than-ripe seeds. Not all are great for brewing.
Freshness matters hugely, especially for leafy herbs. Seeds keep much better in their whole form; powdered ones are a waste of money. My preference has been to buy seasonings at ethnic markets; not only are the prices and quality better, but the high turnover means they’re often fresher.
I find it really helpful to make little prototypes using a blended base beer, adding vodka tinctures using a 5:1 or 10:1 ratio with botanicals. You can add these to 100 ml or so of beer to find the right level and mixture, then just do the math to scale up.
If you’re making something complex, it’s helpful to pre-blend flavor groups together into pleasing “accords,” as perfumers call them—fruity, floral, citrus, evergreen, cake spice, anything—then blend those into a final mix. Because vodka extractions are quite efficient, a good rule of thumb is to double the amount compared to the prototype when adding to the end of the boil.
As far as how to incorporate botanicals into a brew, the end of the boil or whirlpool is best for most. The exception is delicate or expensive items such as saffron, which really do better in the secondary. If you’re homebrewing, it’s better to just add a tincture blend post-fermentation, which gives you greater control.
Like every other aspect of brewing, results are best when you have a vision informed by the chemistry and process, with direct personal knowledge of your ingredients. Far from being heavy-handed, a deftly creative use of botanicals widens the range of thrilling experiences you can create for your drinkers.
And isn’t that really what we’re all in this for?
