The incongruous amber ale

Two amber ales, yesterday

Hi! I’m an India Pale Ale! The best thing about me is my assertive hop character, reminiscent of the olden days, when it took a long time to get me to where I needed to be. This is my cousin, the Porter – and my second cousin, the Stout. One of them is stronger than the other, but I can never remember which. They were drunk by very thirsty men who worked in markets. Ooh – this here, this is my friend the Lager. Yes, doesn’t he look bored? Well, that’s because he’s been in a waiting room for weeks, just sitting there! Finally, this is the Amber Ale. It…er…is…kind of browny, I guess. Erm. Not too strong, either. It’s, er…oh! Hello Miss Saison! My, you’re looking zesty this morning!

Extract from ‘The Ladybird book of Beer Styles’

I find, in the long run, that it’s easier if you don’t paint yourself as an ‘expert’, unless you really, really know what you’re talking about. It means you can laugh off prickly questions that are launched suddenly at your bewildered direction, for a start.* Take beer styles. Sure, I know how beer is made – I’ve knocked a few up in my time, have the wealds on my buttocks to prove it, burned on copper elements as I scooped up clusters of mulched hops. Yet if some young pup wanders up to me at an event and asks me what an Amber Ale is, I would barely have a clue. But does anyone?

*My stock answer being “Haha, well, I just like to write about the people.”

The name brings to mind something primordial, as if it has leached from between the fronds of a tree fern, trapping long-passed insects as it oozes towards the open neck of the bottle. The reality is far less Spielbergian, of course – ‘Amber Ales’ vary from pale brown to deep red. Many are base golden bitters. Then again, I’ve had some that are so resinous, they probably could trap insects – they certainly adhere peanut chunks to the molars. The term ‘Amber Ale’ does lend itself to something piney, when you think about it. But are they just pale ales brewed with too much bottom-hand when the caramalt went in?

The BJCP – after Lionel Ritchie, my go-to style guardians – state merely that ‘American’ Amber Ales are known as Red Ales in some regions; ‘popularized in the hop-loving Northern California and the Pacific Northwest areas before spreading nationwide.’ RateBeer, my go-least style guardian, opines thusly; ‘A style without definition, amber ales range from bland, vaguely caramelly beers to products with a fairly healthy malt and hop balance. Often the differentiation between a quality amber and an American Pale is that the amber might have more dark malt character, or a less assertive hop rate.’

So, who’s closer to the mark? As I said at the beginning, I may not be a style expert, but neither am I a style puritan. I don’t mind if you want to make a black saison, white IPA, or purple hefeweizen (to quote Homer Simpson; “purple is a fruit”). Go for it. Although I like drinking Ambers, I’ve always found them to be somewhat out of sorts. Two are rarely the same. Maybe this is a good thing; they give more leeway to our experimental brewers; or maybe it’s just a dump category, a catch-all. Amber Ales: a broad and welcoming church, or the little Pale Ale that wasn’t?