Beer judging a matter of taste

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BLACKFOOT — Four brown bottles with gold caps and no labels formed a row at the center of the table. Every judge was given a stack of saltine crackers, a bottle of water and a sufficient supply of clear, plastic cups to grab a fresh one after each sample.

The other judges had such sensitive palates, I’d bet any one of them could taste the worm in a bottle of tequila.

They were accredited through the Beer Judge Certification Program. Most of them knew one another from judging previous competitions. And all of them knew their beer intimately, down to the exact grain bill and hop variety.

Sunday morning, I had the rare privilege of helping to judge the Eastern Idaho State Fair’s 14th annual home brewing competition — a “job” that entailed tasting small samples of about a dozen delectable ales.

I found myself seated in a room at the fairgrounds with the elite of beer tasting, hoping I’d read enough of that book I’d bought at the Grapevine to sound somewhat educated when I offered my novice critiques of beers that were far superior to any I’ve yet made.

I traded home brewing tips with a guy who runs a brewing supplies store in Idaho Falls and a gentleman who is working to bring back the old Idaho Brewery in that same community. Well, mostly I was pestering these grand masters of suds for as much brewing advice as possible.

The competition included 69 entries from 15 different brewers, including beers from Boise and Salem, Ore. Twenty entries were submitted at the Grapevine in Pocatello.

The most entries ever in the competition’s history, 155, came in its second year.

“Back in those days, there were a lot more guys home brewing,” explained Bob Beckwith, organizer of the competition. “You just couldn’t get the beer styles you can now.”

Before the judging started, the various volunteers numbered each bottle with silver Sharpies. For every beer, paperwork had to be filled out by each judge rating taste, mouth feel, color, aroma, intangibles and other categories. And each table had a thick packet of literature explaining the 2008 style guidelines for beers.

Before we got started, Beckwith made an announcement that bought me some patience from my colleagues.

“We have some novice judges who are going to be judging with you today,” Beckwith said, referring to me and another guy. “Let them fill out score sheets as normal. It’s good practice for them, but we’re probably not going to be adding their scores in.”

Our first flight of beers included wheats and ryes. One of the judges, Dean Peterman, carefully examined the first bottle, a hefeweizen, with a flashlight and then popped the cap. He filled our small glasses about a quarter of the way and then whirled the beer in his own glass before soaking in the aroma.

I took one sip of my sample and started writing the beer’s praises on my score sheet. I gave it a 40 out of 50. But the other judges were consistent with scores in the high 20s and low 30s. They proclaimed the beer to be very good but missing the characteristic vanilla afternote.

Throughout the judging, while the experts threw out terms such as IBUs, astringency and diacetyl, my input was a bit less scientific: “This one is good. This beer has a nice color.”

But for my lack of expertise, I did pick up on one fundamental truth of beer judging. It’s the reason why my favorite beer of the day, a super hoppy English brown — I think it was crafted to be in line with beers from the Southern region of the country — wasn’t even in the running.

Taste is subjective. But style is consistent. Winning beers must be world-class examples of a specific style. The English brown I liked so much had too strong of a hop flavor for the style. Furthermore, the Belgian beer I liked the most was apparently brewed with an American hop called Cascade rather than a weaker variety more appropriate to the country — how the other judges picked up on the “grapefruit flavor” and detected the type of hops used I’ll never know.

Darryl Davidson, another judge at my table, effectively summarized for me the theory of beer judging:

“You could have the best pale ale in the world, and it doesn’t belong in the wheat category.”

The experience at the fair gave me a new appreciation for brewing as an art form. There’s more to brewing than making a supply of something your friends won’t turn away. Certainly the stars must align for a brewer to nail every subtle flavor, the color, the head retention, the aftertaste and the aroma of a given style.

But like I told the judges while I reworked a score sheet, wishing I hadn’t used an ink pen: “I wouldn’t turn down a social invitation from whoever made that hoppy English brown.”

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