There was only one spoon; sugar there was in plenty but it took so long for all to stir their glasses that it was settled that Marya Hendrihovna must stir the sugar for each in turn. Rostov took his glass of tea, and, adding rum to it, begged Marya Hendrihovna to stir it for him.
'But you take it without sugar?' she said, smiling, as thought whatever she said or the others said had a quite different and very amusing meaning.
'I dont care about sugar. All I want is for you to stir it with your little hand.'
Every culture has its drink, and its own rituals around it. We measure our lives in coffee spoons, saucers, samovars, beer steins. We record our passage through the centuries in buried broken bottles and water-ringed side tables. Some rituals translate. The toast is universal. Others are an island.
Russia knows its tea. At the turn of the twentieth century, great tea caravans crisscrossed the Sibirskii Trakt, axles groaning with the weight of Chinese leaves on their way to stock samovars in Moscow and Petersburg. Drinkers thought tea ferried over land was rarer and more delicate than leaves brought by stormy wind-racked passage over sea.
Americans weren’t as picky. Our tea culture was a frontier approximation of England’s. When the first shipments of tea arrived in the colonies, settlers didn’t know exactly what to do with it, but they knew it was classy, so they drank (or ate) as much as they could.
"One family boiled it in a pot and ate it like samp-porridge. Another spread tea-leaves on his bread and butter, and bragged of his having ate half a pound at a meal, to his neighbor, who was informing him how long a pound of tea lasted him."
When the British raised taxes on tea imports in the 1760s, American tea merchants turned to smuggling, cutting their leaves with dirt and ashes (they learned this trick from British coffee sellers), or looking for entirely new alternatives. This ran in a Boston newspaper:
Throw aside your Bohea and your green Hyson tea,
And all things with a new fashioned duty;
Procure a good store of the choice Labrador
For there’ll soon be enough here to suit ye.
(footnote: Hyson was first-harvest green leaves, picked in the spring. Bohea was a mix of black tea scraps, twigs, and dust, packed into bricks. The word comes from the Wuyi mountains in China. This was the most commonly drunk mix, and “bohea” became just another word for “tea.”)
Another example of Americans turning to locally grown ingredients, regardless of quality: Labrador tea is from the rhododendron family and has ledol in it, which is poisonous in large enough doses. I wouldn’t eat half a pound at a sitting.
So, what does this have to do with beer?
Labrador tea was a common flavoring and medicinal ingredient in early beers. Why not tea? And so at Woods: Cervecería, I brewed a deep, dark, bones-warming Russian stout kissed with the leathery smoke of rich black tea. The leaves, thank goodness, came by land — from our neighbors just up the block at Samovar. The tea: Tolstoy’s Sip, a Chinese black tea, tobacco-dark, molasses-sweet. It has a peculiarly high “patience,” Samovar’s Jesse Jacobs told me, which means it can stand higher heat or a longer boil without getting too tannic and bitter. Good news in a long-steeping samovar, and also in the brew kettle. Samovar uses finely tuned “brewing crucibles,” dialed in to precise temperatures. A brew kettle is less forgiving — a roiling boil of grains and hops. Boiling beer coaxes out the hard-to-get oils and bitter acids from hops and other flavorings. But a tea — even a patient one like Tolstoy — needs care, so I waited until the beer cooled to about 160°F, tossed in a handful of leaves, inhaled deeply the heady fumes of tar, leather, and earth, and waited.
The beer: Siberian Stout. Rich and smoky, cigars in a leather chair, a smoldering fire, a burbling samovar, wind rattling the weary panes — warm comfort on a dark night. Just what you’d need, hungry and tired on the snowy Trakt, or wandering the fogs of San Francisco summer.
He that would treat exactly of Cider must lay his Foundation so deep as to begin with the Soil.
So wrote rector, traveler, Hartlib Circle member, amateur book designer, and cider maker John Beale. To Beale and his seventeenth-century drinking buddies, beer had been corrupted by hops; wine by the hand of the winemaker. In his treatise on cider, John Evelyn wrote that hops, “rather a Medical, than Alimental Vegetable,” temper their gift of keeping beer fresh by inflicting its drinker “with tormenting Diseases, and a shorter life.” Cider, he hoped, will “quite vanquish Hopps, and banish all other Drogues of that nature.”
I wish our Admirers of Wines, to the prejudice of Cider, beheld but the Cheat themselves; the Sophistications, Transformations, Transmutations, Adulterations, Bastardizings, Trickings, not to say even Artificial Compassings of the God they adore, and that they had as true as Inspection into those Arcana Lucifera which the Priests of his Temples (our Vintners in their Taverns) do practice.
But we needn’t fear, ”so long as our Native Soil does supply us with such excellent Necessities” as Evelyn’s beloved redstreak cider apple. Homegrown, all-natural, hop-free cider was a balm for all that ailed Britain, from foreign influence (Dutch hops, French wine) to medical quackery. ”To sum up all,” Evelyn says, “Give me good Cider.”
These days, cider is the gluten-free option. Scared of hops? Scared of grain? Cider is now, as then, the light, sweet, healthy alternative. As they invariably told my girlfriend in England, “like beer, for girls.”
And yet… Cider can be so much more. If we’d only go back to the dirt. If we’d only, in a word, make it scary again.
True cider is special, like lambics, for what it leaves out — store-bought yeast, controlled fermentations — and for the wild unknown that seeps into those gaps, like a night wind through the shingles. Terroir, says Evelyn:
The very Dews and Rain, by various and mutable Seasons, and even the Air itself (which operates beyond vulgar perception) create almost infinite alterations.
Taste the magic. Last week I climbed a plum tree on my street and filled a shopping bag. Plum trees grow all over San Francisco, but not all of them set fruit. I’d been eying this one for a few weeks — in the sun, the plums glint pink against the brown leaves, fresh skin on a scab. When plucked they’re dark as black cherries, juicy, tart, a Sour-Warhead burst. Neighbors passed by below, oblivious. Some didn’t notice. Some had known the tree for years and never dared taste its fruit — “wash it first,” a dad advised his daughter, used to fruit that comes with stickers, not a stem.
The only one who knew the plums was the postman. He’s worked this block for 20 years. Things have changed. “That Bill Gates kid bought a house over there,” he said. Zuckerberg can buy the buildings, Google can command the streets, but the plums are still free. The night air blows through, meanwhile.
Plums bend the Trees with their Burdens, and their expedite growth makes it cheap enough.
When James Cook sailed to Australia in 1768 to map the transit of Venus, he brought 250 barrels of beer onboard the Endeavor as an anti-scorbutic, and supplies for making more when that ran out. Nathaniel Hulme, president of the Medical Society of London, advised Joseph Banks to stock ”a quantity of Molasses and Turpentine, in order to brew Beer with, for your daily drink, when your Water becomes bad. Brewing Beer at sea will be peculiarly useful in case you should have stinking water on board; for I find by Experience that the smell of stinking water will be entirely destroyed by the process of fermentation.” The smell of turpentine-molasses beer couldn’t have been much better. But it beat scurvy.
On land, rum reigned. The first brewery was a government operation built by Lord Hobart to provide some alternative to hard liquor.
The introduction of beer into general use among the inhabitants would certainly lessen the consumption of spirituous liquors. I have therefore taken measures for furnishing the colony with a supply of ten tons of Porter, six bags of hops, and two complete sets of brewing materials.
A convict named James Squire stole some of those hops to flavor his homebrew, and was given the lash. After the government brewery shut down, he planted his own vines to keep the beer flowing — and the government thanked him with a cow.
Then in 1795, a guy named John Boston came to Sydney claiming he was a brilliant salt-farmer. The colony was short on salt and needed something to preserve its fish and meat (no fridges, obviously) so they hired Boston. He turned out to be a better liar than salt maker. It took him a month to make three bushels, so the governor fired him. Boston started brewing instead.
Beer made at Sydney 1 shilling 6 pence [about $5.80 today] brewed from Indian corn, properly malted, and bittered with the leaves and stalks of the love-apple.
"Love apple" is an old term for a tomato, but I think it probably refers to the Cape gooseberry, or ground cherry, which was brought from Peru, via Britain, to the colony around that time. It looks like a small, orange tomatillo and tastes like a lime-spritzed apricot. The beer is white plum sweet (meaning, not very), with a fluffy cornbead middle and wispry smoky crown. It’s incredible.
Times have changed. Today, while most Aussies shun Fosters, they stock their eskies with its brethren — easy drinking barbecue beers. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, the cream of the light lager crop is surprisingly good. So good that my girlfriend’s cousin, hearing a little wine shop in SF was the only place in the US that imported VB, made us ship a case to him in Michigan. That’s thanks to a unique strain of local grain called Schooner — a dextrinous malt like Maris Otter, Schooner is full of rich, mouthfeel-boosting unfermentables. Thinned with a bit of corn, and you get a beer with all the body and none of the weight. Wonder Bread. Pass the Marmite.
It’s true. They don’t smell great. My bag still has a funk from carrying a sack of them to the brewery. But elderberries are powerful little nubbins. I’ve knocked out many a flu with spoonfuls of elderberry syrup.
The plant is heavy with magic, from Danish tree spirits to Judas’s ghost (the traitor was supposedly hung from an elder tree; Jesus’s cross was elder too). Hearse drivers used elder whips. Gypsies said prayers before cutting the hollow boughs to make pipes and flutes.
Elder bark makes a black dye, elder leaves keep aphids off of garden plants. But best are the flowers — hay-field-fresh, blueberry tart, honey-sweet (the plant is related to honeysuckle). Take it away, John Evelyn:
If the medicinal properties of its leaves, bark, and berries were fully known, I cannot tell what our countryman could ail for which he might not fetch a remedy from every hedge, either for sickness, or wounds. Small ale in which Elder flowers have been infused is esteemed by many so salubrious that this is to be had in most of the eating houses about our town.
Salubrious indeed — our elderflower wheat beer is delicious. Will it get rid of my freckles, improve my eyesight, and cure my sore throat? We’ll see.