En weer wordt er een bekende brouwer opgeslokt in de consolidatieslag op de Nederlandse biermarkt. Het Enschedese Grolsch neemt de Limburgse branchegenoot Gulpener over, zo bleek donderdagochtend. De familie-Rutten, die het bedrijf al acht generaties lang in eigendom heeft, verkoopt de onderneming. Gulpener brouwt naast het gelijknamige bier ook onder meer Korenwolf en Gerardus Kloosterbier.

Brewing tradition of nearly 1,000 years at Weltenburg Abbey in Bavaria to be bought up by Munich company Schneider Weisse

A prominent beer competition introduced an AI-judging tool without warning. The judges and some members of the wider brewing industry were pissed.

I couldn't tell you the exact number of times I ask “the usual?” per week, or even per day, with near certainty of the already expected response, glass in hand. The ebb and flow of the usual faces with slowly widening smiles softly salivating as they cross the threshold, is an everyday experience. It’s now a little over a year since I re-opened my local – my parents’ local, even – since its untimely closure of almost three years mid 2020, yet the ease of routine now feels so second nature the idea of those within it ever not having been in it week to week seems beyond implausible. During my time, and informed by over a decade of working in a number of different sized pubs and bars, I have come to understand that running a proper _locals_ ’ local comes with a number of duties common in many, but perhaps with more focus on certain aspects of hospitality. For one of the most important duties, bar the physical acts of service with a friendly, warm welcome, is to try and remember not only the names of your locals and regulars, but, what their “usual” go-to is. _Helen Anne Smith_ Here, preferences are varied: innumerable orders of pints of our house Best Bitter, Surrey Hills’ Shere Drop — “pint-a Shere please”; “large Kylie, thanks” — a 250ml pour of extremely drinkable Kylie Minogue's licensed own brand of Provence rosé, generously measured to just over the tallest line on the glass; a double Bourbon whiskey and diet coke, three ice cubes; ten pints of lager, two at a time in a plastic two-pinter maß for the winning side on a Friday night after their weekly game of five-a-side. Peppered in between all these and many more are, of course, the inevitable additions of snacks. Scampi Fries. Red Leicester Mini Cheddars. Pork Scratchings. Cheese and Onion crisps. Peanuts, usually more dry roasted than salted. More Scampi Fries. Another bag of the Red Leicester Mini Cheddars. Occasionally someone will get a few bags of each — a true medley of flavours — it's now known behind the bar as “pub tapas”. There are a few customers whose typical drink of choice surprised me initially, but now has settled into a routine of familiarity. Helen Anne Smith Sometimes “the usual” itself is quite an extraordinary order; one customer, who only seems to come in on match days, exclusively orders half pints (often three, never more than five) of the strongest beer we have on tap, typically, but not always, with a packet of cashews and a Coca-Cola for his grandson before an AFC Wimbledon home game. Other more ordinary orders circle around a predictability which feels reassuring. The lightest, lowest ABV pale. Whatever we have in the way of something dark. Two halves of whatever is new since last they were in, simultaneously. The dichotomy of the enjoyment of both familiarity and novelty for some is their main pleasure – relying on those behind the bar to recommend what we know they would like, or simply receiving the nod with a warm smile throughout their stay for a repeated order without having to even name it. At the heart of such behaviour, and the knowledge required to fulfill corresponding desires, is routine. A good local with customary regulars exists primarily to provide the once greatly respected cultural transaction of hospitality — an expected service in almost perfect synchronicity between server and recipient. This symbiosis of customer and bartender, or at least its aimed for relation, is one of equal fulfillment. It’s a finely balanced equation, in which customer and server exist in a mutually chaotic world. External variables, affecting both sides differently come in many forms not limited to inflation, housing, the time of year, relationships and personal or work events - all and sundry, great and small. A constantly shifting vortex of circumstantial elements, for which those in the service side of the exchange in venues with long-standing regulars must always try to navigate to maintain a state of harmonious accord. * * * > ## _It is a longstanding, historically recognisable social institution: putting the world to rights with a drink in hand_ * * * People come to the pub predominantly, though by no means exclusively, to drink. There is, of course, an inextricably social element to this ritual. Whether you choose to sit alone with a pint of beer, a glass of lemonade or a white wine spritzer, reading the paper or a book, or sit around the bar, eager for conversation with those either side of it, the pub is an inherently interpersonal environment - that precious haven of the third space. Most who choose to visit do so secure in the knowledge there will always be good company among those who are already known to them and even those who aren't just yet. The unique familiarity of a good relationship in your local _as a local_ across the bar rests on the premise that your company is always welcome, your conversation enjoyable, and your time will be well spent. Locals aren’t always warmed by a much loved almost bucolic-like fiery hearth, but almost always by their regulars. The integrity of that social contract is inviolable — the hallowed sanctuary of what is in many ways the progenitor of what we now know as and call a safe space. Strong opinions reverberate within the walls about sport, how annoying the roadworks are, politics both local and further afield, sometimes even the beer! The list goes on. It's a longstanding, historically recognisable social institution: putting the world to rights with a drink in hand. Whether cheerful or tales of sorrow, as protagonist or a peripheral bystander, stories are shared, opinions formed and lives enriched simultaneously by the serendipitous entanglement of all those in the mix. _Helen Anne Smith_ The balancing act in engendering a space that maintains and champions the premise of such long standing traditions of hospitality - welcome, warmth, friendliness - while also eschewing the more archaic practices and attitudes which have dominated such spaces historically, is not easy. Pubs in particular have not always played host to all, and those who have been historically denied access or equal treatment on account of their race, gender or sexual orientation in them are entitled to find as much comfort in them now as they should have done while previously denied. It is a continual act of social alchemy, of organising and tending to the specific cultural mechanics within a local, tending to the needs of customers and their locale concomitantly. These hallowed spaces, and the roles which are required to truly foster the kinds of geniality which those of us who choose to provide within them often demand far more than meets the eye. As we all continue to feel the pinch of ever more costly day-to-day living, socialising comes with an added price tag. From my own experience, running and working in a local is simultaneously highly rewarding, important and often undervalued. More often than not, those behind the bar are the most frequently seen faces and social interactions that some customers will have. The regularity of familiarity, the dependability of such spaces anchors itself around those who carefully maintain the social engine which keeps things operating. While it may not be a coalface in the strictest terms, the reality is that the furnace needs near constant supervision to maintain its equilibrium. A _local_ , similar to many other institutions of sociality and hospitality, renders its own requirements. The hope is that the local lives on. We all need places where the day-to-day check-ins feel not only natural but nurturing. Replenishment is found in and through community and its intrinsic sense of camaraderie and mutual revelry. It’s intoxicating. And in times of hardship and uncertainty, we all, more than ever, need to champion the sites that provide such respite and rejuvenation through the solace of the familiar. Long live the local.

Attached: 1 image Physics of why Belgian beer foam is so stable Triple-fermented Belgian beers have the longest-lasting foam; single-fermented lagers have the shortest. https://arstechnica.com/science/2025/08/physics-of-why-belgian-beer-foam-is-so-stable/?utm_brand=arstechnica&utm;_social-type=owned&utm;_source=mastodon&utm;_medium=social

Ordering "the blandest thing on the menu" is a great way to understand whether a brewery really knows what it's doing.

If you’ve ever had a few beers in a pub with friends, you’ve most likely come across the problem that these few beers stimulate the appetite, so usually, you’d want to have some sort of snack with them. In the UK, something like crisps, pickled eggs, pork scratchings or even a more substantial dish like a pork pie or a Scotch egg would be typical, but in Lagerland, there exist 3 regional snacks that are distinctly cheesy and also fairly popular, one of them maybe less so, but I think it deserves to be celebrated more than it currently is. In this article, I want to discuss what I consider to be the Holy Trinity of cheesy beer snacks. **Nakládaný hermelín** This Czech pub classic is an absolutely delight: slightly gooey soft cheese, marinated in a neutral oil together with thinly sliced onions and chili peppers and seasoned with garlic, paprika, optionally cayenne pepper, a few peppercorns and a bayleaf or so. Hermelín is basically a Czech domestic version of camembert, just with a different name. The real joy of nakládaný hermelín is when it’s marinated and aged sufficiently in oil so that it’s soft and gooey but not too runny, with just a bit of aroma, and not too much of an ammonia note that ripe camembert eventually develops into, complemented by garlic and a hint of spice from the paprika powder and of course the sliced onions that were marinated with it. When I make nakládaný hermelín at home, I don’t really follow a strict recipe, but what I do is this: I buy a few German-produced camemberts (because that’s what I have available, no actual hermelín in my local supermarket), slice up a few onions (sometimes white, sometimes red), and cut the camemberts in half horizontally. I then rub crushed garlic on the cut surface and then sprinkle some paprika powder and cayenne pepper on. I then reassemble the camembert wheel. Taking a jar, I first add a layer of onions on the bottom, then I put the camembert on top. If it doesn’t quite fit the jar, I cut it into quarters and put it in tightly. I then add more sliced onions and repeat the whole process. To finish it off, I add a few peppercorns and a few bayleafs, as well as a pickled chili pepper or two. I then top it up with a neutral oil (my personal preference is rapeseed oil) so that everything is covered, close the jar and put it in the fridge for a week or so to properly marinate the cheese. This is a cheese best served with dark rye bread. Ideally, the cheese should be soft enough that it can be spread easily on its own. It’s cheesy, gooey and slightly spicy, and absolutely gorgeous with a few glasses of Czech lager. I occasionally make this for myself, but I’m also in the fortunate situation that a local Prague-Spring-themed pub in Berlin serves their homemade ones, even with hermelín cheese they import themselves. Two jars of home-made nakládaný hermelín maturing in my fridge. **Obazda** This is an absolute classic in Bavaria. Originally invented to use up overripe camembert, it has developed into a standard Brotzeit dish in many beer gardens. It’s basically camembert mashed with butter and optionally other creamy cheeses, often with a shot of beer to thin it out a bit, and typically seasoned with paprika powder, finely chopped onions and caraway seeds. The name isn’t exactly the most appetizing: it refers to how the ingredients have been turned into a mushy mass (“Batz”). In the EU, Obzada resp. Obatzter (just a different spelling of the same term) is registered as a Protected Geographic Indication, meaning that commercially produced Obazda must be made in Bavaria. It also describes mandatory and optional ingredients, and minimum resp. maximum percentages of the individual ingredients. If you want to commercially produce and sell Obazda, this is the reference for you, but in a home-made version, no Obazda police will come and get you if you deviate a bit. I do love my Obazda, but even though it seems like a very straightforward dish to make, there can be a massive difference in how intense it tastes. I’ve had fairly bland ones, but a beer garden known for its good beer (at least in my experience) usually also serves a very good Obazda. If you want to make it yourself, there are some pretty good recipes available out there. According to legend, Obazda was invented in the 1920s by Katharina Eisenreich at the Weihenstephaner brewpub in Freising. Weihenstephaner brewery has a recipe for Obazda on their website which they claim is the original recipe. It’s described as being the right amount to serve 4 people, but in my experience, just making a quarter of the whole amount is perfectly sufficient for 2-3 people. * 250 g Brie (or Camembert) * 18 g butter * 38 g cream cheese * 30 g finely chopped onions * 4 g paprika powder (I prefer the hot variety, plus a pinch of cayenne) * a pinch of caraway seeds * a pinch of salt and pepper each * a bit of Weissbier Mix cheese, butter, cream cheese, onions and beer into a coarse cream, ideally with a fork. Season with salt, pepper and caraway seeds. If necessary, add more beer to make it creamier. If you intend to put the Obazda in the fridge a few hours before serving, add even more beer because it will firm up. Serve with dark rye bread or soft pretzels. In Franconia, essentially the same cheese concoction is known under a different name: “Gerupfter”, meaning “plucked one”, referring to how the cheese is getting ripped or “plucked” apart when mixing through the ingredients. Distinctly local variations of the recipe exist, and in my experience, the Franconian versions are always a bit more pungent. One such recipe is the one from Sternla, a historic pub/restaurant in Bamberg that restarted brewing beer only a few years ago. Besides camembert and cream cheese, it also uses Limburger, a particularly strong, smelly cheese that some describe as smelling like feet, but also cream to add creaminess. A shot of local Bamberg beer such a smoked beer mixed in adds to the local flair of the dish. Here’s a video (in German) that shows the process of making the dish at Sternla: I’ve made both the Weihenstephaner and the Sternla recipe, and both have their appeal. While the Weihenstephaner one may seem a bit blander compared to the Sternla Gerupfter, it can be made more intense by complementing the paprika powder with cayenne pepper. The Sternla recipe on the other hand gets its intensity mainly from the very pungent Limburger. (not so fun fact: I like my cheese, but pure Limburger, even when served “with music”, i.e. marinated in vinegar and onions, is the only cheese that has ever given me an upset stomach) **Kochkäse** This one is especially close to my heart, because it’s the one I grew up with. In Upper Austria, Kochkäse (“Abkochter” in the local dialect, lit. “cooked-off one”) is really more associated with having it with Most, the local version of apple cider, or just generally with having bread, spreads and cold cuts as a meal. In my family, Abkochter has a special place. It’s a cheese spread that my grandmother on my father’s side has always made whenever we visit her. It’s a slightly sticky cheese spread made from a ripened acid-set cheese, with a very distinct flavour that I wouldn’t exactly call pungent but definitely quite flavourful. If you haven’t tried it, it’s hard to describe. My grandmother basically grew up with that cheese spread. She mentioned to me that when she was young, her mother would go to the local dairy and buy a special type of Topfen (a low fat acid-set cheese, similar to Quark in Germany) which she would then age at home in a warm environment (apparently a slightly smelly procedure). When the Topfen reached a glassy-looking consistency, she would then melt it down to a spread together with milk and butter, and season it with salt, pepper and caraway seeds (I suppose the irony of this cheese spread is that you take a low fat cheese and add back dairy fat). Even as recently as 25-30 years ago, local supermarkets in my grandmother’s city sold that type of Topfen at the cheese counter, but according to my grandmother, she stopped aging it herself when my late grandfather started complaining about the intense smell in the kitchen. She then switched to Steirerkäs, a type of acid-set cheese that is basically like the aged version of Topfen. Other alternative cheeses you could use would be Olomoucké tvarůžky (aka Olomouc cheese, a Czech type of cheese relatively popular in Austria; my aunt on my mother’s side uses that when she makes that cheese spread) or Harzer Käse (which is what I use because it’s readily available in German supermarkets). So here’s our family recipe, in my version: * 200 g Harzer Käse * 125 ml milk * 80 g butter Melt down cheese, milk and butter until all the cheese has melted. Despite what the name suggests, do not bring this to a boil, but only heat it as long as necessary to melt everything down. Season with salt, pepper and caraway seeds to taste. Optionally, you stir in an egg at the end, but I found that to not make a difference to either colour, flavour or texture, so I just leave it out. Let the cheese cool down before spreading it on dark rye bread. Home-made Kochkäse in a jar. Besides it being a taste of my own childhood, what fascinates me about this cheese spread is how widespread (no pun intended) it is with nobody realising. The first time I came across it outside of Austria was in Upper Franconia of all places, at Knoblach brewery not far away from Bamberg. Even though their recipe tasted slightly differently from my family’s recipe, it was distinctly recognisable as Kochkäse. And they weren’t the only ones to sell it: Schuhmannskeller in Bischberg, just outside of Bamberg, also has it on their menu. Then last year, I served the dish to an American friend of mine, and he was so amazed, he asked me for the recipe. He then made this recipe when his Polish mother visited him in Berlin. His mother remembered that her grandmother in Poland used to make a cheese like that, and it was the standard way of processing the milk that they had gotten from their own cows at the time. That got us interested, and further research showed that the same or similar kind of cheese spread also exists in other places: in parts of Poland, it is known as Hauskyjza (which is not the name my friend’s mother knew it as); in Luxembourg, Kachkéis is the equivalent product, while in France, Cancoillotte is a very similar cheese spread that is popular in the regions of Franche-Comté and Lorraine. Kochkäse is also a thing in the German state of Hesse. The Hesse tourism website has a page about it, including a recipe that starts with aging Quark. I even found some evidence that a dish like that is also known in the Czech Republic. Meanwhile in Austria, there’s only one commercial producer of it, but it has struggled with insolvency in the past. For a cheese preparation that can be found across such a wide area, from France and Luxembourg to parts of Germany and Austria all the way to Czechia and Poland, it is relatively unknown, even though it seems like a dish that only a few decades ago was probably a lot more common that it is nowadays. And most interestingly, several of these local traditions seem to think that they exist nowhere else. I’ve specifically heard this about the dish in Austria (“Kochkäse is a distinctly Upper Austrian thing and nowhere else to be found”), Luxembourg and Franconia. Is this a pan-european (processed) cheese tradition that has been mostly forgotten? **Summary** In any case, I think all three cheese dishes are absolutely delicious, fantastic snack foods in their own right, and perfectly paired with beer:**** nakládaný hermelín works especially well with Czech lagers, Obazda is wonderful beer garden food best enjoyed with a Helles, and Kochkäse is great with Franconian Kellerbier (or really any kind of beer, or just as part of _Jause_ or _Brotzeit_). I’m a massive fan of each of them, hence why I call them Holy Trinity of cheesy beer snacks. If you like cheese as much as I do, you should definitely try them out. They’re all fairly easy to make at home. Even I can do it! (and I’m not a good cook)

As independent brewers worldwide follow their own paths of lager rediscovery, it’s worth taking a closer look at where it all started—the keller—and the rustic tradition we know as kellerbier.