Brewing is a strange profession, one that is romanticized, misunderstood, always carries with it a fair bit of social capital, and professional brewers themselves fill in some interesting niches and come from interesting backgrounds. It’s also a subculture, with its own dialect and set of customs and rituals that isn’t for everyone. It’s also similar to sports or art in that you can be a professional brewer or an amatuer one; it can be a hobby or a way of life or both.
For the first time in my life now, I’m friends with home brewers. True, I’ve had a few home brewer friends here and there, and many of my colleagues past and present are home brewers, but I’m surrounded by a group now that are just home brewers. When I tell them what I do, I see a genuine glint in their eyes, like they are looking past me into their own reflection in some shiny copper brew kettle. I’m sure they’re imagining walking into the office surrounded by the smell of hops and steeping barley. They imagine themselves sitting at the end of the bar at their own taproom, taking in all the compliments.
What they don’t see is, well, my daily life. Today, I was covered in beer when the bell on our filter started leaking and I had to tighten it mid-filter. Before that, I was staring down a microscope doing a cell count for a beer we were brewing the next day, and, before that, I was dumping bags of grain – around 1,500 pounds worth. After getting sprayed with beer, hucking grain and counting cells, I helped a co-worker adjust the bottom valve on a very poorly-designed fermentor. This task involved me laying on my back in a yeast and water soaked floor, tightening tri-clamps while he held the pipe in place. I got to work at 5 a.m. and left around 3 p.m. I’m not saying this for pity or praise, but only to say, it took my whole body and whole mind to complete the day, something very few professions require.
There’s a reason why Mikkel Bjergso of Mikkeller and Friends says, “I don’t enjoy making beer; I like making recipes and hanging out,” and that’s because brewing sucks. It’s a joy and privilege, but it sucks. I think this applies to a lot of the professions that have this amateur/professional overlap. You may be a very competent cook on special occasions, but you couldn’t cut it in a real kitchen. You may be a scratch golfer, but you’re not going to be able hang on the PGA Tour. But honestly, beer is a little different.
If you wanted to be a brewer, you could quit your job and start working at a brewery. You’d most likely start on the packaging line and have to scrub floors or clean tanks or fill kegs till you get a chance to cross-train on the big boy machine. Then it’s a matter of showing up without effing up, because good production beer is about consistency.
I will say, having a glint in your eye forever is worse than trying and failing. I don’t how many people I’ve seen quit in this industry, but the people who make it, they don’t have a glint. They’ve got a cool gaze that can look at a beer, take a little sip and tell you the story of all the hard work that went into it, whether it was their hard work, or someone else’s.
Robert Alan Wendeborn is a former cellar operator at Ska Brewing and current lead cellar operator at Tin Roof Brewing in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
