Ales of the Unexpected in Portugal

Not so long ago, ordering a beer in Portugal was a blissfully simple affair.

Yes, it just involved walking into a bar, nodding at a man called João, who’d probably been leaning against the same bar since 1973 and uttering these four simple words, “Uma cerveja, por favor.” Moments later, a small, perfectly chilled glass of something golden and unpretentious would arrive. It didn’t have a backstory, it hadn’t been brewed by monks, and it wasn’t infused with mango, pine needles and the tears of a distressed nun. It was just beer. Glorious, straightforward beer. And then, like an invading army of grey-bearded philosophers, armed with glossy beer guides and "expertise," the real ale brigade arrived on the scene.

Now, before we go any further, let me be entirely candid. I like beer just as much as the next person. I like it cold, I like it refreshing, and I like it to taste vaguely of… well… beer. What I don't particularly go for is ordering something called “Sunset Over Sintra, Triple-Hopped Citrus Fusion” and being handed a glass of something that smells like a limp fruit salad that's been left in a sauna for several hours.

But that, dear reader, is precisely where we find ourselves these days. Portugal’s craft ale revolution, which began somewhere in the misty hills of hipsterdom, probably in a converted warehouse where everyone owns a bicycle but never rides it, has spread to the sun-drenched shores of the Algarve and far beyond. It's brought with it a bewildering array of choices that makes even the most seasoned beer drinker feel a bit baffled.

Traditional experience

You see, the traditional Portuguese beer experience was all about reliability. You knew exactly what you were going to be getting. It was like ordering a full English breakfast. No surprises, no mystery. As for craft beer? Well, craft beer is the equivalent of modern art. You’re never entirely sure what it is you're looking at, why it exists or whether you’re supposed to enjoy it or merely “appreciate" it whilst pondering what the artist is "trying to say”.

Walk into one of the trendy establishments that serve this artisanal beer stuff, usually housed in what used to be a perfectly respectable garage, and you’ll find a chalkboard listing creations with names that sound like rejected indie band titles. “Wandering Sardine IPA.” “Fado Funk Stout.” "Simmering Saudade Craft Ale.” Each one promises a “journey” for your taste buds, which usually means “this will taste nothing like beer and everything like a botanical infusion that's gone a bit wonky.” But it's 6.8% VOL, what could possibly go wrong?

And then there are the descriptions. “Notes of grapefruit, pine and a hint of hopefulness.’ I should hope so, too. I’ve just paid €7 for something that looks like it’s been strained through an old yoga mat. I should at least have the "hope” of supping something that's vaguely palatable?

Of course, the brewers themselves are a terribly enthusiastic bunch. They’ll approach our tables and declare that, “This one is brewed using locally sourced seaweed and fermented at precisely the same temperature as a midsummer’s evening in Tavira”. We’ll all nod, but what we’ll be actually thinking is, “Does it actually taste anything remotely like beer?” But we can’t just say that out loud, because that would mark us out as being uncultured barbarians who still think that crisps should taste of potatoes.

To be fair, not all of this is bad. Some of these craft beers are genuinely excellent. Rich, complex and bursting with flavour in a way that might make us wonder why we ever settled for the bog standard stuff. But finding the artisan gems requires patience, resilience and a willingness to endure a series of increasingly bizarre concoctions that taste like they were designed by a committee of over-zealous chemists. It’s going to be a bit like dating. Most of us have to kiss a whole lot of frogs before finding our perfect partners. Except in this case, the frogs are unpredictable and smell distinctly of carbolic soap.

Craft beer

What’s particularly amusing is how the craft beer movement has collided with Portugal’s deeply ingrained drinking culture. This is a country where people have been enjoying simple pleasures for generations. A cold beer, a platter of grilled fish and conversations that drift lazily into the night. It’s not really all that complicated, and it's refreshingly unpretentious. It just works. And yet, here we are, with people earnestly discussing the “mouthfeel” of a double IPA while sitting three feet away from a man who is perfectly content with his usual order served alongside a small bowl of locally produced olives.

There’s a sort of cultural standoff taking place. On one side, we have the traditionalists who view craft beer with suspicion. On the other hand, we have the “real ale brigade" who speak of hops and fermentation with the kind of reverence usually reserved for fine wine or religious manuscripts. And then, somewhere in the middle, there's the rest of us, just trying to figure out why some of these newfangled brews taste like a cinnamon-dipped Christmas tree.

Of course, the rise of craft beer is about more than just the drinks themselves. It’s about identity, it’s about creativity, and it’s about taking something familiar and pushing it in brand new directions. And in that sense, it’s undeniably exciting because progress doesn't arrive without pioneers who aren't afraid to push boundaries. Of course, Portugal is no stranger to the pioneering spirit and has thus embraced the craft beer movement with enthusiasm, producing breweries that are innovative, ambitious, but sometimes slightly unhinged.

In pursuit of novelty

I can't help wondering. What if, in the relentless pursuit of novelty, we lose sight of what made beer enjoyable in the first place? Because at its heart, beer isn't supposed to be a puzzle. It surely isn't meant to require a glossary or a guided tasting session, is it? Isn't beer supposed to be one of those things we reach out for at the end of a long day, the companion to good food and great company? That decidedly simple pleasure that just doesn’t demand our fullest attention? Because when we need to swirl it, sniff it and write a short essay about its “aromatic profile,” something fundamental has gone awry.

Despite all this, I can’t help but feel a certain affection for the craft ale scene. Yes, it’s ridiculous and, yes, it’s occasionally quite infuriating. But it’s also full of passion and ingenuity. I must confess that there’s something rather wonderful about people caring THIS much about something as inherently simple as beer. So, perhaps the answer is balance?

Frankly, we should all be able to enjoy our little soiree into the brave new world of craft ales if that’s what really floats our boat. We can enthusiastically explore all those different flavours, indulge our curiosity and enjoy the occasional glass of beer that tastes like a tropical fruit fusion in a glass. But I still enjoy the simple stuff too. The sheer joy of drinking an uncomplicated beer that does exactly what it says on the bottle.

Saúde!