Sightglass: Those Who Choose The “Difficult Path”
This is the latest chapter in an ongoing collaboration between the Beervana Blog and Reuben's Brews. In the series, the folks at Reuben's and I select a topic of mutual interest. In some cases, Adam Robbings and Matt Lutton will interview one of the central players for the brewery's podcast, also called Sightglass. In this post we assess the life and legacy of Alan Sprints and Hair of the Dog brewing, which will close this summer. In part two, we will hear from those Alan inspired.
This edition of Sightglass arrives at an unexpected moment. 2022 marks Reuben’s tenth anniversary, and they have planned a series of collaborations with favorites in the industry. They approached Alan Sprints of Portland’s tiny but influential Hair of the Dog Brewery, who has been one of their inspirations along the way. We had planned to use Alan’s long career as a way of illustrating influence—starting with those beers, breweries, and important people who got him started over thirty years ago, and shifting to how Hair of the Dog would one day become an influence for others. However, after I’d scheduled the interview with Alan (in which he responded to my request with the then-cryptic comment, “it’s good timing”), he announced he was going to shutter the brewery and retire in the coming months. So while influence remains an important theme, we can also use this opportunity to consider Alan’s life and the legacy of his famous little brewery. In part two, we’ll hear from those Alan influenced.
Early Inspirations
Most people don’t start breweries because it seems like an easy way to make a buck. Somewhere along the line they fall in love, and starting a brewery becomes a side-effect of their condition. Causality doesn’t always follow a direct line from that early infatuation to brewery ownership, though, and that’s especially true for people who came to beer in the 1970s, before the concept of starting a brewery even occurred to most people.
Alan Sprints grew up in Los Angeles, and food was his first love. He would go on to live in Hawaii and came to Portland in the late-1980s to go to culinary school, thinking he’d pursue the life of a chef. From an early age, however, he appreciated beer and was intrigued by unusual products he found in world-food stores. “Beer became a fascination for me when I was in high school,” he told me over glasses of Adam and doppelbock at the brewery. “I was frustrated with what all my friends were drinking, and never understood why keggers existed.” For budding beer geeks in the 1970s, the only way to feed your passion was to look abroad for flavor.
“The beers I drank when I was a teenager were like San Miguel Dark, Heineken Dark, German beer called Mönchshof, Old Peculier. Those were my mainstays; those were the beers I cut my teeth on. My first keg that I ever bought was Heineken Dark. I still have the cap that went on top of the keg. I mention it to some of my Dutch friends, and they’re like, ‘Heineken Dark? There’s no such thing as Heineken Dark.’ It was probably just caramel coloring added to the regular Heineken, but I felt more sophisticated drinking a dark beer.”
As I listened to Alan describe his adventures, I imagined the gastronomic version of the alt music kids in high school who always new the best bands no one had heard of, or the arty kids who brandished names like “Lichtenstein” or “Rothko” that made me feel insecure. Young Alan found his way to beer through the doors of an eatery where he was probably sampling treats like prosciutto and asiago to escape the desert of American food in the late 1970s. “There was an Italian deli that had a huge beer selection,” he said. He and his friends went there for lunch sometimes, but as an underaged kid, he couldn’t order an Old Peculier with his sandwich. Those inaccessible bottles of exotic beer led him into a life of unusual petty crime.
“We’d go there for lunchtime during high school and buy a sandwich and steal a beer,” he said, as if it was a common experience many of us have had. “One day the owner of the store said to one of my friends, ‘Come here, I want to show you something’ and took him in the back and showed him a videotape of him shoving a beer down his pants.” That presumably ended his tour of the world of imported beers—at least as far as that place was concerned—but he didn’t forget the deli owner. “Early on, when I opened the brewery, I actually sent him a box of beer and thanked him and apologized for stealing beer.” He may be the only Italian deli-owner who ever helped launch a brewery.
Alan wouldn’t found Hair of the Dog until craft brewing was well underway, but his connection to good beer went back to the beginning of the movement. “[After the deli], I found a wine shop that also had a big beer selection and one day they were having a tasting of a new brewery from Northern California called Sierra Nevada. It was about 1980, and it was the first tasting he’d done in Los Angeles. [Ken brought] the very first bottles of Pale Ale, Stout, and Porter and things in keg that hadn’t been bottled yet. But it was a big inspiration for me that individuals could own a brewery. Growing up I thought that breweries were just big companies, they weren’t owned by individuals, but here was Ken Grossman talking about how he put together this brewery.”
Still, following high school and for years afterward, Alan had his eye on becoming a chef, not a brewer. In the meantime, he began homebrewing, getting involved in the Oregon Brew Crew, and falling into the orbit of a charismatic World War II vet who also happened to write about beer.
Fred and Michael
You didn’t have to look far to see some of Alan’s inspirations—they were right there on his labels. The inaugural beer, Adam, was inspired by the extinct style from Germany, adambier, not a person—but other beers that followed had a more personal connection. Greg Higgins, the beer fan and homebrewer who became Portland’s first star chef back in the 1990s, got a squash-flavored beer called “Greg.” (Four-letter names became a recurring theme.) “Ruth” was named for his grandmother, Lila his mother, and Matt from important accounts in Seattle—Matt Vandenberg and Matt Bonney from Bottleworks and Brouwers.
The most well-known of the names was Fred, for that WWII vet and homebrewer, Fred Eckhardt. He’d written an early homebrew book in 1970, and would later write prolifically for All About Beer, The Oregonian, and others, as well as penning an early style taxonomy, Essentials of Beer Style. Fred suggested that Alan make an adambier for his first beer, and helped him research it in old English-language texts. “He was a treasure trove of beer knowledge. He helped me organize beer styles, and think about beers in different ways,” Alan said. “Fred’s book was an inspiration. His first book was organized by color and so beer styles was an evolving thing. I knew the kinds of beers I liked to drink, so I tried to make those beers.”
Almost everyone in that era was influenced by the English writer, Michael Jackson. Alan was, too. He called Jackson’s Pocket Guide his bible, and went so far as to follow Jackson’s dubious advice about where to stay in Antwerp.
“When I started, almost every brewery had the same five beers. Hair of the Dog was a reaction to that. I’ve always been a bit of a contrarian, so I like to go my own way.”
“I remember going to Antwerp and going to the tourism office and asked where this hotel was that was in Michael Jackson’s book. They looked at us and said, ‘There’s no such hotel.’ ‘Well it’s right here in the book!’ ‘There’s no such hotel.’ So we said screw you and found a taxi and went to the address and booked a room in the hotel. Well, it turns out it was in the red-light district and it was one of those hotels that got rented by the hour. There was a snooker parlor downstairs, and we heard snooker balls all night long, and then all the moaning from the people using the hotel. No wonder the tourism board told us not to go there—but it was in Michael’s book, so it was okay with me.”
Of course, Hair of the Dog made a beer named for Jackson as well, but Alan couldn’t bring himself to call it “Mike.” In a rare departure, he called his Flanders brown “Michael.”
The “Difficult Path”
All of those early inspirations ultimately came together in the form of Hair of the Dog. He opened it after working for Widmer Brothers for a couple years—long enough to realize he didn’t want to work as a production brewer making mainstream beers. (In a famous Portland incident, Widmer sued Alan for breaking a non-compete clause he’d signed. “In my mind they were a draft-only brewery that made only wheat beer and I was a bottle-only brewery that made mostly strong beer,” he said, thinking he’d be in the clear. He wasn’t but the resulting lawsuit left him unscathed, though it was disastrous PR for the Portland heavyweight.) Instead, he wanted to sell the kind of unusual beers he brewed at home.
“When I started, almost every brewery had the same five beers. Hair of the Dog was a reaction to that. I’ve always been a bit of a contrarian, so I like to go my own way. I thought [solely making strong beers] was something that could happen because nobody else did that year-round. There were people like me who wanted those beers year-round. Unfortunately not that many people. It didn’t take me many years to realize that people aren’t really interested in unusual—I mean there are—but most people are interested in popular. So if you make whatever’s most popular, you probably have an easier time selling it.”
I later asked Alan what advice he would give to young brewers starting out, and he offered what might have been a coda to his own 29-year experiment. “I tell people to be true to themselves with recipe formulation, not to follow trends, but to lead the way.” He paused a moment and then added, “It’s a difficult path, and it’s not for everybody.” That was the very thing that made Hair of the Dog both special, and such a struggle as a business.
Source: Hair of the Dog
When Alan released his first beers, they were so radical no one really knew what to make of them. Portland was a brewpub town, and a lot of breweries didn’t bother to bottle. Alan’s right about the same five styles, too—even then, among the “revolutionary” new craft breweries, rules were forming, and most breweries followed them. Not Hair of the Dog. Now the brewery is housed in a building along the east bank of the Willamette River overlooking downtown, but then it was secreted away in a gritty, concrete-colored industrial enclave surrounded by railroad tracks. It was in a central part of the city, but almost no one had ever been there. Even finding it was a chore. Print out instructions on MapQuest (this was pre-Google, recall), and you were likely to end up going down a road that took you near but not to the brewery. It wasn’t much easier to find bottles outside the brewery, either. Everything about Hair of the Dog, from the strong beers to the impossible location, to the unusual, slightly cryptic labels was such a sharp departure from what Portlanders understood about beer that it took a long time for them to catch up.
It would be years before the business could provide a regular paycheck. He’d invite his homebrew buddies to the brewery to help him bottle the beer. Distributors had no idea what to do with single bottles of his ales that were as strong as wine. Alan had to get creative to sell his beer, and he invented techniques that now seem familiar, like offering regular “dock sales” of his beers for new and special-release beers. He cleverly numbered each batch, so collectors could age and trade the beer. I don’t think he ever executed a single marketing strategy, but the small cadre of fans loved the beer so much they spread the word.
The result was critical success but commercial struggle. In 1995, two years after he launched the brewery, Malt Advocate, one of the important magazines of the time, named Hair of the Dog the best brewery in America. Michael Jackson, who’d written about the breweries that inspired him, praised his beer. It seemed like he was on the right track—in every way except brisk sales.
“It was very frustrating that having good beer wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even the second or third most important thing. It was always so frustrating that I had to work so hard, and yet I never was financially very successful. Critical success came early on, and that sustained me for quite a few years, but financial success is the reason you get into business in the first place. I really believed in what I was doing, though, so even in those early days when my wife tried to convince me to stop, I really believed in what I was doing. I really though it was a good product, and it could have a place if it could just hit critical mass. So being stubborn helps.”
The word “innovative” is thrown around way too often in the beer industry, but it fits Hair of the Dog. True to his advice, Hair of the Dog’s path was difficult, and Alan didn’t build an empire.
“Business is my least-favorite part of the brewery business,” he admitted. “I’d rather give it all away. It’s the selling it. That is not my favorite part of the business. I just want to make the beer. That’s one of the reasons we are what we are.” Pauses. “It’s not a bad thing.”
Yet as we’ll see in part two of this Sightglass edition, his influence was far greater than his sales. His uncompromising vision for his brewery, both from his business approach to the kind of beers he was willing to make, inspired more than one generation of brewers. Indeed, Reuben’s chose to collaborate with him for that very reason.
““[The vision] has to come first. Flavor, imagination has to come first—everything else comes second. ”
Because most beer is “popular,” to use Alan’s word, that means it’s not always very memorable. It’s already the case that many of the breweries founded before 1995 have fallen from memory. Only a few are distinctive enough to linger in memory. It’s fitting that when I asked about which beers influenced Alan, he cited Thomas Hardy’s Ale, a strange, strong beer that continues to inspire people 54 years after it was first brewed by Eldridge Pope in Dorset, England. He would ultimately create very similar beers that will long outlive his brewery.
“I’d already moved here to Oregon and I guess the epiphany moment may have been Thomas Hardy’s,” he said after naming some other inspirations. “It was so different from the other beers I tried. The romance about how you can age it for 25 years and it’s only bottled once a year, and they go through all these machinations to make the beer—it captured my imagination. It wasn’t very long after drinking that beer that I started brewing my own beer.”
People continue to pull out bottles of Thomas Hardy’s. I had one from the 90s a couple years ago. Hair of the Dog’s various titans—Adam, Fred, Doggie Claws, and all their barrel-aged permutations—will continue to dwell in the cellars of drinkers across the world. Like Thomas Hardy’s, they’re vintage-aged and built to last. Even now, while the brewery is still open, cracking a bottle is like opening a time machine. People will hoard their stashes for decades. That won’t be the case for very many other lost Portland breweries.
Wrapping it Up
Nevertheless, Alan is retiring, so people will have to beef up their larder while they can. It’s not a moment to mourn, though—at least not for Alan Sprints. We had to end our interview so he could go prep so things would be ready when he returned at 5 am to bake the buns he makes for his burgers. He told me more than once, “I’m tired!”
Financially, Alan’s in a good position. He owns the building, which he plans to sell, and that will serve as his retirement. Finishing this chapter of his life will free him to do some of the other things he hasn’t had the time do for for years. Or decades. “I have other things I want to do for fun.” He mentioned his passion for stained glass and ceramics. I’d like to build an outdoor kitchen and greenhouse. I need free time. This part of my life is changing, I’m retiring, and things don’t go on forever.”
When he happily announced his retirement a few weeks ago, people were shocked he wasn’t selling the business. Yet when you think about it, the idea of someone other than Alan running Hair of the Dog seems crazy. Alan is Hair of the Dog.
“This whole brewery has been such a personal thing for me that I really can’t see somebody else doing it. How many beers have we seen bought and sold that have disappeared?—or people just talk about how they’re not as good as they used to be. That’s not the way I want to be remembered.” He considered passing it along to family, but he wasn’t sure that was such a generous gift. “I don’t really even want them to take over the brewery, because it’s not an easy way to make a living,” he said.
Still, he’s not completely shutting the door to the future. “All the artwork and the recipes just become a family heirloom, and in the future, possibly, one of my relatives will resurrect it and have all the artwork and recipes. Also, I can still do collaborations as Hair of the Dog, and if I sold it I wouldn’t be able to.”
Fortunately for fans—and Alan—Hair of the Dog will be around for a while longer. He needs to blend out the beer he has in barrels (though some of the stocks will go in future collaborations), and sell all the beer in package. He will continue to make beer for a bit longer, but not a lot, targeting summer for the end. He was surprised and gratified to hear so many nice comments after he announced he was closing, comparing it to being able to watch your own funeral. “That’s been really nice.”
For fans who want to salt bottles away for the future or just say goodbye, don’t dally. The end date will come when the beer is gone, so make sure you’ve said your goodbyes. I got down there immediately, and I will return in coming weeks. This is a fragment of old Portland that is about to disappear, but you can take your memories with you. Be sure you make a few soon.
Stay tuned for a follow-up to this post, when other brewers discuss what Hair of the Dog meant to them.