The Making of a Classic: Mahr's Ungespundet
Lager is having a moment. After decades in which small breweries couldn’t give them away, something has shifted, and now breweries routinely make at least one lager—and many breweries include them in their flagship lineup. This is a big change from the early craft era, when all lagers bore the taint carried over from industrialization and commodification. The slow transition back to the joys of lager started a decade ago, and now, in one of those lovely historical ironies, they’re viewed as an antidote to the excesses of craft-brewed ales.
Over the course of that decade, customers and breweries have become more knowledgeable about the world of underappreciated styles, so now seeing a tmavý on the board is fairly common. Brewers understand how to use process and ingredients to coax the most flavor out of them, and Americans have developed a real appreciation of what makes for a good lager. There’s even a little status signaling involved with stroking your chin as you ponder, perhaps a bit too theatrically, “They call it a Franconian kellerbier, but did they use open fermentation?” (I plead the fifth.)
All these recreations have sent drinkers back to the source, and one of the most important beers driving the palates of American lager-drinkers is a funny-sounding beer from Bamberg—but not the smoked one. Mahr’s Ungespundet has become, for many Americans, the classic Franconian lager. Hazy, rustic, soft, and hoppy, it has the kind of character craft beer fans love, yet it retains all the delicate drinkability they seek in a lager. It also seems to tick the boxes of a classic: The brewery was founded in the 17th century and later acquired by the current family in the 19th. It has a gorgeous, sprawling pub in central Bamberg. And of course, Mahr’s is famous for this old-timey lager that seems like something that might have been served when the brewery was founded.
The curious thing is that while all that’s true, and while Mahr’s has definitely become one of the key ambassadors for Franconian lager, it wasn’t always this way. The evolution of Mahr’s reputation has given it this status only in the past fifteen years or so. That’s partly because of its charismatic newish leader, and partly because Franconia still remains largely a land of mystery outside South-central Germany, one that, until Mahr’s came along, had no ambassadors at all.
Franconia
Although Franconia is now just the northern chunk of the state of Bavaria, it was once a powerful independent state. Bamberg was even briefly the seat of the Holy Roman Empire. All that changed in the 19th century when, long before German unification, Bavaria absorbed Franconia. (Based on the Bambergers to whom I’ve spoken, this is still a fresh grievance.) By the 20th century, Franconia had become something of a backwater, so much so that during WWII, Bamberg was sufficiently insignificant that the allies didn’t bomb it—preserving a gorgeous medieval core the whole of which is now a UNESCO world heritage site. Being a backwater can be a good thing, and not just during war. In the case of Franconia, it meant the preservation of traditional beer-making.
One of these is not like the others.
Hundreds of little breweries stipple the cities and villages of Franconia, and a week there will disrupt what you think you know about lager. Unlike Bavaria, where you can expect every brewery to make a helles, dunkles, and weissbier, in Franconia you find oddball stuff. It’s most famous for rauchbier, but precious few breweries actually make them. Instead, you find beers that are darker than Bavarian lagers, some which are softer, but others hoppier. Some immediately call cask ale to mind with their fullness, sweetness, and low carbonation. They are far more likely to be cloudy, and in Franconia, that’s not a mark of shame. It’s where you find beers with obscure names (vollbier, landbier, rotbier, zwicklbier) that don’t seem to correspond to similarly-named beers made by other breweries. Many are merely descriptive.
Americans get caught up in the concept of style, but places like Belgium and Franconia confound them. Indeed, in both places the much better way to think of local beer is through the lens of process and culture. The classic Franconian brewery reminds me of Czechia: local maltings that produce distinctive profiles, decoction mashing, open fermentation, and finishing touches that include unfiltered or naturally-carbonated casks. Not every brewery does these things, or even most of them, but the flavor profiles those techniques produce—a natural, rustic rawness, layers of character, a propensity for full malt flavors—remain the North Star for breweries.
Americans are discovering these beers because of their rusticity and character. While many of the great Bavarian lagers are famous for their accomplishment and refinement, Franconian lagers are funky, unexpected, and unusual. Which of course makes them perfect targets for craft breweries.
Beer served from gravity kegs, or “Anstich” to locals.
On my early October visit, garlands of hops hung from the ceiling.
Ungespundet
That brings us to Mahr’s most famous beer, the oddly-named Ungespundet. It’s one of those words you don’t see in Bavaria proper, and it is a variation on that wonderful Franconian specialty, kellerbier. These terms are categories rather than styles, something like English cask ale. And like cask ale, they point to a very hands-on way of making beer that was once always made in small batches and served where it was brewed.
Long before refrigeration, lager-makers dug deep cellars with cool ambient temperatures (sometimes augmented with ice) to age their beer. Because they couldn’t brew in the hot months when the beer would spoil, some of their stock summered over and got a long, deep lagering. Other beer was served sooner, when it was fresher. The calendar dictated much of the production cycle. Modern kellerbier recalls the fresher lagers, which hadn’t full clarified and which may have had some of the sweetness, sulfur, and other fermentation byproducts that hadn’t been cleaned up after a long rest. This is that “rustic” quality. Some breweries added more hops to balance things out, and in some cases, the beer was left unbunged to lower its level of carbonation. Ungespundet means unbunged and is Mahr’s take on the approach.
Because they’re a category rather than a style, and because breweries interpret them differently, a lot of mystique surrounds these beers. Even that rusticity is open to debate and interpretation. I think it’s more useful to consider these beers of place rather than technique or style. Franconia has hundreds of breweries, but none of them are huge. The drinking culture here is local, and the beer is made to be distinctive. The joy of the experience—and this is like cask ale, too—comes on draft or anstich at the brewery at the moment of perfect ripeness.
The experience was vivid enough to inspire a selfie.
This is the way I first tasted “U,” as it’s known locally. Bamberg is one of those villages that shuts down after lunch—or was when I visited a decade ago. Sally and I were out sightseeing, and thought we’d catch a late lunch. We were forced to do more sightseeing as we waited for restaurants to open, and happened to pass Mahr’s at just the right time for reopening (3p, maybe?). Sally got the Helles and I the U, and we found a cool corner with our beers and pretzel. I admit it was a hunger- and fatigue-aided experience, but I’ve rarely enjoyed a beer as much. My half liter was soft and slightly sweet, full of peppery Perle hopping, and the malts were vivid in their freshness. My seidla (the local name for half-liter pours) didn’t last long.
The beer is well-made and interesting on its own, but what makes it so famous is that brewery freshness. Even as I was drinking it, I could tell the experience wouldn’t be replicable in a keg shipped to Oregon. (And years later, when one did make it to Stammtisch here in Portland, I confirmed my suspicion.) This is why Franconian beer is so revered. People who go there tell similar tales of different beers they had. But because those beers aren’t designed to travel, and because the breweries are mostly so small they don’t export, we only know of their character by stories from those who have made the trek and drunk them in situ.
With so much growing interest, it made an ambassador basically mandatory. I don’t claim that Mahr’s Ungespundet is the best rustic beer in Franconia, or even the best example of its style. But it’s a tremendous beer on draft, and travels just well enough to hint at the possibilities one would find in a fresh version.
Classics aren’t born, their made, slowly and because of luck and good decisions. If you look back at early Michael Jackson books, he either skipped Mahr’s altogether or mentioned it only in passing. It was decades before he started developing an interest in U, but he never characterized it as the classic he did with Schlenkerla or Urquell or the others.
Things change. The rest of the world is finally starting to learn about Franconian lagers, and they need an object of focus. Mahr’s elevation isn’t entirely random, then, but it is certainly deserved. As with so many of the world’s great beer styles, you can only get the full experience in Bamberg. But if you’ve never been to Franconia, imported U will do in a pinch. It still has the lovely malts, the peppery hops, and that soft palate. Depending on how fresh it is, it might even still be hazy. It’s unusual, though, and in its differences one can imagine the contours of a truly fresh, gravity-poured seidla of kellerbier. And that might be enough to encourage people to try local examples—or even book a flight to Franconia.