Ambitious Brew: The Story of American Beer (18 page)

A mere roof, that pavilion, designed to shelter the wonder within: a detailed model of the brewery, thirteen feet square and plated in twenty-four-karat gold, for which Fred Pabst paid $100,000 ($1.9 million today). Three dozen Italian artisans devoted four months to sculpting and molding its pieces and parts. They carved tiny plaster-of-Paris reproductions of “every outline and detail of every building,” fashioned wax molds from the carvings, and then cast the gold plates from the molds. “Nothing has been omitted,” reported the awestruck correspondent, “from the figure of Gambrinus that crowns the arch over the Chestnut street [
sic
] entrance to the ornamental work about the top of the towering boiler house chimney.” Streetcar and railroad tracks coursed gold-paved streets, and a tiny gold-plated train loaded with beer stood poised for departure from the shipping yard.

But the cherubim, marble, and models were mere overtures to the main event: the competition. Like the rest of the era’s expositions, the Columbian lured exhibitors with the promise of awards, but the congressmen who created the 1893 fair envisioned an event loftier in tone than the century’s other expositions. At this fair to end all fairs, exhibitors competed not against each other, but against a list of criteria that represented the standard of excellence for a particular category. Every entrant who met the standard would leave Chicago with a commemorative bronze medal and a parchment certificate. The White City’s purity would thus remain unsullied by undignified brawls for grand prize and grubby scrimmages over medals and ribbons.

A noble goal indeed, and one that exhibitors, being not only human but seasoned combatants from capitalism’s cruel wars, ignored. Nowhere was that more true than among the brewers, whose competition violated every official guideline laid down by Congress.

John Boyd Thacher, who chaired the Exposition’s Committee on Awards, instructed the brewing judges to employ blind tests and rate the exhibits on purity, color, and flavor. Every exhibitor who scored eighty points or more out of the hundred possible would receive a commemorative Exposition medallion. Thacher warned the judges to keep track of points only as a guide, and otherwise to keep the numbers secret. Once a judge had deemed an exhibit worthy of award, he was to ignore the numerical scale and write a narrative describing that exhibit’s “specific points of excellence.”

Nothing doing, replied the five judges, all but one of whom were connected closely to either Frederick Pabst or Adolphus Busch. Instead, they told Thacher, they planned to award ranked prizes based on numerical scores, using a scale of their own creation: fifteen points for “brilliancy,” twenty for flavor, forty-five for “chemical purity,” and a final twenty for “commercial importance.”

Twenty points for commercial importance? What did that mean? A reporter for
American Brewers’ Review
nosed about the brewing gallery in search of an explanation. None of the Exposition officials could explain the category, but the other competitors drew their own conclusion. “We exhibitors have had some pretty lively meetings about the matter,” announced the manager of Stroh Brewing of Detroit. “Nobody knows what the 20 points on ‘commercial importance’ are, unless to favor the large breweries over the little ones.”

The jud ges defended their decision. A brewer who “ ‘march[ed] at the head of the procession’ deserved credit for his achievements,” explained a spokesman. A reporter arrived at the logical conclusion: The largest brewers—Pabst, Busch, Schlitz—would automatically earn twenty points. “Oh, no; by no means!,” replied the judge. The reporter knew when he was beaten. The question of “commercial importance,” he concluded, would remain “mysterious.”

Harvey Wiley elevated the affair from the mysterious to the incomprehensible. Wiley, the chief chemist for the United States Department of Agriculture, supervised a temporary laboratory at the Exposition, where he and his staff analyzed every food-based exhibit. The chemist planned to test each beer entry against a standard sample he had brewed himself at the laboratory. Unfortunately, neither Wiley nor his employees knew how to brew beer, let alone analyze it, and the reference samples he and his staff concocted bore no resemblance to the expertly crafted lagers and ales submitted for judging.

In late October, as the fair drew to a close, the judges began affixing black-and-gold cards to the exhibitors’ pavilions—temporary stand-ins for the bronze medals to be shipped later. Germany’s Lowenbrau earned a medal for its bottled export lager, and Canada’s John Labatt for his ale and porter. Adolph Coors, a small brewer who dominated the Denver beer market, received honors, as did three of the Uihleins’ lagers. Between them, Pabst and Busch earned eleven awards for their various beers.

Through it all, the judges published the numbers. Flaunted the numbers. Tallied and coddled and fondled the numbers. Given the judges’ passion for numbers, the exhibitors arrived at the only logical conclusion: He who racked up the most points won. Never mind that there was no grand prize. Never mind that each medal looked like every other medal, and nearly every exhibitor who showed up carried one home. The obsession with numbers spawned what a Milwaukee newspaper reporter described as “the hottest kind of rivalry” and the “bitterest fighting” between the world’s two largest beermakers.

A Milwaukee newspaper claimed that Anheuser-Busch agents had been seen wooing judges and organizers with “suppers, banquets and less pretentious ‘treats.’ ” One Chicago reporter claimed that some competitors had offered the beer jurors bribes—as much as a quarter million dollars. Another noted that many brewers had stayed home rather than deal with unjustified “selfpuffing” and “manipulated” awards.

It’s safe to assume that the gossip contained a kernel of truth. Only about two dozen of the nation’s nearly two thousand brewers showed up at the White City. The judges’ rejection of Thacher’s rules oozed the odor of Busch, Pabst, or both. After all, if the jury followed the Exposition’s official rules, Frederick Pabst would tote home the same medal as a two-bit brewer from Buffalo. If, on the other hand, the judges ignored official guidelines and insisted on awarding prizes based on point totals, the final numerical tally would enable the brewer with the highest score to pronounce himself the “winner.” That said, there was no hard evidence then, and none now, of bribery or other pressure (not, of course, that there would be).

Skullduggery or not, Anheuser-Busch headed into the final round of judging with a two-point lead over Pabst. That was good enough for Adolphus Busch. On October 27, he posted an award placard at the front of his pavilion and placed announcements in the Chicago papers proclaiming ownership of a nonexistent grand prize and crowning himself “King of Brewers.” “[B]y using the best barley and hops,” Anheuser-Busch beers had “conquered the highest award” bestowed by a jury composed of “connoisseurs and chemists of the highest rank.” Never mind that chemist Wiley had not completed his analyses or submitted his results. Never mind that the jury in this case consisted of a group of businessmen who knew nothing about beer and had neither declared a winner nor bestowed awards. Never mind, for that matter, that there was no winner to declare and no grand prize to bestow.

The Milwaukee contingent fought back. “The stuff published by Busch of St. Louis is rot of the worst kind,” a judge friendly to Pabst informed a reporter. “It was simply presumption on his part” to anoint himself the winner. A reporter for the
Milwaukee Sentinel
claimed that the other brewers demanded to know “by what authority” Busch had been allowed to post the card. In a response every bit as disingenuous as Busch’s bragging, the Director General replied that “he could not say.” In fact, as he admitted later, he himself had provided Busch with the judges’ numerical tallies and the certificate posted at the AnheuserBusch pavilion.

The Exposition ended on October 31, and two days later, Wiley submitted the first of his analyses. Only three of the five judges were on hand to receive the results. They took one look at Wiley’s numbers—and promptly changed them, claiming that Wiley had erred in his calculations. The new tally put Pabst ahead of Anheuser-Busch.

The two absent judges protested the move, arguing that they had neither read Wiley’s report nor signed the scorecard. Thacher urged patience and calm, reminding them that Wiley had not finished his analyses and the tallies were not complete. But the rest of Wiley’s scores only confused the issue, and in mid-November, the judges declared themselves deadlocked. A special supervisory committee voted to abide by the report that added the two points onto the Pabst score. Thacher announced the tallies (Pabst Brewing, 94.6 points; Anheuser-Busch, 94.3), declared the results final, and the brewing jury adjourned.

Frederick Pabst pronounced himself the grand prize winner and celebrated by draping his brewery in blue ribbon and giving his workers a day off. A nearly quarter-page ad appeared in the
Milwaukee Sentinel:
“PABST Milwaukee Beer WINS,”read the headline. “A victory complete and absolutely unparalleled in the History of Expositions.” Adolphus Busch pronounced himself robbed and filed a petition with the Exposition Court of Appeals. The hearing lasted five days, adjourning on November 28 so that the officers could “digest the voluminous evidence and arguments along with [their] Thanksgiving dinner.”

Several days later, Harvey Wiley contacted Thacher and explained that back in October, one of the laboratory chemists had filed a report indicating salicylic acid in an Anheuser-Busch beer. That was an error, Wiley told Thacher. None of the company’s samples contained acid and the judges should recalculate that score.

Skeptics no doubt see the hand of Adolphus Busch in this maneuver, and perhaps Busch prodded Wiley to contact Thacher. But it’s doubtful that Busch did much more than prod. Wiley held a visible, responsible, and prestigious position as the nation’s First Chemist. There was no reason for him to risk his reputation for a bribe. It’s safe to assume that someone erred in the analysis of the Anheuser-Busch beer, since it’s likely that most of the chemist’s tests of two hundred beer and ale exhibits contained errors.

It’s also unlikely that the Anheuser-Busch beer contained salicylic acid or any other additives. Adolphus Busch deserved his reputation as a maker of fine beers, which explains why he went to as much trouble over a phantom medal as he did over Miller Brewing’s ersatz Budweiser: In the late nineteenth century, there were no laws governing advertising, so his competitors could broadcast the news about the mistaken analysis. A gullible public would swallow the story and lump the fine lagers of AnheuserBusch in with the shoddy creations of lesser brewers, the kind who used bicarbonate of soda to produce a sturdy head of foam rather than long fermentation and quality materials. Busch insisted that Exposition commissioners clear his name.

On December 21, the players reassembled to hear the Appeals Committee’s findings. If either Busch or Pabst expected a clear verdict, they were disappointed. The committee reminded the audience that there was no prize to be won, and anyone who claimed otherwise spoke in error. The appeals committee ordered Thacher to eliminate, destroy, and otherwise eradicate any and all evidence of numbers from the reports.

Those words fell on deaf ears. Busch continued to demand a public correction of the mistaken test results and a return of the five points deducted from his score. The Exposition’s executive committee pondered his request, studied the chemical tests, and consulted with Wiley. Then, for reasons known only to themselves, they turned the whole messy affair over to Dr. Lichtenfeldt, a German who had served as one of the five brewing judges. Figure it out, they told him, and we will abide by your decision.

The indefatigable Busch departed for Europe to search for Lichtenfeldt, traveling from Berlin to Paris to Baden-Baden, where he nabbed his quarry and sat him down for some “fine diplomatic talk and 1862 wines . . . You have no idea,” Busch told son August, “what tricks were resorted to. I found out things in Berlin which I never expected. Pabst wanted to win at all hazards and at any cost.” So did Adolphus Busch. He emerged from the wine-and-dine with Lichtenfeldt’s letter affirming the purity of AnheuserBusch beer.

’Twas to no avail. By the time the document reached the United States, the members of the executive committee had performed another about-face: They refused to consider the letter and pronounced the matter closed. The delighted Frederick Pabst drew his own conclusion: He had won the nonexistent prize. More than a century later, Pabst Blue Ribbon labels still read “Selected as America’s Best in 1893.”

Busch, outraged at the loss and infuriated by the insult to his beer, refused to abandon the fight. Many months later, he won a small victory: a court order directing the officials of the World’s Columbian Exposition to issue an amended score card that returned those five stolen points to their owner. Still, the episode soured Busch on medals and prizes, which, he told August, “are not given to the goods meriting same, but are secured by money and strategy.”

B
UT THE DAYS
when the two titans had the energy for such conflict were dwindling. By the turn of the century, both Busch and Pabst had handed affairs over to their sons. To no one’s surprise, they found it hard to let go. Even as he eased into full-time retirement, Frederick Pabst kept the brewery—and his sons—clipped to his leash. “You ask me Gustav do I want more details of the business?” he wrote from Wiesbaden in 1901. “I don’t want little details. But I would like to know something about the Cuba Plant, how New York is doing, what are you doing in Chicago, are you building?” More than a month had passed since the directors’ annual meeting, he complained, “and I haven’t heard nor seen a particle of it.” Such “negligence” on the part of the company secretary, Charles Henning, could not be tolerated. “I think a great deal of Henning as you
know
but he must wake up. Things
must
be kept up, and we must be alive, or take a back seat” and let others “run away” with the business.