Other kids dreamed about becoming a pilot or a doctor or a firefighter. But not you. You dreamed about being a janitor.

Wait, what? Janitors? Aren't we talking about being a brewer? And fun stuff like beer? And the lovely smells of hops and malts, and breweries with more kinds of ales and lagers than in your wildest alcohol-induced fantasies?

 

Have cleaning supplies, will brew beer. (Source)

Nope. We're talking about janitors.

Because that's what brewers are: eighty percent janitor, ten percent food scientist, and ten percent cook. Brewing beer can be an intensely boring and intensely physical process. 

A brewer spends their eleven-hour shift on their feet, carrying and lifting fifty-five kilogram (that's 121.25 pounds) bags of malted barley into vats of "wort" (that's industry slang for beer before the yeast has been added). During the bad parts of the day, they clunk around in heavy waterproof boots, mopping and scrubbing the floors. 

During the good parts, they dump flavor-inducing flowers into giant vessels of boiling water. So at least you'll get #swole while you brew. Plus you'll be paid $35,000 a year to do so (source). Most places charge for this kind of exercise.

So how does brewing work? 

Unless you've been brewing beer in a secret and highly illegal way at home since you were fourteen, or have spent time in other parts of the world where drinking laws are a bit more—ahem—relaxed, you might not know that beer is made of four main ingredients: malted barley, water, yeast (which determines whether you end up with an ale or lager), and hops (little flowers with flavor-producing lupulin glands).

 

You're telling me those are all full of beer? (Source)

But how exactly do those ingredients turn into that sweet amber nectar you know and love—or rather, that you hear of so many older people knowing and loving? 

You'll learn on the job how your specific brewery makes beer, but here's a general rundown: first, brewers lug giant sacks of barley to the "mash tun," and then to the "mash kettle." These two steps produce your "wort" (pre-beer). Next comes decoction, which kills bad enzymes and saves the specific carbohydrates that give beer its body, called "dextrins." Then you bring the wort to a boil and add the hops.

(Okay, pause for a second. As 15th-century peasants learned when they were trying to make a less disgusting beer, hops are super important, because they give a beer its particular taste. Some hops are citrusy. Others are flowery. Some are spicy. The ten percent "food scientist" part of brewing beer largely has to do with how you manipulate the hops. Okay, good talk. Back to it.)

Send the wort, now with hops added in, to the whirlpool. Decant it. Add yeast, and wait at least a week for fermentation (which eats the sugars, converting them into carbon dioxide and alcohol). 

Large industrial breweries, where they fill and cap over 1,000 bottles per minute, occasionally do a second fermentation process. Small craft breweries sometimes skip that step. In general, it's lots of carrying, mashing, stirring, and pouring.

So who would want this glamorous, oh-so-interesting job? Generally speaking, brewers are one of two kinds of people. First, you have the brewers who were deciding between becoming a brewer or a middle school janitor. 

Balding, maybe a little stout (perhaps from too many stouts), these guys realized they could have a slightly higher salary and better union ties if they worked for The Big La-Brewsky Brewing Co. instead.

Second, you have the brewers who love beards, flannel shirts, tight jeans, and, above all, craft beer. These guys get certified as brewers because they're obsessed with the process and the product.

What all brewers have in common is an eagerness to know everything about beer. Laypeople sometimes stop inviting them to the pub after work because they have such deep and informed opinions. Chilling out can be hard when your buddy keeps saying stuff like, "Because I prefer my beer fermented in higher temperatures, I like pale, hoppy, top-fermented beers—or, sorry, 'ales,' as you people would call them."

That kind of talk might not be everyone's cup of tea (and might alienate some other pub patrons), but if you're born to brew, you'll find yourself saying stuff like this all the time. Brewers can spot the difference between a dark malty lager and a pale hoppy lager with just a drop, and are happy to discuss the differences with anyone who'll get within earshot.

Brewers also have to be strong. Beefy or wiry, it doesn't matter, so long as you can do forty hours per week of arm- and back-destroying physical work. 

We hate to be the bearers of bad news, but it's unlikely you'll ever become a brewer, no matter how much you love beer, if you have noodle arms. (A note to noodle-armed beer-lovers: beer companies need sales representatives and distributors, and microbreweries need investors and owners.)

If they don't already have experience in a brewery as a keg washer or bottler, many brewers attended brewery school. What? It's a real thing. Most programs in the U.S., offered by the American Brewers Guild or by the Siebel Institute, are just a couple days in length.

If your parents aren't totally down with you dropping out of college to make beer for a living, UC Davis offers a four-year degree in fermentation science. And if you really want to impress people (or just really like answering the "What can you do with that degree?" question for the rest of your life), you can get a graduate degree in food science.

By the time you graduate, you'll be well-set on your chosen path: dumping flowers into pots of boiling wort-water, for slightly above minimum wage, for the next three decades of your life. And wearing flannel.

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