With Big Beer looming， is Chinas nascent craft-brewing scene facing its biggest threat yet？

精釀啤酒圈兒里的那些事兒

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ts the Friday before Spring Festival and around 150 people are crammed into one of Beijings most popular brewpubs. The crowd is roughly a third white male “neck-beards，” the rest Chinese， sinking a few pints of 40 RMB ale before they spread across the country to visit relatives who will likely have never heard of craft beer， still less tried it.

Im drinking an Edmund Backhouse pilsner， its name a nod to the tearaway expat scholar and fabulist， whose Qing-era sex memoir was to later scandalize historian Hugh Trevor-Roper. The young academic famously investigated Hitlers death after the defeat of Nazi Germany—the very country that helped introduce modern brewing to China. It feels like theres history in every sip； and maybe a few pints of Backhouse will lead to some similar adventures—or， at least， loosen my tongue enough to tell some tall tales of my own.

China may be only a decade into its craft beer revolution， but this movement—as some see it—was also initiated by foreign forces. Today there are over 300 craft breweries on the mainland， and the potential for growth is huge. Several of the largest overseas conglomerates are now circling these early pioneers， salivating at the potential for growth. Some local brewers see the chance to make a quick buck， but others view “Big Beer” as the first nail in the coffin for a localized small-batch approach thats been struggling to establish itself.

Predictably， China already lays claim to one of the worlds oldest beers， a brew made in todays Shaanxi province using fermented millet， pearl barley， and snake gourd root， allegedly dating back to the Neolithic Age. One Hong Kong brewery has even attempted to recreate the aged ale， describing it as “sweet， tart， and funky.”

Yet， up until about 10 years ago， its drinking culture was dominated by just a few variants of sorghum liquor （the infamous baijiu）， Shaanxi-style yellow wine， and four tepid lager brands： Snow， Harbin， Yanjing， and Tsingtao. Almost unheard of outside China， these regional mega-brews take up almost 60 percent of the Chinese market， according to Euromonitor. Other than the occasional European beer hall—Paulaner Br?uhaus opened its first branch outside Germany， in Beijing， in 1992—China and the Big Four remained comfortably， robustly homebound.

Then came the Olympics in 2008. Quantities of craft ale—imported to satisfy an American appetite whetted by small-batch brewers from cities such as Portland， San Diego， and Denver—were simply left on supermarket shelves after the Games， a glut of good grog going to waste. “The craft beer just sat there forever…you were paying eight or nine bucks for beer that had expired and I was like， OK， I am done，” says Carl Setzer， who owns the Great Leap Brewery chain.

With piercing blue eyes， lumberjack beard， and a frame not dissimilar from one of his kegs， Setzer has been called Chinas first proper craft brewer； certainly， he doesnt argue the point. “There hasnt been anyone able to do anything close to what we have done，” he says with a look of utter sincerity. Setzer is the no-nonsense， salty union-rep of Chinas independent craft beer scene—if Big Beer wants a trade war， hes seemingly happy to bring it.

In truth， a man by the name of Gao Yan had already set up a small brewpub in the southern city of Nanjing， under the Master Gao brand， and has been carving out a successful business ever since—but the foreign press corps， ever reluctant to leave the capital， seized on the opening of Setzers tiny taproom， established in a Beijing hutong in 2010 and still soldiering on， as the dawn of a new beer-a.

Setzer may have been first to market， but others had been nursing similar dreams around the same time. The majority had been amateur hobbyists back home—“just mucking around in a friends garage，” as one put it—who， frustrated by the lack of options， started experimenting for the hell of it.

“The import market was pretty weak， with only a few craft beers coming in， and they were often stale，” says Richard Ammerman， one the oldest employees of Jing-A， a taproom-brewpub in the capital. “There were quite a few craft beers I missed， so thats how I got into it. Its a lot of fun when youre doing it at home. You have quite a lot more room to make mistakes…Worst-case scenario， your friends will drink anything.”

Thats no longer quite the case. The industry has kicked into gear. Though the big-city small brewers outwardly claim camaraderie， there is a fierce rivalry that often spills into outright hostility once the beers flow. While brewers keep their eyes peeled for new players on the market， they claim—publicly， perhaps disingenuously—the more， the merrier. Its proof that theres a strong market and brewers are more than just a clique of obsessive crazies.

“Great Leap preceded us by about half a year， which we had two thoughts about，” says Chandler Jurinka， a former military man who founded Slowboat Brewing Company in 2011， narrowly missing the title of “Beijings first craft brewery.” “It was like well， ‘Oh well， there is a new craft beer guy in the hutong…Now， as disappointing as it was that we were not the first， it was also invigorating because we realized we were not the only ones…it was a vindication of our business model.” This vanguard included Jing-A， which now has two locations in Beijing， along with NBeer， Panda， Peiping， Forever Beer， and Arrow Factory； KrakHaus Brewery in Huizhou， Tianjins WE Brewery， Hebeis Urbrew， Taps in Shenzhen， Bad Monkey in Dali， PK and Liberty Brewing in Guangdong province， and Boxing Cat in Shanghai—the latter now the locus of some controversy.