A LIKE DINOSAURS, the dodo and disco, some beer goes extinct, too.

It’s a result of evolution, of course: The fittest survive while the weak disappear. Typically, the lost ones were obscure regional varieties that fell under the weight of widely distributed brands. Others were best-sellers that simply lost favor as tastes and customs changed.

Dortmund Adambier, Pennsylvania Swankey, Grodziski, Broyhan, Kentucky Common – one can’t help feel a bit of nostalgic regret for the forgotten names.

We’ll never get a true taste of these lost beers, for the historian’s words fall short of describing flavor. As they say, extinction is forever.

Adambier

This ale, brewed in the German city of Dortmund around the 1880s, might be considered an “extreme” beer by today’s standards. It was strong (about 10 percent alcohol by volume), dark, hoppy and noticeably tart, thanks to its exposure to lactic acid (think Berliner Weisse). It was aged as long as 10 years in wooden casks.

Legend has it that King William Frederick IV of Prussia, unaware of its strength, downed a tankard of Adambier during a visit to Dortmund in the mid-1800s and promptly fell unconscious for 24 hours.

Closest modern example: Hair of the Dog Adam (Oregon).

Pennsylvania Swankey

The name supposedly stems from schwenke, a German term for low-alcohol beer. At the time of its popularity in the late 1800s, breweries had been responding to growing temperance forces by producing very weak beers with various spices (think root beer).

Swankey, popular in the western Allegheny region, was a dark ale spiced with aniseed for a licoricelike flavor.

Closest modern example: None. But with the low-alcohol “session” beer trend continuing to rage, it’s only a matter of time.

Grodziski

These days, Polish brews are as generic as any other Euro lager. A century ago, however, when you said Polish beer, this is what you meant: a cloudy, smoked wheat beer that made a marvelous accompaniment to smoked kielbasa and other meats.

Grodziski, known also as Gratz, might be thought of as a fuller-bodied Belgian white beer, like Hoegaarden, with the citrus flavor replaced by smokiness.

Historians say it was probably first brewed in the 15th century. Two world wars devastated Poland’s brewing industry, and the style has not been widely brewed for half a century.

Closest modern example: Yards Tadeusz Kosciuszko Smoked Pol (Philadelphia), brewed sporadically.

Broyhan

Not to be confused with the (now-defunct) imported German pilsner brand, Broyhan was the pale ale of Hanover in Northern Germany. Dating to 1526, it was one of Germany’s most popular styles for three centuries.

Like most German ales, Broyhan disappeared in the 19th century with the rising tide of light-bodied lagers. Beer historian Ron Pattinson guesses that the last true Broyhan was brewed around 1900.

Closest modern example: None.

Kentucky Common

Known also as Dark Cream, this cheap draft is said to have accounted for more than three-quarters of all beer sold in Louisville, Ky., in the early 1900s.

It was made with barley malt and either corn grits or sugar. That sounds like it might have been a precursor to today’s light-bodied macro lagers – except that this style was somewhat darker and, interestingly, blended with a sour mash infected with lactobacillus bacteria. The sour mash likely would’ve given the beer a crispy tang, not unlike the flavor of Bell’s Oarsman wheat beer.

Closest modern example: New Albanian Phoenix Kentucky Kommon (Indiana).

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I LIKE MY COFFEE black, my whiskey straight and my hefeweizen without a lemon slice. But I’m a total sucker for that green syrup they pour into Berliner Weisse.

It’s called woodruff, made from a sweet, aromatic herb, and it’s usually served as a dessert topping. How anyone thought to spike a wheat beer with the stuff is beyond me. Yet, if you order a goblet in any Berlin beer garden, the waiter will almost surely ask: “Rot oder grün?” A schuss (or shot) of red or green?

The red is sweet raspberry syrup, which is kid stuff. The green gives the pale yellow beer the misty, grayish hue of a cloudy morning at the seashore. Not particularly attractive . . . but the syrup’s cut-grass flavor softens and complements the beer’s trademark tartness.

Naturally, there’s a bit of controversy surrounding the Syrup Question, and I’m not talking about red or green. So-called purists say you shouldn’t add it at all. Mike Griffin, who authors the online British Guide to German Beer, says the syrup unnecessarily masks the intense character of Berliner Weisse.

“If you’re used to assertive flavors, such as Brussels Gueuze, Islay malt whiskeys and spicy foods,” he told me, “it really goes against the grain to put syrup in your beer. The syrup removes the beer’s refreshing, distinctive qualities.”

Like Gueuze, the character of Berliner Weisse is produced by its intentional exposure to something most brewers normally would rather keep out of the fermentation tank. Where Gueuze gets its funky barnyard aroma from the Brettanomyces strain of yeast, Berliner Weisse picks up its tartness from Lactobacillus, a type of bacteria that converts sugar into lactic acid.

“Without the bacteria,” said Brandon Greenwood, the former brewer at Nodding Head (1516 Sansom St., Center City) who created the brewpub’s endearingly named Ich Bin Ein Berliner Weisse, “it’s a boring, tasteless wheat beer. There are no hops to speak of, and it doesn’t have any of that banana or clove flavor from traditional wheat yeast.”

With an acidity that the late beer critic Michael Jackson once described as “worthy of Dorothy Parker,” Berliner Weisse is a challenging beer at first. “For those who aren’t familiar with it, it’s a bit of a shock,” Greenwood said. “It’s overwhelmingly tart on the first sip. But after that, the fruity esters come out on the palate, so you get a citrus kind of component.”

What you also get is refreshment.

The tartness cleans the palate and slakes the thirst. Its low (3.5 percent) alcohol content lets you drink it all afternoon without breaking into a sweat.

The style probably dates to the 1500s and was so renowned that Napoleon’s troops supposedly called it the “Champagne of the North.” In the early 1900s, more than 700 breweries produced it; today, however, it’s bottled regularly by just two or three in Germany, including Kindl and Weihenstephan. Often, the version served in Berlin’s beer gardens is closer to soda pop: fizzy and sweet as candy.

Surprisingly, authentic Berliner Weisse has enjoyed a minor resurgence in the United States, mostly after Greenwood’s draft-only version began picking up national awards in the early 2000s. More than one American beer judge has told me that he or she now regards Nodding Head’s as the style’s benchmark.

So, I asked the expert: Do you favor your Berliner Weisse with or without a schuss?

“I would say the purists drink it neat and the recreational users add woodruff,” Greenwood said. “I personally prefer it neat.”

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For an authentic German taste, try imported Berliner Kindl Weisse and Professor Fritz Briem 1809 Berliner Weisse, both available in bottles. Meanwhile, Nodding Head’s famous Ich Bin Ein Berliner Weisse is on tap throughout the summer.

As for woodruff syrup (also known as Waldmeister syrup), that’s a bit harder to track down. Not even Riekers Prime Meats, the German specialty store in Fox Chase, carries the stuff. Get it online at www.GermanGrocery.com.

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LAST COLUMN, I mentioned that one of my favorite beers of Philly Beer Week was the homemade braggot that George Hummel of Home Sweet Homebrew served at Opening Tap. That had a few of my readers scratching their heads, “Brag-what?”

It’s not a common beer style, and some will argue it’s not really beer at all.

Braggot is beer mixed with mead. (I’ll assume you already know that mead is fermented honey.)

It’s an ancient drink that, over the centuries, has been known as bragget or bracket or braggat or a seemingly endless variety of other spellings. Like all matters involving the hazy history of alcohol, there is debate over its true origin.

The word seems Welsh (brag = malt, got = honeycomb, say some researchers) and, indeed, there are records of 13th-century laws that demanded freemen to pay the king of Wales enough braccat to fill a bathtub.

Well before that, the Irish claim they were drinking something called brogoit. And no one knows how long the English celebrated Bragot Sunday, a day in which mugs of the sweet drink were raised in the midst of Lent.

What did it taste like? We can only salivate with desire when Chaucer writes in “The Miller’s Tale” of a voluptuous, adulterous young wife whose mouth was “sweete as bragot.”

At its finest, this drink would’ve been brewed with herbs and spices and served at celebrations and holy days. Ian Spencer Hornsey’s A History of Beer and Brewing describes a medieval “upmarket” version made with ginger, cinnamon, galingale and cloves.

More commonly, a tavern keeper would’ve simply mixed ale and mead – perhaps as a specialty drink, or possibly to cheat a patron who had ordered a more expensive cup of pure mead.

I’ve tried the latter method on my own, and it’s not half bad – a bittersweet mingling of honey and hops. Mixing your own is certainly a lot easier than what James Taylor of Atlantic Brewing in Bar Harbor, Maine, has to go through to make his Brother Adam’s Bragget Ale.

Taylor makes four 15-barrel batches over two days, each requiring 35 gallons of honey. “You ought to see the size of the squeeze bottles we use,” he joked. “I never knew they made them that big!”

He spends the days cooking wort, then hoisting buckets of honey. “It’s physically a busy day with lots of lifting,” Taylor said. “It’s a sticky day – you get a hell of a sugar rush just licking your fingers.”

It takes more than six months of fermentation, of a gentle mingling of honey and hops. Taylor describes the finished glass as somewhere between mead and barley wine, between the kiss of honey and the bite of hops.

Hummel’s version wasn’t quite so hoppy, finishing smooth and fruity. He’s helpfully included an easy recipe for a sparkling braggot in his new text, The Complete Homebrew Beer Book (Robert Rose, $24.95).

The recipe (see below) calls for 5 pounds of clover, orange-blossom or wildflower honey, and then three months of conditioning. So it’s a bit pricey and you’ll have to have a bit of patience before giving it a taste.

While you’re waiting, give one of these a try:

¶Dansk Mjød Old Danish Braggot (Denmark): Brewed with ginger.

¶Dogfish Head Midas Touch (Milton, Del.): Technically, it’s not a braggot because it’s a mixture of malt, honey and grapes.

¶Widmer Brothers Reserve Prickly Pear Braggot (Oregon). A one-off brewed in 2010, but you may still turn up a bottle on area shelves.

¶Weyerbacher Sixteen (Easton, Pa.): A dark braggot released this month for the brewery’s 16th anniversary.

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George Hummel’s Braggot (Sparkling)

From The Complete Homebrew Beer Book by George Hummel

INGREDIENTS

• 2 packs Wyeast 4632 or White Labs WLP720 (or 1 pack in starter) or Lalvin D-47.
• 5.5 gal. brewing water
• 5 lb any brand amber dry malt extract
• 3-5 AAUs Hallertau, Liberty or Mt. Hood hops for bittering
• 5 lb clover, orange-blossom or wildflower honey
• 5 tsp diammonium phosphate (DAP)
• 2 tsp yeast nutrient
• 1 tsp Irish moss
• .5 oz Hallertau, Liberty or Mt. Hood hops for aroma
• 5 oz dextrose (corn sugar) for bottling

RECIPE

1. Prepare the liquid yeast in advance, according to package directions.

2. In brew kettle, bring 1 gal of the brewing water to a boil. Remove from heat. Stir in bittering hops and malt until malt has dissolved.

3. Return kettle to heat and bring to a rolling boil. Boil uncovered for 45 minutes. Monitor the liquid, using a spoon or strainer to keep any foam from sealing the top of the liquid.

4. Meanwhile, prepare the cooling bath or wort chiller.

5. After 45 minutes, remove kettle from heat and add honey, DAP, yeast nutrient and Irish moss. Stir to ensure that honey, DAP and nutrient have dissolved. Return kettle to burner and bring back to a rolling boil. Monitor the boil and remove and discard as much of the waxy meringue from the surface as posible. Boil uncovered for 15 minutes, stir in aroma hops, turn off heat and cover.

6. At the end of 15 minutes, turn off the heat, cover ketetle and transfer it into the prepared colling bath (or use a wort chiller, according to manufacturer’s directions). Cool mead to 75°F within 30-45 minutes while you prepare the fermentation gear.

7. While the wort is cooling, clean and sanitize the brewing spoon. When the wort has cooled, move the kettle to a counter and stir the wort briskly in one direction for about 5 minutes. After stirring, cover and let rest for 10 to 15 minutes as the hops and trub form a cone.

8. Using sanitized racking cane and siphon, rack as much of the mead as possible into the sanitized primary fermenter. Then, using a sanitized funnel and straining screen, strain remaining mead into the fermenter. Add enough brewing wter to bring volume to about 5.5 gal. using the hydrometer, take a reading of the specific gravity and record it in your brewing journal. (Estimated O.G.: 1.081).

9. Add yeast to mead, stirring vigorously with sanitized spoon until evenly distributed. Seal fermenter with lid, stopper and airlock. Keep at room temperature (68°-72°F) during primary fermentation, which typically lasts for 7 to 10 days, after fermentation begins. (Keep fermenter in a dark place or under a lightproof cover if using a glass carboy.)

10. After 7 to 10 days, or when the krausen has fallen, use sanitized racking cane and siphon to gently rack the mead into a secondary fermenter. Avoid aerating it. Seal and keep at room temperature, covered or in a dark place, to allow fermentation to continue.

11. Once the bubbling in the airlock has slowed further, confirm completion of fermentation by using the hydrometer to take final gravity readings. (Hydrometer readings should be the same for several days in a row.)

12. Prime and bottle the mead using dextrose and condition for at least 3 months before sampling.

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RYE IS A dirty grain – bitter and black and somber-looking. It is unfit for human consumption, except during famine. It is very “disagreeable to the stomach.”

This point of view is not mine, for I count myself among those delicatessen faithful who kneel in the presence of pastrami piled high between slices of rye.

Instead, these are the learned words of no less than Gaius Plinius Secundus, a/k/a Pliny the Elder, the first century A.D. philosopher who famously scribed a treatise on natural history and then even more famously found his way onto Russian River Brewing’s beer labels.

When it comes to grain, Pliny wrote, rye takes a back seat to wheat, corn, rice, spelt and almost anything else that grows out of the ground. In the lauter tun, it is a sticky, difficult mess. The few ancient brewers who managed to make use of it – notably in Bavarian Roggenbier and Eastern European Kvass – eventually discovered that those styles would never earn the popularity of beer made from barley.

And yet, Ol’ Pliny notwithstanding, rye has found its way back into the brew kettle. The grain has cropped up in at least 500 brands in the past decade.

Often, rye is used to give a new twist to a classic style. Founders (Michigan) adds it to bitter pale ale to create Red Rye PA. Great Divide (Colorado) spikes a Germany-style Marzen lager to come up with Hoss. In its Exit 6 one-off, Flying Fish (New Jersey) collaborated with Stewart’s Brewing (Delaware) on a Belgian-style ale with a grain bill of 20 percent rye. In all three cases, the rye adds a pleasing, spicy bite to the finish.

Not surprisingly, there is now a singular style known as American rye beer. Brewed as either an ale or a lager, the style is much like American wheat beer, in which the flavor of the grain adds a subtle complexity to barley malt. Often, it is highly kilned to provide both color and a distinctive, sometimes off-putting, nutty flavor.

It’s a delicate balance as brewers find themselves tweaking their recipes from batch to batch. Too little rye, and you’re left wondering what was the point; too much, and it’s like eating a PayDay candy bar coated in charcoal.

When you get it just right, it comes off something like Summit Brewing India Style Rye Ale, made with crystal, chocolate and flaked rye. Its spicy tang plays on a nutty, chocolatelike background with just a touch of coffee.

Blue Point Rastafa Rye Ale (New York), meanwhile, is a standard IPA that is positively transformed by the addition of rye.

Blue Point brewmaster Mark Burford said that over the years he and partner Pete Cotter have adjusted its rye content between 7 and 20 percent of the total grain. “It took us a while to figure out exactly how to use rye,” Burford said. “We’re looking for it to add a nutty, spicy complexity to the malt bill.”

I often get a bit of tartness in rye beers. Others say they’re fruity. Or refreshing, with just a bit of sourness that freshens up the palate.

But “disagreeable to the stomach”? Look, I realize his name is sacred in certain brewing circles. But in the case of rye, Pliny was wrong.

Here are a few more rye beers to try:

Dieu Du Ciel Route Des Epices (Canada): Spiced with black and green peppercorns.

Triumph Jewish Rye (Old City, New Hope, Princeton): Caraway seeds give it an authentic deli flavor.

Samuel Adams Revolutionary Rye Ale (Massachusetts): Roasted malts finish dry and spicy.

The Bruery Rugbrød (California): A dark, nutty ale whose name is Danish for rye bread.

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“HE WAS A BOLD MAN,” wrote 18th-century Irish satirist Jonathan Swift, “that first eat an oyster.” But no less bold was the first brewer who added oysters to his stout. After all, salty, squishy and arousing are not adjectives one normally associates with beer.

And, yet, lately we’re seeing an unexpected surge in the quirky style known as oyster stout:

• Harpoon Brewing (Massachusetts) has released the latest in its 100 Barrel Series, Island Creek Oyster Stout, made with freshly harvested Massachusetts oysters.
• Upright Brewing (Oregon) bottled a new, limited-edition batch of its Oyster Stout, made with 30 pounds of oysters and oyster liquor.
• Last month’s Craft Brewers Conference in San Francisco featured a symposium beer from California’s Iron Springs, Marin and Magnolia breweries made with 1,000 local oysters.

The unusual variety is not about to supplant the likes of Guinness or even cultish Russian imperial stout. But the growing popularity of oyster stout surely takes the whole food-and-beer-pairing trend to another level.

Indeed, that’s where the entire idea of dumping bivalves into the kettle began: Beer drinkers have always known that the roastiness of strong, cold, dark beer was the perfect complement to a briny oyster.

In “Beer & Food: An American History” (Jefferson Press), author Bob Skilnik writes, “It’s always amusing to read about the contemporary beer writer or cookbook author who ‘discovers’ the tastiness of pairing something like a stout with a chilled oyster, when Dutch patroons were already sluppering down beers and oysters at places like the White Horse Tavern more than 350 years earlier.”

By the 1850s, so-called Oyster Saloons were as common in big cities as McDonald’s are today. A Scottish writer named Charles Mackay (a latter-day Alexis de Tocqueville) marveled at the “Oyster and Lager Beer Saloons” of New York City’s Broadway, where “oysters as large as a lady’s hand are to be had at all hours.” In Philadelphia, he wrote, “the rich consume oysters and Champagne; the poorer classes consume oysters and lager bier . . . ”

But actually brewing beer with oysters?

Beer critic Michael Jackson traced that brave idea to New Zealand, where in 1929 the Young & Son Portsmouth Brewery produced Victory Oyster Stout. British breweries would take up the practice as part of the trend of supplementing stout with nutrients (milk, sugar, etc.) for added nourishment.

The health benefits are dubious. Meanwhile, the brewers I’ve spoken to offer mixed assessments on the impact of oysterized brews.

It’s said that the calcium in the shells helps clarify the beer and enhance body. Others believe shellfish reduce acidity, which will help produce a better head. When Cherry Hill’s Flying Fish Brewing released its one-off Exit 1 Bayshore Oyster Stout a couple of years ago, the company said the oysters improved its dryness.

The oyster meat itself mostly dissolves during the brewing process, and it takes a refined palate to detect even a hint of saltiness.

Perhaps most importantly, adding oysters underscores what is truly one of the great bar food delights of all time. My own heaven is an ivory-handed shucker delicately icing endless plates of fresh Quonset Points while I sit on a stool, watching and quaffing from a bottomless pint of black-as-ink Irish stout. The bite of Tabasco is a temptation; the brine and vinegar are a seduction; the roasted malt is a mouthy kiss.

No question, oysters are an aphrodisiac. Here’s a few others that do the trick.

Yards Love Stout (Philadelphia): Smooth and creamy, especially when served from a nitro tap.

Iwatekura Oyster Stout (Japan): A strong (8 percent alcohol by volume) chocolatelike Russian imperial stout.

Porterhouse Oyster Stout (England): Its aroma carries a light touch of sea air in the nose.

Marston’s Oyster Stout (England): Despite its label, this one does not contain shellfish. It’s just an indication that this sweet stout pairs well with oysters.

Finally, here’s something for the daring beer drinker: An oyster shooter. Just shuck one and drop it into a glass of your favorite stout. It’s not nearly as gross as it sounds.

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WHAT DOES the label mean when it says “spring beer”?

I know what it used to mean: bock. Bavaria’s seasonal beer of Lent. Brewed dark, malty and strong to sustain fasting 17th-century monks, bock beer’s annual appearance on the shelves stemmed from a longstanding historic tradition.

These days? “Spring beer” means anything a crafty copywriter can come up with, which is to say it means absolutely nothing.

It could be Blue Point Spring Fling, a copper-colored ale whose “special German barley and the zesty spice of fresh American hops . . . creates a harbinger of the new season.”

Or it could be Shiner Dortmunder Style Spring Ale, a lager whose “smooth, well-rounded flavor [is] the perfect fit for any springtime activity.”

Or it’s the new Blue Moon Spring Blonde Wheat Ale, whose press release quotes the brewer: “We definitely had spring fever when we were brewing Blue Moon Spring Blonde Wheat Ale, and I like to say it’s like a splash of sunshine in your glass.”

Otter Creek Spring Ale is a delicate German-style Kölsch. Red Hook Mudslinger Spring Ale is a nut brown ale. Peak Organic Simcoe Spring is an exceptionally hoppy pale ale whose hops, the brewery’s promo says, “really pop, like flora in the spring.”

Last year, Pyramid Brewing announced it was “gearing up to leap from the winter chill” with Fling Pale Ale, a light-bodied, moderate-strength (5.2 percent alcohol by volume) pale ale. Fling must not have had enough zing, because this year Pyramid announced it would “ignite the season with a bang” with Outburst IPA, a strong (8.5 percent alcohol) imperial India pale ale.

I credit/blame Boston Beer for this nonsense. Years ago, the company realized that by adding seasonal beers to its rotation, it doubled its tap handles in many of its accounts. Every three months, you’ll see a different Samuel Adams seasonal pairing up with its reliable flagship Boston Lager.

While Summer Ale, Oktoberfest and Winter Lager were all big hits, Sam Adams never could seem to figure out the vernal equinox. Over the years it’s tried Spring Ale (a Kölsch), White Ale (a Belgian witbier) and, now, Noble Pils (a hoppy pilsner), which somehow “reminds hibernating beer lovers that spring is just around the corner.”

Maybe that evolution explains the schizophrenia the rest of the beer world suffers each spring. Or maybe it’s climate change. Either way, you can’t tell from the label if the word “spring” means you’ll be shaking off winter’s chills with a bracing malt bomb or welcoming summer with a crisp hops refresher.

The only solution? Try ’em all.

Here’s a sixpack of other noteworthy spring beers:

1. Magic Hat Demo: Part of its Spring Fever Mix (packaged with Vinyl Amber Lager, Circus Boy Hefewizen and #9), it’s a black IPA that is the best new Magic Hat brand I’ve tasted in the last three years. The bitterness of its dark-roasted malts complements its Goldings hops.
2. Lost Abbey Carnevale: Named for the pre-Lent festival, it’s a dry-hopped saison with a touch of citrus and a bit of funky yeast.
3. Lancaster Rumspringa Golden Bock: Available in cans, it’s a golden bock that takes its name from the period when Amish adolescents let loose before deciding to join the church.
4. Southampton Biere de Mars: Think of this farmhouse ale as the French/Belgian version of bock. Amber and malty, yet entirely refreshing.
5. Equinoxe du Printemps: From Canada’s Dieu du Ciel, it’s a Scotch ale (9.5 percent alcohol) made with maple syrup. Thick, sweet and boozy.
6. Sierra Nevada Glissade: A rare lager from the California micro, it’s a pleasantly malty golden bock with just a touch of fruit in the nose.

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ST. PATRICK’S DAY is upon us, and you’re going to hear a lot of people insist that if you really want to be Irish for a day, you’ve got to drink black-as-ink stout. Either that, or green-dyed beer.

Here’s another color for you to consider on this holy day of beer drinking: red, as in Irish red ale.

Hundreds of years before Arthur Guinness made his famous stout, Ireland was famous for its red ale. Poets rhapsodized about its strength and character. Believers told the tale of Conn of the Hundred Battles who, 2,000 years ago, learned the names of those who would succeed him on the throne from a beautiful, dreamlike maiden who served him ladlefuls of ale as red as blood.

These days, unfortunately, beer freaks often skip past Irish red ale because it’s faded into a style without any distinctive edges.

It is neither hoppy nor particularly malty. It is satisfying, not provocative. The official Beer Judge Certification Program style guidelines offer yawn-inducing descriptors like “moderate caramel flavor,” “light grain flavor,” “medium bitterness” and “easy-drinking.” Another guide unhelpfully describes Irish red ale as “an Irish ale noted for its reddish color.”

“It’s innocuous, not super hoppy or roasty,” said Kevin Reed, director of brewing operations for the Rock Bottom brewpub chain. “It’s comfort beer.”

At its worst, Irish-style red ale, to steal a phrase from a certain madcap celebrity, is as dull as a droopy-eyed, armless child.

Jaime Jurado, director of brewing operations at the Texas-based Gambrinus Co. (Shiner beers), said that more often than not Irish red ale “may well be some brewer’s imaginings of what an Irish beer should be like.”

In an article he wrote for Brewer International magazine, Jurado noted that the style’s guidelines are so undefined that almost any amber-colored ale – from Grolsch Amber Ale to Bass – might qualify as an Irish red.

The difficulty of getting a handle on this variety stems mainly from widely distributed and advertised George Killian’s Irish Red. Ostensibly based on the 19th-century original from Enniscorthy, Ireland, today’s Killian’s is as ordinary as toasted Wonder Bread. No wonder: Killian’s – brewed in Golden, Colo., by Coors – is neither Irish nor ale. (Though, for the record, it is somewhat red.)

The problem is that the so-called authentic originals from Ireland aren’t much better.

Smithwick’s, Murphy’s Irish Red and Caffrey’s Irish Ale all hint at malty goodness and – when served on a nitro tap – offer a creamy body. But after two or three uneventful swallows, you’re ready to nod off. Even O’Hara’s Irish Red, from Ireland’s estimable Carlow Brewing, is a watery snoozer.

Once again, it’s the Americans who’ve taken a tired Old World style and given it new life.

Some of the domestics are classically comfortable: Brian Boru Old Irish Red from Three Floyds Brewing (Indiana) and Great Lakes Conway’s Irish Ale (Cleveland) are outstanding, though hard to find. Easier to locate is Sam Adams Irish Red, perhaps the single-finest style crafted by Boston Beer. Gentle and subtle, with a solid, utterly satisfying body, it is impossible to drink without saying, “Let’s crack open another.”

Meanwhile, other American microbrewers are jolting this subtle style with the hops equivalent of electroshock therapy. Their creation, known as Imperial Red, is super malty and overly hopped. Look for Lagunitas Lucky 13 Mondo Large Red Ale (California), Terrapin Big Hoppy Monster (Georgia) and the new Flying Fish Exit 9 Hoppy Scarlet Ale (Cherry Hill, N.J.).

Bland? Hell no. These are red ales that are fit for Conn of the Hundred Battles . . . or maybe even Charlie Sheen.

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WHEN IN Scotland, don’t ask what’s in the haggis, don’t ask what’s underneath the kilts and, for god’s sake, don’t ask for a Scotch ale.

You’re going to get a strange look from the bartender and then . . . who knows? He might pour you anything from Belhaven 60 Shilling, which at 3 percent alcohol is light-bodied and amber, to Dark Island, which at 10 percent alcohol will have you thinking barleywine.

Scotch ale in Scotland? It’s like asking for a quarter-pounder in France.

It’s only when you leave the country that Scotch ale is singularly defined as a comfortably numbing, strong, dark malt bomb. McEwan’s, Orkney, Traquair House, MacAndrew’s – these are the rich, malty brews that we’re after when we order a Scotch ale, a bracing sip for the cold months ahead. It’ll have you pulling on a tartan sweater and quoting Robbie Burns:

The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;

And aye the ale was growing better.

Strong enough to shake off the chills of a misty bog – that is Scotch ale.

The country’s other, lighter beers are carefully (if not ridiculously) distinguished as “Scottish” ale. More precisely, those ales – malty but less filling – are labeled as 60-, 70-, and 80-shilling ales, denoting the strength and the price one paid long ago.

But it is the prototypically strong, hearty Scotch ale that

we’re thirsting for here, what has become known, no less confusingly, as Wee Heavy. (The name originates from a heavy beer once made by the old Fowler’s brewery outside of Edinburgh and served in a wee bottle.)

Poured into a thistle glass, the malt aroma of a classic Scotch ale rises in an earthy, perhaps smoky haze of sweetness. It possesses a clean, caramel character, the product of a long, cool fermentation and the near-absence of hops. The alcohol might climb to 8 percent or more, but you won’t notice till the warmth reaches your toes.

This is the flavor and character that American craft brewers, like Founders, Arcadia and Sam Adams, had in mind when they brewed their own versions of Scotch ale.

It’s no misplaced stereotype, either, for this is the style that Scotland chose to export to the rest of the world so long ago.

After World War I, it was McEwan’s heavy ale that found its way to Belgium, creating a loyal fan base that lives today. (Did you know, by the way, that Duvel – Belgium’s outstanding, strong golden ale – purportedly took its original yeast from a bottle of McEwan’s?)

Before that, it was strong, dark Scottish ales that Londoners savored as medicinal bracers. In a memorable passage from a medical journal in the 1850s, a physician reported that one of his patients survived for 15 years on nothing more than a daily teaspoon of cod’s liver oil and this beloved ale. The doctor reported that “[h]e slept well, and suffered but comparatively little.”

Surely, the great 19th-century French chef and food historian Alexis Soyer had enjoyed a glass or three when he wrote, “Scotch ale is a seductive drink, and as perfidious as pleasure: it bewilders the senses and finally masters the reason.”

Seductive and perfidious. The same goes for haggis – and kilts.

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Here’s a sixpack of Scotch ales to take the chill off this winter:

1. Traquair House Ale: Sherry-like; from Scotland.
2. Orkney Skull Splitter: Sweet and fruity; from Scotland.
3. Oskar Blues Old Chub: In a can; from Colorado.
4. Scotch Silly: A bit of hazelnut flavor; from Belgium.
5. Founders Backwoods Bastard: Bourbon-barrel aged; from Michigan.
6. Duck-Rabbit Wee Heavy: Nothing could be finer; from North Carolina.

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OUT WITH the old, and in with the new – it’s time for some new beer in the new year. Here are two for 2011.

A national survey for Samuel Adams beers claims that more than 60 percent of men prefer to toast with beer versus champagne, if given the choice. I think it would have been 100 percent if guys knew they’d get to pop the cork.

Which is exactly what they get to do with Infinium, a fascinating new collaboration between the youngish (25 years young) Sam Adams and Germany’s decidedly old Weihenstephan Brewery, founded by Benedictine monks in 1040.

Light, bubbly, dry and – at 10.3 percent alcohol – twice the strength of typical beer, it’s an ideal replacement this holiday season for boring, old Château du Snooty Champagne.

The beer is brewed under the strict confines of the Reinheitsgebot, the 500-year Bavarian beer-purity law that permits the use of only water, malt, hops and yeast. While that law protects us from the menace of corn and rice used by industrial breweries, it has also stunted the kind of beer innovation that has been the hallmark of America’s young craft-beer industry.

Infinium shows what a brewer can achieve with one hand tied behind his back. Typically, it takes additional enzymes and sugar – ingredients that one Sam Adams brewer called “verboten (forbidden) in Bavaria” – to boost alcohol into double digits. The two breweries instead used multiple yeast additions and unique malt varieties to push the beer, as Boston Beer’s Jim Koch said, “into the realm of fine champagne. ”

Actually, that doesn’t give Infinium enough credit. Its solid malt body gives this glass more complexity than sparkling wine and – at about $20 for a 750ml bottle – a better pop for the dollar.

At first, I thought 21st Amendment Brewery in San Francisco had picked a warming, upbeat name for what I believe is the world’s first canned Christmas microbrew.

Fireside Chat, is labeled with the image of a smiling, cigarette-puffing Franklin Roosevelt seated by a roaring fireplace, apparently in deep conversation with a green-costumed elf. Its “retro style,” the brewery news release says, “is familiar and inviting and conjures up Norman Rockwell images of American families gathering around a big boxy radio or the fireplace . . . Fireside Chat will brighten the faces of those who enjoy it, near the hearth or at the table. ”

Cheerful and fun, right?

Then I read FDR’s “fireside chat” from Dec. 24, 1943.

It was the only one of Roosevelt’s many radio addresses that specifically marked the Christmas season. While the message was of hope, the words were of “international gangsterism and brutal aggression,” of “tragic times” and of the “cheerful idiots” who opposed the war – a war, he acknowledged, that had no end in sight.

“We have said, ‘Merry Christmas – Happy New Year,’ ” Roosevelt told his audience amid World War II, “but we have known in our hearts that the clouds which have hung over our world have prevented us from saying it with full sincerity and conviction. ”

It was straight talk, “a kick in the butt and a hug at the same time,” according to 21st Amendment. Frankly, if I had been around to listen to it 67 years ago, it would have taken a full sixpack of Fireside Chat to shake off the chills.

At 7.5 percent alcohol, it’s a sturdy, bracing winter warmer. Make sure you pour it into a glass, though; guzzle it straight from the can, and you’ll miss the tart mix of spices and cocoa nibs.

By the way, I’m not serious about tossing out all of the old stuff.

One of the winter season’s most venerable brews – Anchor Our Special Ale – seems to have had new life breathed into its bottles this year. The recipe for America’s original craft Christmas beer, brewed since 1975, famously changes every year with the addition of various spices. In the past few years it seemed to have fallen into a bit of a hoppy, overly bitter rut.

This season, the aroma of spices – notably cinnamon – explode, and its full body fills the palate with a malty, distinctively plumlike flavor.

And you have to love the label, cheerfully offering the California brewery’s traditional greeting, “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. “