Why Sour Beer Isn’t Vinegar (And How To Drink It Without Hating Yourself)

Had a sour beer that made you pull a face like you’d licked a battery? That’s not what good sour actually tastes like, and I’m going to explain why that matters more than you’d think.

Last month, I watched my mate Dave try his first “sour beer.” He’d ordered it by accident, thinking ‘Berliner Weisse’ was just German for wheat beer. The face he pulled when it hit his tongue was like watching someone discover their tea’s been made with salt water.

“This is off,” he said, pushing the glass away like it might attack him. “Tastes like vinegar.”

Thing is, it wasn’t off. It was just shit. There’s a difference, and that difference is why sour beer is either the best thing to happen to British brewing since someone figured out how to hop properly, or a pretentious nightmare depending on who you ask.

What Sour Beer Actually Is (And Isn’t)

Let’s get one thing straight: sour beer isn’t “beer that’s gone bad.” It’s not what happens when you leave a pint out overnight. It’s an entirely deliberate process that’s been around longer than your nan’s nan’s nan.

Real sour beer is to vinegar what aged cheese is to gone-off milk. Related? Sure. Same thing? Absolutely not.

The sourness comes from specific bacteria and wild yeasts that brewers either carefully cultivate or desperately try to avoid, depending on what they’re making. Lactobacillus, Pediococcus, Brettanomyces… sounds like a Harry Potter spell but it’s actually the holy trinity of sour brewing.

The Sour Family Tree (Or: Not All Pucker Is Created Equal)

“Sour beer” isn’t one thing. It’s like saying “dog”… could mean anything from a Chihuahua to a Great Dane. Let me break down the main players:

The Gateway: Berliner Weisse & Gose

Berliner Weisse is the gateway drug. Light, refreshing, usually around 3-4% ABV. Should taste like lemony sherbet, not battery acid. Germans traditionally serve it with raspberry or woodruff syrup, which is either sacrilege or genius depending on your perspective.

Gose (pronounced “Goes-uh” not “Goose”, you’re welcome) is salty, coriander-y, usually citrusy. Like a Berliner Weisse that went to university and came back interesting. The salt should be subtle.. think sea breeze, not crisp packet.

The Modern Hype: Pastry & Smoothie Sours

This is the new school. Brewers like Vault City in Edinburgh are making beers that taste like literal desserts. Think “Raspberry Ripple,” “Iron Brew,” or “Strawberry Sundae.” They’re thick, sweet-tart, and basically alcoholic smoothies.

Can range from subtle fruit additions to what basically amounts to boozy milkshakes. Your girlfriend who “doesn’t like beer” probably likes these. And you know what? That’s brilliant. Gateway drugs work.

The Grandaddy: Lambic & Wild Ales

Proper lambic is spontaneously fermented with wild Belgian yeasts and aged in barrels for years. Should taste like funk, fruit, and farmhouse had a beautiful baby. Complex, challenging, and expensive. If someone’s charging you £25 for a bottle, it’s probably lambic.

Kettle Sours: The Fast Fashion Option

The quick version. Made using kettle souring techniques in days rather than years. Can be excellent or terrible, usually lands somewhere in the middle. This is what most UK breweries are making when they do sours, and there’s a reason for that.

How the Magic (And Money) Happens

Traditional sour beers take months or years to make. You’re basically encouraging controlled spoilage, like making cheese or salami but with more anxiety. Belgian lambic producers literally leave their beer open to the night air to catch wild yeasts floating about. It’s either romantic or mental, possibly both.

These beers tie up tank space for months. Barrel-aging requires.. well, barrels, which cost money and take up space. Wild fermentation is unpredictable.. sometimes you make liquid gold, sometimes you make drain cleaner.

Modern brewers, being impatient and having rent to pay, developed kettle souring. Add lactobacillus to the wort, keep it warm for a day or two until it’s sour enough, then boil to kill the bacteria and ferment normally. It’s like sourdough bread but faster and gets you drunk.

Two days instead of two years. Same premium pricing, fraction of the investment. Every brewery accountant’s dream. Which is why everyone’s making them now, with wildly variable results.

The problem? Rush it or use the wrong bacteria, and you get that harsh, one-dimensional vinegar flavour that made Dave think his beer was off. It’s the difference between a symphony and someone playing one note really loud on a kazoo.

How to Actually Drink It (Without Ruining It)

If you drink a complex sour straight from the fridge in a standard pint glass, you’re wasting your money. Here’s what actually matters:

The Vessel

Put the pint glass away. You need a tulip glass or a large wine glass. The shape traps the volatile aromas (fruit, funk, oak) and funnels them to your nose. Drinking lambic from a straight glass is like watching an IMAX movie on your phone.

The Goldilocks Temperature

Fridge cold (4°C) is too cold. Numbs the tongue. All you’ll taste is acid.

Room temp is too warm. The “funk” can smell like a sweaty gym sock.

The sweet spot is 8-12°C. Take it out of the fridge 15 minutes before you open it.

Pair It Like a Pro

We’ve finally figured out that beer pairs with food beyond “pie and a pint.” Sours are the ultimate food beer:

• Fatty food: The acidity cuts through grease like a knife. Pair a gose with fish and chips.
• Funky cheese: Drink a gueuze with stinky blue cheese or goat cheese. The funk matches the funk.
• Dessert: A fruit sour with cheesecake is a game changer.

Why Britain’s Gone Sour (In a Good Way)

Five years ago, finding a sour beer in a British pub was like finding a vegetarian at a butcher’s convention. Now they’re everywhere. What happened?

• Climate: We’re drinking more in summer now (cheers, global warming). Sour beers are refreshing in heat in a way that a 6% IPA isn’t.
• Food Culture: We’ve finally figured out that beer can pair with food. Sours work brilliantly with seafood, salads, cheese.
• The Instagram Effect: Fruited sours photograph well. Shallow? Yes. Effective? Also yes. That fluorescent pink raspberry sour gets more likes than your brown bitter.
• Palate Evolution: We’ve trained ourselves on increasingly hoppy IPAs. Sour is the next frontier for people who want their taste buds assaulted in new ways.

Your Buying Guide: Budget to Blowout

Don’t start with the most expensive bottle in the shop. Work your way up.

Avoid anything with “Imperial”, “Barrel-Aged”, or “Wild” in the name until you know what you’re doing. That’s like starting your drinking career with cask-strength whisky.

The Cultural Problem (And Why It Matters)

Sour beer has an image problem. It’s seen as pretentious, hipster, the domain of people who unironically use the word “mouthfeel.” This is partly deserved.. I’ve been to sour beer events that felt like wine tastings where everyone forgot to bring the wine knowledge.

But good sour beer isn’t pretentious. It’s democratic. It brings non-beer drinkers into the fold. Your wine-drinking aunt might hate IPA but love a nice lambic. That mate who only drinks G&T might get into gose.

The Bottom Line: The Redemption of Dave

Remember Dave? The one who looked like he’d licked a battery?

I didn’t give up on him. Last week, I handed him a can of Vault City’s Strawberry Sundae. It wasn’t “wild” or “funky.” It was thick, red, and smelled like jam.

He looked at it suspiciously. He took a sip. He waited for the vinegar hit.. but it never came.

“It’s.. like a boozy smoothie,” he said, looking confused but happy. “I could actually drink this.”

He finished the can. Then he ordered another.

We’re still working on the lambic. But for now, the battery-licking face is gone.

And in a world of £9.50 pints and boring lagers, that’s a victory worth celebrating.

Cheers.