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The brewer releases a new version of its Utopias brand every two years, and the twelfth edition will be on shelves starting Oct. So he stole a page from the corporate giants and devised a brilliant advertising plan—one that would soon place him in the pantheon of all-time marketing geniuses.
He called his beer Samuel Adams—not that Koch, an Ohioan, had any special connection to the founding father. He picked the name from a list of nearly possibilities, deciding to swaddle his brand in the nostalgia and history of Boston by capitalizing on the name of a revolutionary who fought for American independence.
Tying his beer to a historical figure created an immediate sense of heritage, giving the brand instant authenticity and gravitas. Adams was actually a maltster, not a brewer—a fact embraced by biographers of Adams and beer geeks alike.
Koch, however, maintains Adams may have done some brewing on the side. In bars around the world, Boston and Boston Lager are inextricably linked. When Koch started the company, Boston had been without a brewery for 20 years. To make the economics work, he planned to produce his beer at existing breweries in cities such as Pittsburgh and Portland, Oregon, a strategy known as contract brewing.
Before Koch moved in, the brewery—owned by the Jamaica Plain Neighborhood Development Corporation—had gone unoccupied since Haffenreffer beer abandoned it in Though the J. More than , tourists visit every year. He immersed himself in the beer community, attending festivals and allowing customers to dunk him in beer tanks. He was also one of the first so-called microbrewers to advertise in magazines, on the radio, and, of course, on TV, where Koch—in his trademark blue denim button-down shirt—emerged as the ambassador and face of craft beer.
Koch released his flagship beer, Samuel Adams Boston Lager, in April in two dozen bars and restaurants. Within three years, however, Koch was making 36, barrels of beer, available from Massachusetts to California. Once a small-batch brewery, Boston Beer Company is now the fifth-largest brewery in the nation. He gently slides the two glasses of hoppy ale over to me and begins his process: First, he reaches for the Rebel IPA, leans in, and takes a long, considered draw of the aroma.
Next, he takes a solid tug from the glass, chews thoroughly, and then kicks his head back to finish the beer. His eyes remain closed the whole time. For more than a generation, Koch steered clear of craft-beer trends—particularly West Coast IPA, a widely popular style defined by the use of pungently fragrant and bitter American hops.
The American beer palate is experiencing a tectonic shift. Once opposed to bitterness, domestic drinkers now embrace it. Big, bold, and brash IPAs are what consumers want, but Koch has been loath to make them. They want to know what farmer grew which type of hop on what farm, and whether the brewery can be trusted.
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