Trappist Beer’s Surprising Italian History
By Eric Millman
Westvleteren XII’s reputation as one of the best—and, given its scarcity, frequently most expensive—beers in the world has failed to budge its modest production of around 3,800 barrels, dating back to 1945. Photo by Bertrand Borie on Unsplash.
St. Benedict of Nursia is often cited as both the “father” of Western Christian monasticism and, despite all the austerity there involved, that of Trappist beer. Though it might seem difficult to reconcile these two worlds, one marked by restraint, the other indulgence, one need only look to the saint’s most devoted followers to trace this storied tradition, one that is continued to this day, if at times under different names.
Italy has long been known as a center of wine production, with beer reserved for northern foes. Since ancient times, when it comes to drinking, Romans have valued grape over grain to the extent that drinkers of the latter were viewed as somehow inferior. In The Barbarian’s Beverage, author Max Nelson notes that Pliny the Elder and Vitruvius, in particular, went so far as to link drink to provenance. Leveraging geography to disparage their rivals, the authors claimed that the cold, grain-fermenting regions produced “tall, light-skinned, and savage” drinkers, while the darker-skinned people in wine-producing areas were naturally “well-mannered, intelligent, and natural rulers.” Suffice it to say, in central and southern Europe, beer consumption was scant. Beyond the walls of Benedictine monasteries, that is.
It was in the 6th century at the Abbey of Montecassino, some 90 miles south of Rome, that St. Benedict of Nursia drafted the Rule of Benedict, effectively a manual for monastic living. This book of commandments was defined by ora et labora—prayer and work—where discipline and autonomy were central in pursuit of piety. With no place for indulgence, monastic food served as nourishment alone, focusing mostly on a maximum of two vegetarian meals per day, always with an eye on economy. In the words of the saint himself, “there is nothing so opposed to the Christian character as over-indulgence.”
St. Benedict was a touch more liberal when it came to booze, however, particularly after a sweltering day when he believed a weak-kneed worker should be entitled to a nip of wine. Given wine’s relative strength, the saint acknowledges that this was “by no means a drink for monastics,” making clear that those who drank to drunkenness were effectively sinful, while those who abstained entirely had the Lord waiting for them with a “special reward.”
It’s also worth noting that at no time in his Rule does St. Benedict mention beer. Thankfully, a certain French Benedict would come along some two centuries later to rectify this.
In 816, two years after the death of Charlemagne, a council met in Germany to see to his goal of unifying all Christian monasteries. Benedict of Aniane, a lifelong proponent of Benedict’s Rule, successfully steered the council toward his namesake’s values, though not without some compromise. From Ireland, the Rule of St. Columbanus was combined with that of St. Benedict, reflecting the former missionary’s affinity for beer. Updated thusly, the universal law afforded Christian monks either one hemina (273mL) of wine or two of beer.
The new law, called the Concordia Regularum, was difficult to enforce, and several monasteries would break off when they believed their brothers were growing too lax with St. Benedict’s precepts. By 1098, the subsequently named Cistercian monks tightened the restrictions by opening Cîteaux Abbey near Dijon, France. Later, in 1664, another group of contemplatives founded the Trappist order at La Trappe Abbey in Northern France, leaning heavily into the Benedictine belief of ora et labora.
With an eye on self-sustenance, such monasteries have long sold home-grown products to passing pilgrims while consuming the remainder or donating it to the poor. At a time when water was often unsanitary and food was scarce, beer was not merely sinful, but potentially healthy and profitable as well. Without antiseptic impact of hops, or lab-stable yeast, monks turned to their own gardens to aid or retard fermentation with gruit, herbal and floral blends of anything from heather to horsehound. Where strong beer was preferable to paying travelers, the monks might’ve also brewed batches of their own “small” beer with leftover or less-desirable ingredients. Counter to how we might define Abbey beer today, “small” beer was thick, nutritious, and low enough in alcohol to where the brothers could throw a few back and still maintain their sobriety. In turn, the great variety of beer produced in accordance to need suggests a remarkable mastery of the brewing process maintained throughout the so-called “Dark Ages” and beyond.
During the 18th century, however, the anticlerical sentiment of the French Revolution found many monasteries, from La Trappe to Montecassino, sacked and shuttered. It wasn’t until well into the next century that the surviving monks could return to reclaim their long-held traditions. Over time, particularly in the aftermath of World War II, the Trappists became synonymous with brewing excellence throughout the world, and the concept of a “Trappist beer” became financially viable even for breweries who didn’t feel quite so called to do the lord’s work.
The young country of Belgium, in particular, was a proving ground for such conflicting interests. When the secular superiors of Veltem Brewery began selling a beer called “VeltemTrappist” in 1960, the Abbey of Orval stepped in and filed suit, hoping to protect the values behind the name. By 1962, a ruling from the Belgian Trade and Commerce court established what could or could not be called a “Trappist” beer, and only eight breweries–six of which were Belgian at this point–fit the bill. By 1998, those breweries would form the International Trappist Association (ITA), trademarking the term and enforcing the values of the monks behind it.
Crucially, it’s not any particular flavor profile that defines a Trappist beer, but the circumstances surrounding its production. Beers that boast the Authentic Trappist Product (ATP) label can range from the golden Westmalle Tripel, with its notes of banana and spice, to the deep, mythological richness of the Westvleteren XII. The latter’s reputation as one of the best—and, given its scarcity, frequently most expensive—beers in the world has failed to budge its modest production of around 3,800 barrels, dating back to 1945.
Quite simply, to qualify for the ATP, Trappist beers must be produced within the monastery’s walls under the oversight of Trappist monks, in service to their spiritual calling, without a profit motive. Those failing to meet any or all of these requirements may be called an “Abbey” beer, but they will not enjoy the protections of the ITA.
In 1960, the Abbey of Orval, pictured here, stepped in and filed suit, hoping to protect the values behind the Trappist name. Vivedatica at Dutch Wikipedia, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Today, only 14 monasteries qualify for this designation worldwide. That’s not to say that only Trappist breweries are reflective of St. Benedict’s teachings, just that a beer that may seem to carry the name of a monastery on its label may not be affiliated with monks at all.
For example, Saint-Feuillien, whose abbey was destroyed in 1796, obviously maintains no connection. Anheuser-Busch InBev’s Leffe, whose production within the Abbey of Notre-Dame de Leffe ceased in 1809, has nevertheless been paying royalties to those monks since 1952. Birra Montecassino, marketed as the “child of a centuries-old tradition,” was “reborn” in 2018 at the foot of St. Benedict’s abbey, and is brewed under the guidance of not monks, but the Asahi-owned Peroni Brewery.
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As for the lone brewery in St. Benedict’s birthplace, well, things are a bit more complicated.
In 2012, a collective of predominantly American monks began brewing operations in the Norcia monastery they had revived 12 years prior. Here, they focus their efforts on two unabashedly Belgian recipes: the mildly hopped, golden Bionda and a mahogany-colored, muscular Extra. Each of these is brewed with the traditional top-fermentation process common among Abbey-style ales: under relatively warm conditions, a special strain of yeast called Saccharomyces cerevisiae rises to the top of the wort, resulting in a more fruity, pronounced flavor (notably, bottom-fermentation, the cold-brew process that produces lagers, was long believed to be invented by monks as well, though this claim is now somewhat dubious).
Brewed by Benedictines, Birra Nursia may not enjoy the protection or publicity afforded to its Trappist counterparts, but its role within the monastic community similarly tracks with the word of their saintly predecessor. Due to tragic circumstances, it’s a role that’s taken on increased import of late.
In 2016, central Italy was devastated by a catastrophic earthquake, resulting in the loss of 299 lives. Norcia was all but leveled; the monastery and all brewing operations therein were no more. Forced to live in tents beyond the city walls, the monks shifted their operations to a neighboring industrial brewery. Italy, for all its excellence in wine production, still remains behind other countries in the production of commercial hops and barley, so where these might be sourced from Belgium now, they hope to utilize local ingredients as they become more readily available. As they build a new monastery in the Sibillini Mountains above Norcia, however, any plans to resume brewing onsite are distant at best.
“God wants the future to be unclear,” says master brewer Dom Augustine Wilmeth. Ordained in Norcia but hailing from South Carolina, where he first honed his craft homebrewing with his father, Wilmeth reflects on the ordeal with the grace of, well, a monk. Brewing outside of the monastery might not align with the values of the ITA, but he stresses that for the Benedictines of Norcia, it’s ideal: Foregoing the administrative minutiae of running a brewery outright affords them more time to focus on brewing and prayer. Ora et labora.
Of course, maintaining a high standard of quality remains important for customers, whom he hopes will find some communion in each glass, but also for the monks themselves. In the spirit of their forebear, the monks consume their beer thoughtfully, reserving it only for special occasions. Moderation, Wilmeth reminds, only stands to make a great beer taste that much better.
The true inheritors of St. Benedict’s writings don’t brew out of some ancient, prescribed love of hop and barley, let alone as a means of getting rich. Their beers are neither endemic to the saint’s hometown, nor do they have anything in common with what Benedict and his peers actually drank. Nevertheless, with a quick look behind the label, beer lovers can take comfort in knowing that every purchase of a true monastic beer, Trappist or otherwise, sustains a lifestyle that remains effectively unchanged after 1,500 years. As this tradition finds itself taking hold even in Norcia, one can’t help but marvel at the unlikely legacy of the man who inspired it all.
