Spring blossoms, autumn bears fruit; with time comes a lasting aroma. This is a principle that guides my life. I am a grain of malt. Not long ago, I was still a grain of barley. Through a carefully guided journey in the malt house, I have undergone subtle yet meaningful transformations — barely noticeable, yet real.
Now, I am about to embark on another remarkable journey — transforming into a beer crafted for enjoyment.
“Arrival notice: The next stop is the Malt Milling Workshop.”
I could hardly wait to spill out of the bag, moving eagerly toward the entrance of the mill. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a small stray iron nail nearby. No one knew when it had found its way among us, but it was clear that it couldn’t go further. An uneasy thought crossed my mind: if it entered the mill, it could damage the rollers and bring the milling process to a halt, perhaps even forcing the brewery to shut down for repairs. Even a slight scratch on the inlet would leave the malt grains behind—my fellow companions—unable to be properly crushed. Either way, the outcome would be far from ideal.
I watched it all unfold, unable to do anything. Time ticked by, and my heart rose to my throat. Just as it was about to reach the roller zone, a sudden, powerful suction pulled the small iron nail away from me and my fellow grains, as if by an invisible hand. What a relief! The magnetic guard, simply a piece of magnet, pulled it away forcefully through its passive magnetic attraction.
I then passed calmly through the gate. After milling, my husk remained largely intact, while my endosperm had been broken apart — exactly as it should be. I was satisfied. Now, I wait to enter the next stage of the process—Mashing.
I was poured into the mash tun, with more of my companions tumbling in from above. Warm steam filled the air around us. Soon, the rakes began to turn slowly, gently stirring us and allowing the water to fully combine with us. It was time to unleash a souvenir from my malt house journey: enzymes. Under their catalysis, starch was gradually converted into maltose. You might be tempted to call me “Wort,” but I am not quite there yet. For now, “Mash” feels more accurate. It is time to shed my outer layer — the malt husk.
I was pumped from the mash tun into the lauter tun — the place where I would finally become true “wort”.
I quietly entered from the lower part of the lauter tun. From this moment on, oxygen would be my lifelong adversary. Perhaps fate will have us collide at some distant crossroads, but not now — for now, caution and restraint are essential. Above me, the rakes traced elegant circles, gently and slowly smoothing every fold of the grain bed. I pay them my respect.
Becoming “wort” would not be easy. I had to be ready. I am calming my restless thoughts.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
As the support beneath me suddenly gave way, a sense of weightlessness washed over me, and I flowed downward uncontrollably. My husk was left on the sieve plate, while my companions and I slowly percolated through the false bottom. At that moment, I noticed that some of my companions’ husks had accidentally followed me down—thankfully, only a few. I picked them up casually, and at the junction leading either to the kettle or back to the lauter tun, I explained the situation to the guard. Thus, I was granted permission for another round of filtration. This time, I placed them right at the top and reminded them gently, “Don’t be naughty anymore. Stay here—you have another place to go later.”
At this point, I noticed that as more and more of us moved on, the outer husks of discarded malt began to pile up, gradually restricting the flow below. Once again, the rakes sprang into action, clearing a path downward and restoring smooth passage.
As the liquid level continued to fall, many of my friends were still trapped in the corners, unable to make their way out. Then an announcement came over the system: sparging was about to begin — please prepare.
That would be great! Help had arrived.
Hot water flowed gently from above, freeing me and the others at last. I gave a small wave to our outer husks left, exchanging wishes for the future ahead.
At last, I arrived at the kettle. Companions from whom I had been separated moments earlier rushed in to embrace me — they were wonderfully warm. “It’s so good to see you again. Come, warm yourself.” Only then did I realize that while I was still finding my way out of the lauter tun, they had already been preheated. How perfect. As their warmth passed on to me, I could feel myself drawing closer to a boil.
Before long, I bubbled with excitement — and this was no metaphor. I was truly boiling.
Never had I felt so full of energy. I cheered with delight, and the impurities I had carried since birth finally parted from me. Some rose as light vapors, drifting away with the steam toward the chimney; others solidified into snow-like particles.
The hops arrived at just the right moment. Aroma spread through the air, and soon the entire brewery was immersed in fragrance.
Within this rolling, scalding current, I felt myself grow less light than before. High heat slowly drove off the water, leaving me increasingly refined, increasingly pure.
After the boil was complete, I was sent into the whirlpool tank. I entered tangentially along the wall, and for a moment the world spun around me. Soon, however, I adapted to the vortex and began to surf the currents.
Insoluble proteins and hop debris formed during the boil — commonly called hot break — were gradually pushed toward the center of the tank by centrifugal and gravitational forces, slowly gathering together.
As the whirlpool settled, the hot break had come to rest, and, according to plan, we quietly left through outlets at different levels.
I passed through a filter along the way, which reassured me — I knew it was there to prevent any mischievous, pretending-to-sleep particles from sneaking back in.
After the whirlpool process finished, I was quickly sent to the cooling stage, where a gleaming plate heat exchanger awaited. It was like a crisscrossing yet well-organized two-way express lane made of thin stainless-steel plates. I threaded my way through the narrow channels, while cold water flowing on the other side carried away my heat. The drop in temperature calmed me; the aroma was locked in, and the sweetness and hop fragrance became more balanced.
Yet fate had its bindings. I could not avoid confronting that love-hate companion — oxygen. Like a never-ending dramatic rerun, I was destined to walk alongside it under the guidance of Mr. Venturi.
I felt ready to move on to the next stage — Fermentation.
Soon, I was transferred to my new home, the fermenter, where I knew I would be staying for a while.
In the first moments inside the tank, the yeast added acted like a group of playful little sprites, devouring the sugars within me and consuming every last bit of Mr. Oxygen. Like the Monkey King Sun Wukong, They began to multiply frenetically. When the last oxygen molecule was gone, I realized I would never see Mr. Oxygen again.
Without oxygen, the yeast continued consuming the sugars, but instead of multiplying, they produced alcohol and carbon dioxide. For the first time, I truly felt that I was no longer just wort — I was becoming “Beer”.
The fermenter’s sealed, pressure-resistant design prevents the carbon dioxide produced during fermentation from escaping freely, allowing it to accumulate inside the tank. This increases internal pressure, helping more gas dissolve into the liquid and giving my bubbles a richer mouthfeel.
At the bottom of the fermenter, you can see the veteran yeast cells that toiled tirelessly in their prime, along with other proteins that fell off me due to the cold. Once a certain amount accumulates, people will remove it, keeping the environment inside the tank consistently healthy.
These diligent little fellows constantly caused the temperature inside the tank to rise. Fortunately, the cooling jacket surrounding the fermenter began to take effect, carrying away excess heat and keeping the temperature inside stable, so the yeast could continue fermenting under optimal conditions. After a long time, I gradually felt myself becoming more balanced, preparing for the next stage of maturation.
Fermentation completed, I was transferred to the brite beer tank, quietly awaiting the sculpting hand of time. I could feel the flavors slowly merging — the sweetness of the malt, the bitterness of the hops, the bite of the alcohol — all mellowed and harmonized, allowing me to achieve a smooth, balanced, and rounded profile.
Finally, I waited to be bottled, labeled, and sent off to tables around the world, ready to share my sweetness and aroma with everyone.
