“Corvina! Pulpo fresco! Ven aquí por tu pescado!” yells the fisherman. His cotton mariner’s cap, befitting a salty character, is spotlessly clean. The rest of him, including his overalls, is stained with blood.
Looking down, my girlfriend is jarred by the gore and scales stuck to the soles of her shoes. “This definitely is a working fish market!” I shout to her over the voices. We walk past rows of fishermen standing on the boardwalk, selling the freshest and most hearty-looking seafood I’ve ever seen.
Even for two adventurous food lovers, the scene is a sensory onslaught, one that makes our cravings for ceviche and a crisp Lager unbearable. We decide it’s time to head up the hill to downtown Valdivia. The seafood market has worked its magic. We need to eat.
As the 3 p.m. church bells ring, we enter Picamaderos, a small tavern specializing in mariscos and comfort food. People eat late in Chile, which means we are just in time for the lunch rush. To wash down our enormous mussels and clams, we order Kunstmann Lagers. The brightness of the beer cuts into the juicy molluscs and refreshes us from the brine. We leave the restaurant satiated and ready to wind down; we have been on the road across Chile for three days already, from Santiago to Valdivia, and need a rest.
In the evening, we set up a picnic on our host’s front lawn and crack open a couple Stouts from Cuello Negro, one of Chile’s best-known craft breweries. Our Airbnb host joins us after picking some juicy blackberries from her garden. Born and raised here in Valdivia, she chats to us about life in the city and her love of her hometown. “I know how much you two like the beer here in Chile. I brought you this,” she says and sets down a newspaper. In Spanish, the headline reads: “The region [Valdivia] will host the Beer of America Competition in 2022.”
Before we left on our maiden trip to Patagonia, our friends back in California could only talk about Chilean wine. A common piece of advice: “You have to try the Carménère from Casablanca Valley!” Nobody mentioned beer at all. But while researching the history of Patagonia, I stumbled upon stories about the region’s German settlers and their breweries. Even with limited ingredients and equipment, they strove to recreate the flavors and profiles of the beers they had left behind. That article stayed in my mind as the true scope of Chilean Patagonia’s beer scene came into view.
After long waits in queues and endless paperwork, we arrived in Santiago, Chile’s capital, in mid February. Over dinner with a friend, we cracked open a few beers from Cuello Negro. The Ale was subtle, with pronounced malt aromas; the Stout released notes of chocolate, roasted coffee, and fennel seeds as it settled. Both were rich, flavorful, and well-balanced.
“Where are these from?” I asked.
“Valdivia, Chile’s beer capital,” my friend replied. “Go there, man!”
Two weeks later, we packed a rental car with Patagonian essentials: hiking boots, headlamps, a surfboard, and several six-packs of that Stout, setting off towards Chile’s Lake District. After two days, we drove into Pucón, a small vacation destination at the base of the ominous Villarrica volcano and the deep glacial lake of the same name. Pucón is famous as a center for adventure sports, and hikers, whitewater rafters, and hoards of casual tourists crammed the town’s narrow sidewalks. Like the rest of the region, Pucón gestures towards Bavaria in its building facades, its cuisine, and the heavy steins people pass around at tables. It is most certainly not wine country.
“Tragically, that raw beauty comes at a cost: Chilean Patagonia all too often endures the most cataclysmic events the Ring of Fire can produce, including devastating earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and tsunamis. We cannot talk about Valdivia or its beer without also talking about its geological precariousness.”
After a few days of hiking, we were ready to discover Valdivia. We packed up early in the morning and drove two hours through tree-lined country roads towards Chile’s beer capital. Along the way, we stopped for mote con huesillo, a traditional summer snack: a sweet peach tea made with wheatberries and whole peaches. Throughout the Chilean backcountry, mote stands serve thirsty motorists, and occasionally unwelcome swarms of bees and hawks, too.
Valdivia sits atop a hill at the convergence of the Calle-Calle, Cruces, Angachilla, Tornegaleones, and Valdivia rivers. After their confluence, these wide waterways meet the mighty South Pacific some 10 miles away. Along the dramatic cliffs overlooking the Valdivian River estuary, the ruins of Spanish fortresses stand guard like ghosts in the fog, silent in the thunderous landscape.
For hundreds of miles, coastal mountains and lush temperate rainforests rise along the shoreline. The terrestrial wilderness is only eclipsed by the waves exploding over the reefs and black-sand beaches. The relentless power of the South Pacific produces enormous waves throughout the year—especially in winter. This is where Patagonia begins. Tragically, that raw beauty comes at a cost: Chilean Patagonia all too often endures the most cataclysmic events the Ring of Fire can produce, including devastating earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and tsunamis. We cannot talk about Valdivia or its beer without also talking about its geological precariousness.
Since the first waves of German immigrants began arriving to Valdivia in the late 19th century, beer has been as deeply ingrained in the area’s identity as fishing and logging. The newly arrived Carl August Wilhelm Paschen Anwandter Fick established Valdivia’s first brewery in 1851. Anwandter Brewery would grow from a small home establishment to Chile’s largest brewery, and would become known as Cerveceria de Valdivia. Around the turn of the 20th century, the brewery commanded a majority of the Chilean beer market, producing upwards of 20 million liters of beer a year, and expanded its sales operations throughout the country’s major cities and beyond. But that empire took its first major blow in 1912 when a fire ripped through the main brewing facility. The financial cost was insurmountable.
Around this time, an additional force in the Chilean beer industry emerged. The Compañía de las Cervecerías Unidas, or CCU, formed from the merger of several breweries and beverage companies in 1902. CCU began buying up smaller competitors, and soon commanded the bulk of the beer industry in Chile. In 1916, as the business was struggling to recover from the fire, the Anwandter family sold most of its shares to CCU. Under the giant’s control, the company continued producing volumes that approached its production levels before the 1912 fire. Its new equipment and facilities were state-of-the art for the time, helping cement Valdivia’s status as Chile’s beer capital. But it wasn’t meant to last.
“In 1960—shortly after television arrived in Chile, at a time when teenagers were dancing to La Orquesta Huambaly—a series of natural events occurred that would forever alter the country.”
In 1960—shortly after television arrived in Chile, at a time when teenagers were dancing to La Orquesta Huambaly—a series of natural events occurred that would forever alter the country. On May 21, near the city of Concepción (just 200 miles north of Valdivia), a violent 8.1 magnitude earthquake struck just before dawn. Citizens awoke to devastation. Two more powerful earthquakes followed the next day. Within 15 minutes of the third earthquake, on the afternoon of May 22, the strongest earthquake in recorded history rocked Valdivia with a magnitude of 9.5. The ferocious Concepción earthquakes had been mere foreshocks.
Almost half of Valdivia’s buildings were leveled. A dam burst. Landslides flooded and buried homes. In addition, a series of devastating tsunamis ripped through the Chilean coast and the Pacific. Hilo, Hawaii, and the Japanese archipelago all suffered widespread damage and loss of life. At the epicenter, southern Chile’s losses were immeasurable. As many as 6,000 people lost their lives. Cerveceria Anwandter and the city’s smaller breweries were completely destroyed.
Thirty years after that earth-shattering quake, Armin Kunstmann and Patricia Ramos started getting into homebrewing. “Cervecería Kunstmann was born, like Anwandter, in a house in the city, and gradually expanded until it became what is now our plant,” says Romina Montecinos Jeldres, Kunstmann’s director of environment and communications. From its humble beginnings, Kuntsmann became the catalyst that brought back the city’s fallen beer industry. “Kunstmann’s founders aimed to return to Valdivia the joy of beer and the tradition of a city that has always been the beer capital of Chile,” says Montecinos Jeldres.
The multi-acre brewery complex today feels like a Bavarian beer theme park. German art and relics from the founders’ homebrewing days adorn the walls. There’s a guided tour and a museum. When we arrive, it’s the beginning of the off-season. Most of the venue is already full of customers, but we manage to grab a small table upstairs. Servers—many swerving in between boisterous drinkers, balancing steins and German-style sausages—smile at each other, knowing that this is going to be another long day.
We start our tasting experience off with Kunstmann’s unfiltered Lager, and a Bock. The Lager is slightly cloudy with a refreshing bitterness, while the Bock is perfectly balanced with dark malty flavors and subtle notes of chocolate. We end with 12oz pours of the lagered Wheat Beer and the brewery’s special blueberry Ale. That Ale—made with local fruit—brings me back to my home state of Michigan, where similar fruit beers once accompanied my camping trips by Lake Michigan. The nostalgia-inducing Ale becomes my favorite travel companion for the rest of our time in Patagonia.
One of the big players in Chile’s beer scene, Kunstmann sticks to tradition and a sense of locality. “We are constantly searching for local ingredients that support the development of entrepreneurs, area farmers, and the local economy,” says Montecinos Jeldres. Kunstmann works with over 300 micro-enterprises, she says, including local apiaries, blueberry farms, and hop farmers, to source ingredients for many of its special beers.
Local hop production, however, is still in its infancy, despite the brewery’s efforts to grow its own. “Currently, the cultivation of hops is still being studied by the Austral University of Chile, since it’s a very delicate plant requiring certain climatic conditions to grow,” Montecinos Jeldre says. Researchers are developing strains of hops that are designed to thrive in Valdivia’s wet climate. In future, brewers hope that investment will increase enough to get large Chilean hop farms off the ground.
While Kunstmann is enjoying its position as Valdivia’s torch-bearer for craft beer, other brewers have taken on the industry from a different perspective. About 30 minutes north of the city, tucked away in the middle of interspersed farmland and forest, is Cerveceria Cuello Negro, founded in 2009. While Cuello Negro’s award-winning beers have won fanatics across South America and beyond, the brewery is not easy to find in person, accessible only by a narrow dirt road that winds through a rural residential zone. Inside the property—dense with Patagonian cypress and laurels—we meet Esteban Barra, one of the head brewers, who explains that the brewery is named after the black-necked swans that populate the nearby wetlands.
Along with founder Cristián Olivares, Barra looks after 17 tanks and a team of 20 people that currently produces just two beers: a Pale Ale and a Stout, the latter of which brought home a gold medal from the 2017 Brussels Beer Challenge.
When we visit, the facilities are full of construction equipment. “We’re doubling everything!” Barra says with a grin. He proudly shows us the brewery’s 14-year-old fermentation tank. The aroma of fermentation and the omnipresent mist of the Valdivian jungle hang in the air. I take in a deep breath.
Inside, it’s a tight ship with a lively atmosphere. Barra has the persona of a humble and beloved leader. He pauses our conversation and gives instructions to his crew, cracks a few jokes, and assists a team member with an equipment issue. Because of Cuello Negro’s expansion, it’s all hands on deck.
Continuing on, we walk over to the secondary fermentation facility where workers are dosing a small amount of yeast and dextrose into the bottled beer. When we ask about the brewery’s goals, Barra looks up, smiling, as if trying to abridge his answer, and says that they simply want to brew great beer that’s someday enjoyed internationally.
As we leave, we say goodbye to Barra and his team. One of the workers runs past us, pats me on the back like a kind uncle, and bids us farewell.
Across the river from downtown Valdivia is Isla Teja, a small piece of land surrounded by the Calle-Calle, Cau-Cau, and Cruces Rivers. Crossing the Puente Pedro de Valdivia lands you in a place that feels apart from the rest of the city. Isla Teja has a youthful energy, an entrepreneurial spirit, and striking natural surroundings. It is where some of the city’s most innovative breweries and restaurants are located, just blocks away from the original Anwandter Brewery.
In this prime setting, the convergence of food and beer culminates at the first true brewpub in the city. El Growler is the brainchild of Oregon native Joel Driver. As a university student, Driver initially chose Valdivia as a place to hone his Spanish skills. “I wanted to immerse myself in a Spanish-speaking culture. Valdivia looked like one of the better programs. At the time, I had no idea what was going on in Chile,” says Driver. After graduating, Valdivia kept pulling him back, and before long, he decided to return for good.
With experience as a brewer and in the wine industry, Driver decided Valdivia was worth a risk. “I got the sense that the market in Chile was asking for something like a brewpub, with good food and more experimental varieties of beer. The impulse was to help push the craft scene here,” says Driver. “When I first started brewing beer here all people wanted were the typical Blondes, Ambers, or Darks.” Driver and his team started offering new styles like Sours, IPAs, and seasonal fruit beers, which were met with a positive reception. Nowadays, local Valdivians, tourists, and plenty of thirsty university students cram inside and outside El Growler.
El Growler offers a revolving-door menu of various beer styles, along with dishes inspired by Driver’s favorite brewpubs in North America. On top of good food and a pleasant atmosphere, the beers are incredible. My favorite is the Black IPA—a balanced beer with pronounced roasted coffee and chocolate notes. More modern styles have also captured customer attention. “We’ve been doing a lot with Sours over the last few years. People have really responded to that,” Driver says.
A block away from El Growler is Bar Bundor. Cerveceria Bundor has been pumping out award-winning beers for over a decade, from Pilsners and IPAs to Blonde Ales and several experimental Stouts. We order a Belzaboo, a heavyweight Imperial Stout that won a gold medal at the 2014 Chile Beer Cup. Even before it reaches our table, I notice its intense, dessert-like aromas, which are only accentuated by its 11% ABV. To accompany the beer, we’re doing what any true gluttons would do: pairing it with piping-hot churros and dulce de leche.
At Bundor, the beers’ labels feature illustrations of trolls, elves, nymphs, and other mythical creatures and deities. To get the full spectrum, we order Bundor’s full-bodied Wee Heavy Scotch Ale—fittingly adorned with an image of the Loch Ness Monster, mid-roar. To finish, we order the IPA, named after Kali, the Hindu goddess of time and death. It’s vivid with tropical fruit flavors, while its lingering bitterness is reminiscent of dried citrus.
As the sun fades, we retreat across the bridge to Downtown, and back to our Airbnb. The homes nearby are already belching out smoke from wood stoves. Asados—Chilean barbecues—are being lit, and the sound of clinking bottles fills the air. We walk by the Laguna de Los Patos, named after the large ducks that inhabit the shallow pond. A bridge spans the small body of water. Locals congregate on the grassy shores, picnicking and cuddling up on the grass.
In the sunlit morning following our excursion through Isla Teja, I head outside to read the newspaper my Airbnb host gave me. Its reference to the Beer of America Competition reminds me of my conversation with Daniel Trivelli, the organization’s founder, a week earlier.
“Copa Cervezas de América started as a beer conversation 11 years ago in 2011 and became an event where brewers gather together, like the Craft Brewers Conference in the United States, but smaller,” says Trivelli. The conference is now one of the cornerstones of the Latin American craft beer calendar.
“‘Copa Cervezas de América started as a beer conversation 11 years ago in 2011 and became an event where brewers gather together, like the Craft Brewers Conference in the United States, but smaller.’”
According to Trivelli, Valdivia stands apart from the rest of Chile as a beer destination, thanks in part to its soft water and its German heritage, which has always emphasized the importance of quality. Community is another key factor. “Craft brewers in Valdivia are now working together. Not as individuals but together,” says Trivelli. In a country that, in Trivelli’s words, prides itself on its individualism, this cooperation towards a common good feels novel.
According to many brewers, that common good involves standing up to the goliaths of the industry. The strategy defined by the CCU in the early 20th century, of buying up its competition, hasn’t changed much in the intervening years. Today, Valdivia’s craft brewers face the choice of growing together or seeking mergers with the big beer industry, which here comprises two major players: CCU and Cervecería Chile. “About 50% of CCU is owned by Heineken, and about 51% of Kunstmann is owned by CCU,” says Trivelli. Cooperation is necessary for those looking to forge a different path.
Leaving Valdivia is difficult, both literally and figuratively. It’s our last day, and just before we check out, we discover a massive oil leak under our rental car. “Go ahead and stay as long as you want!” says our host. While we are sitting outside, rehashing our beer adventures with our host, two large brown horses walk past us, unaccompanied, on the sidewalk. “They probably escaped from the stable down the road. It happens sometimes—beautiful animals,” she sighs. We crack a beer and watch them wander into town.
When our replacement car finally shows up, we hit the road and head a few hours north to a remote coastline that’s full of surf breaks. As souvenirs, we bring along the ideal selection of Valdivian beers for the trip—Cuello Negro Stouts, Kunstmann Pilsners and blueberry Ales, Bundor Stouts, and other bottles from the area’s newest breweries, including Cerveceria Nothus.
We finally pull up to our small guesthouse. A Chilean cowboy, known as a huaso, rides by us. His gaze veers towards us for a brief second before he focuses again on the dusty road ahead.
Each day in this remote part of Chile moves at a dreamlike pace, all beautiful waves and dry weather. After our surfing sessions, we come back to the house and build enormous bonfires and share our beers. The stars above us are unobstructed—no city lights, no cars. Just the sound of clinking bottles, distant waves, and the faint neighs of the huaso’s horses down the hill.
Fans of “In Patagonia” by Bruce Chatwin might remember the story of the Kingdom of Araucanía and Patagonia. In this little-known historical tale, French lawyer and adventurer Antoine de Tounens proclaims himself king of this vast and inhospitable land. In the end, of course, he fails. He is an outsider, with no army, and only a handful of locals supporting him. What this story represents is that Patagonia inspires even the most conventional people to get creative, even as it crushes their hubris. It also requires the most creative individuals to get brassbound and hardened.
Valdivia has been through a lot, and so has its beer culture. Today, its brewers are looking past the ashes of Anwandter and the great earthquake towards a unified future. As the push for quality and expansion dances with innovation and the changing demands of drinkers, one thing remains steady for those brewers: pride in their beers and in their region.
Words by Matthew DursumPhotos by Samantha Demangate
