The secret punk operation
Fat Tire is not a good beer. I’m sorry if you think it’s a good beer. I’m sorry if your first taste of American craft beer was Fat Tire, and I’m sorry if it changed your consciousness in true Proustian fashion, and I’m triple-ultra-extra sorry to report that they’re reformulating Fat Tire so it’s not even an amber ale anymore.
Fat Tire is not good and that is the point. There are better amber ales. There are better drinkable beers at that price point. There are absolutely better ways to impress your friends with beer, if that’s something you have set out to do. Fat Tire is, by some margin, the worst beer that New Belgium makes, and for a long time it was their cash cow. It came to the point where people would refer to New Belgium, the brewery that makes Fat Tire, as Fat Tire Brewery. I have not had the new Fat Tire yet because I’m in France and respect myself, but I’m guessing it’s some sort of improvement. Good. This was overdue.
Some time after Fat Tire’s success, New Belgium came out with Ranger, an IPA that is very good. It is so good, in fact, that variants of Ranger have become New Belgium’s best seller. New Belgium, befitting the name, was not really known for hoppy beer. Then they did Ranger and now everyone thinks of them as the Ranger brewery.
Fat Tire and Ranger both teach us something important. Because despite Fat Tire being an objectively not-good beer, I love Fat Tire. I am profoundly grateful for Fat Tire. Fat Tire is a gift. I love Fat Tire because New Belgium sells lots of Fat Tire. This sounds tautological, but in doing so, they are able to make more adventurous, interesting beer – like La Folie, a masterpiece of a sour red, an impossible gift to all of us.
Fat Tire brings about an interesting business model that isn’t very uncommon in craft beer. Goose Island has 312; Stone has IPA; New Glarus has Spotted Cow. All of these are okay beers that sell a lot, at high margins, allowing them to bankroll more adventurous efforts.
I like the idea of a business that allows you to do something popular, but underneath there is a bit of a punk operation. That is, arguably, what we’ve done for years with our publishing – as well as what we’re doing with Studio Draft, attempting to place more thoughtful bets that might bloom into something new.
You placed a bet that paid off. Now you have a popular thing. That popular thing allows you to place more bets in the background, maybe in your spare time. If one takes off, you can grow it into more popular things. The popular thing de-risks failure, keeps your audience interested, and keeps you from getting bored.
And so: thanks, Fat Tire, for existing for all of these years. You have never been good, and it never mattered. But maybe you’re good now? I still don’t care.