May 1, 2005
CASE STUDY

Little Giant
By TOBY CECCHINI

In the beer world, the humble brew has always enjoyed lucrative cachet. Pabst Blue
Ribbon still flouts its Milwaukee pedigree even though it closed down its plant there
years ago and is currently made in Texas. Rheingold sold its name and is now being
remarketed as the Brooklyn underdog that it once was. But the latest downmarket darling,
suddenly asked for everywhere -- from underground parties to serious brew pubs -- also
happens to be America's oldest: with no advertising and a broken-nose work ethic,
Yuengling is taking its place as a small-town survivor.

Sunk in the coal-mining hills of Schuylkill County, Pottsville, Pa., is a place that wears
the tattered clothes of better times. Large stone buildings, mostly unoccupied, line the
streets. Near the top of a steep climb up Mahantongo Street, the old D.G. Yuengling &
Son Brewery looms over the town, an improbable hub of spit-shined industry. Yuengling
was founded in 1829 as the Eagle Brewery and kept afloat during Prohibition by brewing
''near beer'' -- what is now called nonalcoholic -- and ''pharmaceutical'' beer sanctioned by
the government. It has always been owned by the Yuengling family, now in its fifth and
sixth generations in the form of Dick Yuengling and his four daughters, who all work at
the brewery.

In the last 10 years, Yuengling's annual sales have grown by about 25 percent, a
remarkable resurgence for a beer long ago dismissed as a reliable but fusty regional brew.
This initially led to a lot of headaches for Dick Yuengling, but the risks he has taken
appear to have been well rewarded. The company has a five-year-old plant on the
outskirts of Pottsville and another in Tampa, Fla., that it took over from Stroh's. The little
guy may not exactly be taking on the giants, but he is at least shouldering beside them.

Entering the monolithic red-brick brewery through a carved walnut door, I climbed up a
set of flagstone steps that were worn in the middle from nearly 180 years of use. Beside
them ran an antique escalator with an oak chair affixed to a massive chain, once installed
for a Victorian-era scion. At the top, outside a glass and walnut-partitioned office, was an
old, weathered sign stating that the company was not accepting applications for
employment. Turning the heavy brass knob and forging ahead was to feel what
generations of unemployed miners in this town must have felt, hat in hand.

I found Dick Yuengling in the office, a bull of a man in jeans, boots and a faded work
jacket. He advanced toward me and growled, ''You from New York?'' I wasn't sure I
should say yes. On the brief drive from the old, chaotically picturesque brewery to the
enormous, immaculate, state-of-the-art one just outside town, Yuengling held forth
behind the wheel of a 1980's Buick sedan that belonged to his mother. Yuengling is a
chain-smoking dervish, a top-down capo straddling both plants and the one in Tampa, as
well. He is up for the early shift, naps midday and returns to oversee the night crew. He
keeps no office, preferring to elbow aside some papers on his daughter Jennifer's desk
when he needs one. Consequently we were both riding on piles of cardboard, calendars
and poster tubes, empty Vantage cartons and burger wrappers. That his car is like a
teenager's is somewhat appropriate; at 61, Yuengling exudes the feckless ebullience of a
slightly weathered quarterback. He seems as amazed by the current success of his label as
anyone: ''Twenty years ago we were almost out of business, hanging on by a thread,'' he
said. ''There used to be dozens of these little breweries around here. Every town had at
least one. Pottsville had three at one point. We just kept picking up a few more accounts
every time another one closed: Reading, Allentown. We're just the last guy standing.''

Yuengling likens the new generation of microbrewers to his own generation of regional
brewers. ''We all knew one another,'' he said. ''Those guys were friendly with my father
and my grandfather, and they all shared knowledge to some degree. But each one had its
own flavor, and that's what was great. That's what these young guys are doing now.'' In
principle he applauds the movement, but he acknowledges that he is in an unusual niche
between those grassroots brewers and the huge producers. ''I had no choice; it was either
expand or sell out.''

When he purchased the brewery from his father and uncle in 1985, he recreated a rich,
slightly amber lager the brewery hadn't made in decades to take advantage of the spike in
lighter-style beers. The company expanded its market to Philadelphia, and that's when the
deluge began. Younger urban drinkers gravitated to its old-school feel and tenaciously
low price. By the early 90's, the company was racing to supply New York and Boston as
well. ''We were turning 620,000 barrels a year out of this old plant,'' Yuengling recalled
unfondly, his feet up on his daughter's desk. ''Running the line 19, 20 hours a day; things
were breaking down, the managers were pulling their hair out. It was crazy!''

Faced with overwhelming demand and courted by several larger companies, including
Anheuser-Busch, Yuengling queried his daughters to see if they were interested in
carrying on the company. When all four agreed, he decided against selling and made a
plan that could have proved catastrophic. He closed off distribution outside Pennsylvania,
New Jersey and Delaware until he could build a new brewery, which would take three to
four years. To New Yorkers and other East Coast converts, it seemed that this tasty
small-town beer had magically appeared, and just as quickly evaporated. I learned of it as
a Philly secret from a friend attending Temple University's medical school in the early
90's and was elated when I first found it in New York. However, when I tried to order it
for my own bar, Passerby, the distributor told me that he couldn't get enough. I recall
thinking, Who stops selling beer because too many people want it?

But the gamble has paid off handsomely. Though few seem to know what the holdup
was, grateful customers have a long memory. The three plants produced more than 1.4
million barrels last year. The lager is the star, accounting for 80 percent of the
production; standouts among its other brews are a rich porter, a lovely lighter beer called
Premium and a true pale ale called Chesterfield Ale. Availability outside Yuengling's
home market can still be spotty, but all of them are on the shelves at
B & E Quality Beverage on West 23rd Street, among other serious retailers.

With the heat off for now and the beer rolling out happily, Yuengling bragged that he
sold more beer in 10 states than Samuel Adams did in 48. His daughter Jennifer, the plant
coordinator and apparent future of the company, smiled cautiously and rolled her eyes,
acknowledging that even in a family business drenched in history, the work was all ahead
for her and her sisters.

Copyright 2005 The New York Times Company

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