Maybe you'll learn a little bit but also just have fun and build community.
Nearly 270 years after George Washington scratched a beer recipe into his military journal, a New York brewery and the New York Public Library have brought that humble brew back to life in time for America's 250th birthday. The recipe—a soldier's practical answer to unsafe water—was never meant to be celebrated, only consumed. Yet in resurrecting it, these collaborators have turned a page of wartime logistics into an unexpected vessel for collective memory, reminding us that the most enduring threads of history are often the most ordinary ones.
- A handwritten recipe buried in Washington's 1757 military journal—dense with horse names and officers' commissions—suddenly becomes the centerpiece of a national anniversary celebration.
- Decoding archaic language and sourcing period-appropriate ingredients forced TALEA's brewers to confront just how much the raw materials of daily life have shifted across three centuries.
- The historically faithful recreation posed a real problem: brewed true to form, Washington's small beer would look and taste like muddy water to anyone raised on modern commercial lager.
- TALEA's solution—a faithful historical batch alongside Liberty Lager, a more palatable modern interpretation—split the project into both an artifact and an invitation.
- Demand immediately outpaced supply, with the brewery scrambling to brew more as samples disappeared at America250 events across New York City all summer long.
In the summer of 2026, the New York Public Library reached into its research collections and pulled out something unexpected: a page from George Washington's 1757 military journal, written in his own hand, containing a recipe for small beer. Washington was a young colonel then, commanding Virginia militia forces during the Seven Years' War, and the beer he recorded was almost certainly served to troops at Fort Loudon. Small beer was no luxury—it was a practical staple, its brewing process killing the bacteria that made untreated water dangerous in the field.
The library partnered with TALEA Beer Co. to decode the recipe and actually brew it. Co-founder LeAnn Darland described the initial outreach as humbling, but the work itself proved demanding. Washington's instructions—bran and hops boiled three hours, strained into thirty gallons, molasses added scalding hot, yeast pitched at blood temperature, blanketed in cold weather, bottled a week later—were clear enough in outline but treacherous in detail. Archaic measurements, centuries of ingredient drift, and the question of what molasses Washington would actually have used all required experimentation before the brewers could commit to a final formula.
They ultimately made two beers. The first was as historically faithful as modern knowledge allowed. The second, Liberty Lager, was a malty amber interpretation with more hops—designed for palates that would find the original, as Darland put it, indistinguishable from muddy water. Both versions found an audience faster than anyone anticipated. The library offered samples at its America250 events; the taprooms sold out; the brewery began rushing new batches into production.
For Darland, a Navy veteran, the project carried weight beyond the novelty. She hoped the beers might accomplish what beer has always accomplished at its best—drawing people into the same room, toward the same table, past the lines that otherwise divide them.
In the summer of 2026, as America prepared to mark its 250th birthday, the New York Public Library decided to resurrect something unexpected from the nation's founding era: George Washington's beer.
The recipe itself sits in the library's research collections—a page from Washington's military journal, written in his own hand during 1757, when he was a young colonel commanding Virginia militia forces during the Seven Years' War. The journal is dense with the mundane business of command: sketches for letters, lists of officers' commissions, the names of wagon horses. Tucked among these entries is a formula for what Washington called "small beer," a low-alcohol brew he almost certainly served to his troops while they were stationed at Fort Loudon, Virginia.
Small beer was not a luxury or a novelty. It was practical necessity. The name came from its modest alcohol content, but what made it essential was that the brewing process killed bacteria lurking in water—a critical advantage when you're moving soldiers through unfamiliar territory with limited access to clean drinking supplies. It was quick to make, cheap to produce, and it tasted better than the alternative. For an 18th-century military camp, it was the everyday drink.
The library partnered with TALEA Beer Co., a New York City brewery, to decode Washington's handwriting and actually brew what he had written down nearly 270 years earlier. LeAnn Darland, TALEA's co-founder and co-CEO, recalled the moment the library first reached out. "Just to be considered to work with the New York Public Library is huge for us," she told Fox News Digital. The initial reaction was awe—but the actual work proved more complicated than reverence alone could solve.
Washington's recipe was straightforward enough on its surface: a large sifter full of bran and hops, boiled for three hours, then strained into thirty gallons. Add three gallons of molasses while the mixture was scalding hot. Let it cool to blood temperature, pitch a quart of yeast, cover it with a blanket if the weather was cold, let it work for twenty-four hours in the cooler, then transfer to a cask. Bottle it a week after brewing. But the language was archaic, and some of the ingredients had shifted dramatically over centuries. A quart of yeast meant something different in 1757 than it does now. The molasses available to Washington was far less processed than modern molasses. The brewers had to experiment with different sugars that might have been available in an 18th-century military camp, testing how each would ferment and what character it would bring to the finished product.
Darland and her team ultimately settled on a molasses base as the closest approximation to what Washington would have worked with. But they also knew something crucial: the beer that most faithfully recreated his recipe would likely taste terrible to a modern drinker. Washington's small beer, Darland noted, would look like "muddy water." So TALEA made two beers. The first was the historical recreation—as true to the original as contemporary ingredients and knowledge could make it. The second was Liberty Lager, a modern interpretation: a malty, amber-colored lager with more hops than the original, designed to balance the sweetness of the malt and actually appeal to people who had grown accustomed to contemporary commercial beer.
The response surprised everyone. Liberty Lager became available at TALEA's taprooms. The New York Public Library began offering samples of the small beer at its America250 events throughout the summer. Demand outpaced supply almost immediately. "We're brewing more of the Liberty Lager as we speak," Darland said. "It's been a pretty wild week." The brewery was scrambling to keep up with orders for both versions. Darland, herself a Navy veteran, saw something larger in the project. She hoped the beers might do what beer has always done best: bring people together. "Wanting to be patriotic shouldn't always come with such stark political lines drawn in the sand," she said. "There are a lot of great values that America stands for. Maybe you'll learn a little bit but also just have fun and build community." In the end, what started as a historical curiosity—a recipe from a military journal—had become something more immediate: a way for people to taste the past and, in doing so, find common ground in the present.
Citações Notáveis
Just to be considered to work with the New York Public Library is huge for us.— LeAnn Darland, TALEA Beer Co. co-founder and co-CEO
Wanting to be patriotic shouldn't always come with such stark political lines drawn in the sand.— LeAnn Darland
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did the library decide to do this now, in 2026 specifically?
The 250th anniversary of American independence gave them a natural moment to reach back and find something tangible from that era. A recipe is different from a portrait or a document you read behind glass—it's something you can actually consume, experience with your senses.
Did Washington actually drink this beer himself, or was it just something he wrote down?
He almost certainly drank it. He was a colonel in the field, stationed at a fort in Virginia during wartime. This wasn't a theoretical exercise—it was a practical formula for keeping his troops supplied with something safer than the water.
What was the hardest part of recreating it?
The ingredients have changed so much. Modern molasses is processed differently than what Washington had access to. The yeast measurements don't translate directly. The brewers had to make educated guesses about what was actually available in a military camp in the 1750s.
So the original recipe probably tastes bad by today's standards?
Yes. Darland was honest about that—it would look muddy and taste nothing like what people expect from beer now. That's why they made two versions. The historical one is authentic but challenging. Liberty Lager is what they think people will actually want to drink.
Does it matter that most people will choose the modern version over the historical one?
Not really. The point isn't to force people to suffer through history. It's to make history accessible, to let people hold something in their hands that connects them to a moment. If Liberty Lager does that while also being enjoyable, it's doing its job.
What does Darland mean about beer bringing people together?
She's saying that in a polarized moment, something as simple and shared as a beer—especially one with a historical story attached—can be a way to find common ground that doesn't require anyone to compromise their politics. It's just a drink, but it's also a reminder that there are things bigger than the divisions.