In October, when the tax on ‘third-category beers’ was raised, it prompted a deeper reflection on our understanding and naming of what we call ‘beer.’

As I stood in my kitchen calling for a beer, I realized that the can I meant wasn’t labeled ‘beer’ at all; rather, it bore the designation of happoshu or ‘third-category beer.’ Despite this, no one at the dining table seemed to care about the accuracy of the name. For years, we’ve referred to these drinks as ‘beer’ without question.

On October 1st, a significant change occurred: the liquor tax on beer-like beverages was unified, with a set rate of 54.25 yen for every 350ml can. This had been a gradual adjustment since 2020, wherein the tax on traditional beer decreased while that on happoshu and new genre drinks increased. The distinctions that once existed essentially vanished over six years.

This shift hasn’t gone unnoticed among beverage manufacturers. Suntory announced it would categorize its flagship drink, ‘Kinmugi,’ as beer starting October 6 while maintaining its name. Other companies are following suit, converting their flagship new genre products to the beer category. This raises a poignant question: what have we been calling ‘beer’ all this time?

An interesting historical perspective can be traced back to the Nara period. The ‘Shoku Nihongi,’ an official history completed in 797, recounts Empress Gensho’s visit to a notable spring on Mount Tado. The spring was described not as a source of sake, but as ‘water that nourishes the aged’—its value based on the reputed benefits it offered rather than its classification.

Within the same year, it was declared that the spring, which purportedly had healing properties, prompted the Empress to change the era’s name to Yoro—a name still associated with the Yoro Falls in Gifu Prefecture. The historical significance of this spring was tied to its health benefits and its auspiciousness according to Chinese traditions.

However, several hundred years later, tales began to emerge in which this spring was now linked to sake. Stories from the 13th century describe a filial son in Mino Province who, wishing for that water to be sake for his father, ultimately finds a yellow-colored beverage gushing forth from the rocks. Here, the narrative swings from a historical account of the spring’s effects to one emphasizing filial duty and the transformative power of intention.

In folk traditions, there are variations of this storyline, such as in Narashinohara, where a son draws clear water that is perceived as sake by his father but remains plain water to him. This indicates that the true essence of the beverage we call ‘sake’—or in our current context, ‘beer’—is not the liquid itself but the sentiments attached to it.

Returning to contemporary discussions, the classification of beer and similar drinks has long been dependent on the malt ratio, affecting taxation and production methods. As the Ministry of Finance aims for fairness in the tax burden, this has, in turn, influenced how these beverages are made.

At home, however, the culinary naming operates on a different plane entirely. Regardless of official classifications, many would assert that the cold can from the refrigerator is simply ‘beer.’ There is a dissonance between government regulations and the casual parlance of dinner tables.

As the tax classification evolves and unifies, the distinction between beer, happoshu, and new genre drinks has diminished. As cans labeled ‘Kinmugi’ transition into beer, one cannot help but wonder if we will continue to use the term ‘beer’ interchangeably or reassess whether the content truly warrants the name.

Ultimately, when we request a ‘beer’ in the twilight of our day, we are not merely asking for a liquid classification but for a symbol of relaxation and self-care. Before you crack open your next can, consider what you’re really inviting into your evening. This reflection may transform our understanding of what we have long referred to as ‘beer.’