Johnny Appleseed, by far America's most misunderstood folk hero, spread cider westward in the early 1800s. You see, what the Disney short doesn't tell you is that John Chapman's apples were unsuitable for eating. Apples exhibit tremendous genetic diversity, and a seed from an eating apple is far less likely to produce a plump, sweet beauty than a tart, tannic fruit suitable only to cider making. (Eating apples are made through grafting, a technique Chapman abhorred.)
As U.S. demographics shifted during the mid-1800s, cider began to fall out of favor. German immigrants, who fled a war-torn Europe in 1848, increased demand for beer, which soon surpassed cider in production. Unusually cold winters destroyed millions of trees in the early 1900s. The temperance movement encouraged the remaining orchardists to pasteurize and bottle their unfermented juice. Prohibition forced the holdouts to either chop down their trees or to convert their operations to grafted eating apples.
Once Prohibition ended, cider never came back. Part of the reason lies in the nature of the product. Unlike barley farmers, who could adjust annual plantings fairly quickly to meet surging post-Prohibition demand, orchardists would have had to graft cider apples painstakingly onto an entire field of eating-apple trees or spend years starting a new orchard from seed. Beer manufacturers also lobbied hard for Prohibition's repeal, which gave them an incentive to get brewing again when the laws changed. Cider makers, who typically worked independently and produced their wares in small batches, didn't have the same drive once the ban was lifted. Urbanization also worked against cider, which was grown, fermented, and consumed on farms.
Although the American cider tradition has long been dormant, the beverage lives on elsewhere. In England and France—to which the plague of Prohibition did not spread—artisanal houses are producing ciders that few beers can match for lightness and complexity. Cider makers haven't yet been infected with whatever fever has propelled vintners toward unreasonable alcohol levels and garishly imbalanced flavor profiles. Unlike mead, that other resurgent libation of antiquity, cider pairs beautifully with food. And, because cider is an agricultural product, it can lay claim to the currently fashionable quality of "somewhereness."
Made from apples like the Kingston Black, the Dabinett, and the Yarlington Mill and often fermented by naturally occurring flora, traditional English ciders are complex and typically dry. Like wine, good cider is a balance of acid, tannin, and the myriad flavors that result from fermentation. (Traditional cider tastes no more like apples than wine tastes like grapes.) These ciders might exhibit smoky flavors reminiscent of bacon, bright citrusy notes, subtle grassiness, or a barnyard aroma that is delightful in small doses. Carbonation is optional, and, when used, accents the flavors rather than concealing them.
Unfortunately, few of us can purchase great English ciders like Oliver's Herefordshire Dry or Burrow Hill here in the United States. The good news is that, while no American producers can match British know-how quite yet, a handful are reviving the craft. Wandering Aengus Dry can be had on the West Coast; Farnum Hill Extra Dry is widely available in the East. Westcott Bay, among others, can be purchased on the Internet. Better still, very small artisanal producers, like Bellwether and Eve's in upstate New York, are popping up everywhere. Which means it's time to make like a forefather and support your local cidery.