Cocktails on the beach

No need to get up early today. We're free until the awards ceremony at 6 PM. Though I awake at 5 AM with a really annoying cough. Then doze restlessly until 8. When I traipse downstairs for brekkie.

It’s quite crowded in the breakfast room. Not with judges, but with families. Only a couple of other judges are there. Surprisingly busy, considering that it’s very off-season.

A breakfast of scrambled egg, topped with slices of cheese. Along with coffee and orange juice.

No bacon. But there are scrambled eggs. And cheese. Which is what I get. Along with coffee and orange juice. I flick through the Guardian on my phone while I eat.

What's my plan for today? Head to the beach to drink cocktails. That sounds perfect. It’s a bit chilly for sitting actually on the beach. Nearby will do.

The beach isn't far. And it's a beautiful sunny day. Hardly any wind, either. It looks lovely. Perfect for annoying Mikey. On the way I pass several butchers and bakers. Which look pretty good. All have eager punters clumping around them.

Mar del Plata bakery Panaderia Pasteleria Molissé.

The older houses are tile-roofed stone bungalows in a very specific style. Many are boarded up and for sale. Waiting redevelopment, I assume. Presumably, to be replaced by something much taller, like the modern apartments that crowd around and bully them.

A stone bungalow with a red-tiled roof.

People are sitting on the beach. In overcoats, mostly. Though some hardy souls are in shorts and T-shirts. Others walk dogs. No-one in the water. It looks lovely, but is surely icy. 

There’s beer place close by, Estelares La Perla. Which is where I park my sorry arse after a couple of minutes looking at the ocean. And messaging Mikey with some pictures that make it look gorgeous. And about 15º C warmer than it is in reality. Always worth taking a little time to piss off Mikey.

Mar del Plata beach.

It’s quite a cavernous place. Made rather echoey by a scarcity of guests. There’s just one table occupied. It’s not that early, around 2 PM. Given the proximity to the beach, I would have expected a few more drinkers.

For some reason, I thought this was a brewpub. Pretty sure it isn’t, really. As they have a spread of beers from different breweries, I’m guessing it’s a beer bar. It doesn’t bother me either way. As long as the beer is decent.

They have 23 beers on tap, from seven different breweries. I assume they’re all Argentinian. Six IPAs, only. Two Amber Ales and two Honey Ales. A couple of Lagers. Porter, Cream Stout, Barley Wine, Scotch, APA, Belgian Triple, Blonde Ale, Cream Ale. Not a bad spread of styles. Just a pity there’s no Mild.

What do I want to drink? An IPA, I suppose. I ask for an Escondido West Coast IPA, but the woman serving doesn't seem to understand. And insists on giving me Indo IPA from the same brewery. What do I care? I've no idea what to expect from either. Any IPA will do, really. As long as it isn’t sludgy.

Estelares La Perla inside.

I need to eat. So order a burger. A spicy one with crispy onions. It sounds lovely, from the description on the menu.

Guess what’s on the TV? Football. Now there’s a surprise. There’s always football on the TV in South America. Literally always.

While I'm waiting for my burger to arrive, Charlotte and her mum turn up. At least giving me someone to talk to. They order burgers, too.

My burger is pretty good. Though my ability to taste it is limited by my fucking cold. It doesn’t stop me appreciating the crunchiness. Thank god for texture.

I try to order a pisco sour, which is on the drinks menu. But the waitress either doesn’t understand, can’t be arsed or is totally clueless. I’m inclined towards the last.

“It looks like Mum has been left in charge for the day.” Charlotte’s mum remarks. I’m getting that impression, too. Either that, or someone they just dragged off the street.

A glass of Escondido Indo IPA.

Having no luck with cocktails, I have a couple more IPAs. Then dawdle back to my hotel. Pausing to pick up some more booze and snacks in a supermarket I happen to have to walk past. Feeling less flash than yesterday, I get some cheapo Argentinian rum rather than Havana Club.

French bread is sold in a weird way. Rather than buying a whole baguette, there are bags with three or four three-quarter loaves. Which you pay for by weight. I sort through the bags looking for one that isn’t as full. I don’t really need more than a single baguette.

As I laze around in my room, I'm not feeling any better. And decide to knock the awards ceremony on the head. It'll be loud and there will be lots of standing around. Hard enough work when I'm fully fit.

I eat some Argentinian cheddar sandwiches. Along with a few crisps. Washed down with more than a few gulps of rum.

After watching some YouTube, I turn in early. Very early: 20:30. I'm knacked, and I need to be up at 7 AM to get on the bus at 8. And I want a proper breakfast this time before travelling.

Havana Club is again my sleepy-time guide.




Estelares La Perla
Av. Libertad 3175, 
B7606DSB Mar del Plata.


Disclaimer: my hotel, some meals and some drinks were paid for by Copa Argentina de Cervezas. 

Let's Brew - 1884 William Younger Special Export

One of the more occasional brews at Younger’s Holyrood brewery was Export. And even rarer was Special Export.

The grist is more complicated than for XP and XXP. In that there’s more than just base malt. There’s the huge added excitement of a little sugar. In the form of dextro-maltose. For which I’ve substituted No. 2 invert.

The presence of dextro-maltose, along with the massive hopping rate of 15.75 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt and the fact that it was racked into a butt and hogsheads are a dead giveaway. A giveaway that this was a true Stock Pale Ale. The dextro-maltose being the food for a long, slow secondary fermentation.

The hops were Californian, Württemberg, American and East Kent from the 1883 harvest along with American from 1882. For dry hops, there were American and Württemberg, both from 1883.

This looks like a proper hard-core Stock Pale Ale. Which would have undergone a minimum of twelve months ageing.
 

1884 William Younger Special Export
pale malt	14.50 lb	95.08%
No. 2 invert	0.75 lb	4.92%
Cluster 120 min	3.50 oz
Cluster 60 min	1.00 oz
Hallertau 60 min	2.50 oz
Goldings 30 min	2.25 oz
Hallertau dry hops	1.00 oz
Cluster dry hops	1.00 oz
OG	1068
FG	1021
ABV	6.22
Apparent attenuation	69.12%
IBU	132
SRM	7
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	163º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	WLP028 Edinburgh Ale

 

Off to the coast

I rise rather earlier than expected, at 5 AM. My stomach is really bad. Eased a little after I throw up.

I get up properly at just after 7. Quickly doing my ablutions and quickly packing, I nip by the breakfast room to sink an orange juice and grab a banana. No time for a proper breakfast.

Most people are on the bus by 8 AM. Though a few are missing It's 8:30 when we actually leave.

Once we've left the city, we enter a flat expanse of massive fields, each stretching to the horizon. A scattering of cattle grazing in a distant corner. Interrupted only by the occasional farmhouse and clump of trees. Not the most exciting countryside. But somehow soothing. Why do they need so many horses?

Argentinian countryside.

My cough is coming along nicely. Or, I should say, getting worse. It’s starting to really piss me off. Hopefully, I’ll start getting over it soon.

I doze as we plod along the dual carriageway. After a couple of hours, I wonder why we aren't there yet. La Plata isn't that far from Buenos Aires. Looking on my phone, I realise that we're headed for Mar del Plata. Which is 400 km from Buenos Aires. Slight mistake there on my part.

I still have a little of that expensive rum left. I pour some into a half-drunk bottle of cola. Not an easy feat in a moving bus on a road of, er, inconsistent quality. Quite a bit ends up on my kecks and the floor. Damn. At least it should evaporate quickly.

After more than four hours, we pull off the road to stop at Restinga, a distillery. Cocktail time!

It’s a relief to stand up again and walk around a little. Especially as adult drinks are available, too.

Cocktail time.

"A gin and tonic, please. Con poco helado." *

Despite my request, the barman fills my glass with ice. Which I fish out and dump on the ground.

The weather is gorgeous, 17º C and sunny. It feels warmer than that in the sun. I spend a while recharging with vitamin D. (Or basking in the sunlight, as some might call it.)

"It was about the same temperature in Amsterdam when I left." I remark to Charlotte. And it's true. It seems nicer here, though.

There's giant pan of paella for us. Which is welcome, seeing as I've only eaten a banana so far today.

Two giant pans of paella.

A few cocktails later, we pile back onto the bus. Taking with us the gift of a bottle of gin. There’s Andrew’s present taken care of.

When we reach Mar del Pata, we have a second stop. This time it's a brewery, Cheverry. Where I get a Barley Wine. Which is rich and alcoholic. A bit like me, in at least one respect.

It’s a fairly typical taproom, if slightly less industrially Spartan than some. The brewing equipment being somewhat hidden away around the back. Though the high tables are clearly designed for drinking rather than eating.

Based on my quick glimpse at the kit, it’s a decent-sized brewery. With a long line of fermenters of a couple of different sizes.

Cheverry fermenting vessels.

We don't pause for long at the brewery. Leaving after 20 minutes to make the short hop to our hotel. Where we mob reception. Checking in takes a while.

After settling in for a while, I head to a nearby supermarket for essential supplies: bread, cheese, ham, crisps and a bottle of Havana Club.
    
Crossing the road is fun. At the intersections there are no traffic lights and no priority given to either road. Meaning the cars somehow magically weave in and out of each other. Without colliding. At least, not so far. Not great for pedestrians.

There are events in breweries at 19:00 and 21:00. I'm way too knacked for that. And my cough isn’t getting any better. Better to rest, I think.

I picnic in my room on cheese and ham sandwiches, with a side of crisps. While watching stuff on my flipflop. Including the latest episode of Taskmaster. Isn't modern technology wonderful?

I turn in early, a little after 10. Bounced along sleep’s sandy sideroad by Havana Club.

* In these reports I have included, verbatim, pretty much everything I said in Spanish, other than “ola” and “gracias”. Though I did say “obrigado” a few times, too.

Restinga Gin Artesanal
RP2 km 342, 
B7174 Coronel Vidal, 
Provincia de Buenos Aires.



Cheverry Brewery
Av. Libertad 6050, 
B7600CLK Mar del Plata, 
Provincia de Buenos Aires.
http://www.cheverry.com.ar/



Disclaimer: my hotel, some meals and some drinks were paid for by Copa Argentina de Cervezas.
 

More light judging

I rise at 7:30. And have a shower. That wakes me up nicely.

"Huevo?"

"Si."

My Spanish is so brilliant. The waitress doesn't specify what type of egg. Turns out it's a hard poached egg. Didn’t see that coming. A bit odd. What is it with solid yolks in South America? In Columbia, I was served hard fried eggs. Who the hell wants that?

A breakfast of a poached egg, cheese, toast, coffee and orange juice.

The breakfast room is eerily quiet. I'm the only customer for quite a while. It’s not the best breakfast. The orange juice is good. And the coffee pretty perky.

The walk to Bierlife gets the blood flowing nicely. Though my nose is still running. And my cough is coming along nicely. Happy days.

Bierlife exterior.

I’m judging with Argentinian Analia and American Neil Witte. I’m glad I did bring my laptop today. As we’re kicking off with first rounds. Bollocks. I’ll have to do some proper work. 

It’s the same software as for the South Beer Cup. It’s, er, a bit clunky. And slightly irritating. Could be worse.

We start with NA beer. Lovely. Just what I've been looking forward to. Quite a large flight, too, in several different styles. Which complicates matters.

They’ve improved a lot. Obviously, I’d never drink one voluntarily. What’s the fucking point? I have judged them depressingly often over the years.

Total and utter shit. That’s what they used to be. Positively unpleasant. And not particularly tasting much like proper beer. Most of this flight tastes somewhere beer adjacent. Just very bland. Other than the ones with loads of hops, which have much more going on. Even quite pleasant. Now there’s a shock.

Next, it's the turn of gluten-free beers. Another big flight in multiple styles. They’re a real challenge. Especially as none of us has any idea what grains such as millet taste like. Is that weird flavour just the grain or did something go horribly wrong? We try hard to be fair, but it's difficult.

Both flights this morning were complicated to judge. We take a while to get through them. So long, that we're the last people to have lunch. 

Meat on a stick and rice.

They can just about scrape enough food together for us. Rice and meat on a stick.

After lunch, Pete Slosberg asks me what I'm doing this evening.

"We're going to a meat restaurant. Do you want to tag along?"

"Sure. I could do with eating more meat." Somewhere like Argentina, I don’t know when I’ll get the chance again.

Three medal rounds in the afternoon. Hurray! Which we sprint through quickly. While everyone else is done for the day before we even get started on them. We took that long this morning. At least this bit should be fun.

First flight has some decent stabs at Belgian styles. My expectations weren’t high. Brewers outside Belgium often really fuck them up. But not this time. That’s the thing about competitions. The quality of individual categories varies incredibly. Other than Irish Red Ale. That’s inevitably full of terrible beers.

I always enjoy listening to the opinions of the other judges on the table. With often quite differing perspectives. To be expected, when you all come from different continents. Which is exactly what makes it fun. And instructive. There’s always lots to learn.

The two final flights, with almost as many styles as beers, are very tricky. Having to compare beers in wildly differing styles. Leading to plenty of discussion. This is where you have to leave your styles preferences at the door. If you’re trying to be fair. Which I always am.

I was very happy with every beer we awarded a medal. All well-deserved.

We're done by 14:00. Which isn't too bad. I head back to my hotel, pausing only to drop by the supermarket to get some cheap rum. Which costs an extortionate 3.50 euros for a litre. (A full litre, not some weird measure like 967 ml, as they have in Brazil.) It’s only 35% ABV, mind.

Another bargain. I’ll message Mikey later.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon fiddling on the internet. And sipping on my expensive rum. It's not the best rum I've ever drunk. But, what the hell, it's wet and alcoholic. Just like me.

At 19:00, ten of us assemble in the lobby of Pete's hotel. It takes several Ubers to ferry us to Palermo, where the restaurant is located.

As we bump and grind our way across the city, we pass some impressive classical buildings. There was clearly a lot of money here a century or so ago.

The dark, minimalist exterior of Casa Pasto.

Casa Pasto is quite a small place, facing onto a pretty little park. With another old tram track still embedded in the street outside. They must have had quite a network here once. Sad that it’s disappeared.

The restaurant’s minimalism suggests that it’s rather posh. Which is fine by me. I deserve a little luxury every now and again.

We're offered a ten-course Japanese fusion tasting menu. Far too much food for me. I just plump for an empanada followed by a ribeye steak. And a few caipirinhas. Quite a few caipirinhas. I need some hydration. My throat is very dry. That’s why I have that annoying cough. Which I’m doing my best to ignore.

A ribeye steak on a plate.

Several courses have some and gone before my steak arrives. Several caipirinhas, too. Not that I mind. I’m in no rush. I’m having a good time, not racing.

Weirdly, we're the only customers. No, I think we’ve booked the whole restaurant.

A caipirinha.

It takes a while to get through all those ten courses. By the time we're done, it's getting on for midnight. Meaning we had lots of time to chat. And drink caipirinhas.

I go pretty much straight to bed once I'm back in my room. It's an early start tomorrow, with bus leaving at 8 AM. At least that's the plan. I'll believe it when I see it.




Casa Pasto
Nicaragua 4557, 
C1414 Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.

 

Disclaimer: my hotel, some meals and some drinks were paid for by Copa Argentina de Cervezas. 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1904 Tetley XX

Tetley’s brewhouse use of Xs is dead confusing. After the four X Ales, we now have an XX.

Is this Tetley’s strongest Mild Ale? I’m not totally sure. True, it’s parti-gyled with X3 Mild. But I’ve seen beers marketed as Strong Ales or Burton Ales that were parti-gyled with Mild Ales. Does it matter if it was sold as Old Ale/Strong Ale or Mild Ale? Not really.

Not much to discuss about the recipe, as this was brewed together with the X3 above. Just over 100 barrels of each were in the parti-gyle. Which is a decent quantity for stronger beers. Though there were fewer brews than for the weaker Mild Ales.

Being stronger than X3, the colour is darker. Hitting a classic Dark Mild colour of around 20 SRM.
 

1904 Tetley XX
pale malt	5.25 lb	41.58%
mild malt	5.50 lb	43.56%
No. 3 invert sugar	1.75 lb	13.86%
Caramel 1000 SRM	0.13 lb	0.99%
Fuggles 120 mins	2.50 oz
Goldings 30 mins	2.50 oz
Goldings dry hops	1.00 oz
OG	1072
FG	1017
ABV	7.28
Apparent attenuation	76.39%
IBU	53
SRM	21
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1469 West Yorkshire Ale Timothy Taylor

 

Morning judging

I rise at 7:30. And realise that there are a couple of things I don’t know. Or have forgotten. When judging will start. And where it's taking place. Luckly there's the WhatsApp group to answer my questions.

It’s not the greatest of breakfasts. And the breakfast room is very quiet. Usually, it's full of judges. I’m guessing that most are staying at another hotel.

Bierlife, the judging location, is just a 5-minute stroll away. Just enough of a walk to wake me up properly.

A specialist beer pub in an old, single-storey building. Bending around an inner courtyard.

I’m one of the last judges to arrive. Still on time, mind.

I’m judging with Lee Lord and local Carolina. I remember Lee from the Williamsburg historic beer conference a few years back.

Judging samples lined up on a judging mat.

It seems that I needn’t have brought along my laptop. It’s all medal rounds. Brilliant. Someone else has done all the hard work taking notes. I just have to pluck out the best three.

We have some good styles. Notably, Pale Ales sand Bitters. Which is right down my ginnel. I find style like Pale Lagers really difficult. Probably, because I rarely drink them outside of competitions. Just not my thing. Unless I’m in Central Europe. Where you’d have to be a complete fucking idiot to dodge Lager.

My nose is a bit runny, which doesn’t help the tasting. I can really do without a cold. Not just for the sake of my sensory abilities. Being sick while away from home is no fun. Been there, done that, thrown up into the sick bag.

Lunch is a sort of shepherd's pie. Which is quite nice. Served on a slate. Which would piss my son Andrew right off. He’s a committed plateist.

Shepherd's pie thing.

We only have one flight after lunch. We're finished by 14:00. Brilliant. I trundle back to my hotel. Where I doss around for a while.

It’s all been pleasantly relaxing, so far. My hotel is a ten-minute walk from the judging location. Meaning no pissing around waiting for buses. As soon as I’m done judging, I can bugger off back for an afternoon nap. Not that I do that.

Tonight, we're eating where Carolina brews. The bus is supposed to leave at 18:00. I'm shocked when it pulls away at 18:07. It's about a 20-minute ride.

Bierlife Sala de Barricas is a typical industrial style taproom Quite Spartan. Decorated with not particularly realistic paintings of hops. (A reassuringly common motif in taprooms worldwide.) The beer served out of the side of a small van. I get myself a Quadrupel. Don't want to go too crazy.

Not a particularly realistic painting of hops.

There are various bits of food. Meat on a stick. A type of stew eaten with a fork. (A new one for me.) And BBQ meat. It seems that they’re into their meat here in Argentina. Who would have guessed that? Only joking. We’re in South America. The meat is bound to be dead yummy.

Bottles of beer are shared. With and without proper labels. Wee Heavy from quite a bit South of Edinburgh. Things I’d never get to taste, in the normal world. 

BBQ Meat.

Using all my old person skills, I've grabbed a seat. At the table where Eduardo, a very jolly Brazilian judge, has placed a bottle of cachaca. Weber Haus 3-year-old. I’ve bought their cachaca before in Sao Paulo duty free. Good stuff.

"Open it up whenever you feel like it, Ron."

I don't need to be asked twice. Or even once. It's rather nice. So nice, I pour myself a second and a third.

When I’m warmed up a little, Pete Slosberg asks me if I want to share his Uber. It's only 20:30. But I don't want to be out too late. And all the cachaca has evaporated. Not much point in staying any longer.

La Lechuzita Loca.

I stroll back from Pete's hotel. It's not a long walk. One which takes me past an empanada shop. “La Lechuzita Loca” (The Crazy Little Owl) It would be impolite not to drop in. Empanadas are sort of like the kebabs of South America. Except they’re eaten for breakfast, too. And lunch. Anytime, really.

"A meat empanada, please."

"Normal or spicy?"

"Oh, spicy, please."

It's rather nice. And cost just 1.80 euros. Bargain. I’ll have to message Mikey.

I don't stay up late. A little Tomatin propels me onto the sleep train.




Bierlife
Humberto 1º 670, 
C1103 Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.


La Lechuzita Loca
Chacabuco 780, 
C1069 Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.


Disclaimer: my hotel, some meals and some drinks were paid for by Copa Argentina de Cervezas. 

Heading to the pub

Frustrated by a couple of hours spent trying to get mobile data, it's time to head to the pub. Luckily, Santo Remedio is just 50 metres away. And should have opened 5 minutes ago.

Of course, it's not actually open yet. Though some of the window shutters are open. I can see staff inside and I ask:

“Are you open?”

“No. In 15 minutes.”

Time for a bit of a wander.

One of the reasons I’ve long wanted to visit Buenos Aires is its architecture. Which sounds dead interesting. My morning odyssey revealed a bit. Surprisingly variable scale. Lots of fancy plaster work and cast-iron railings. High, ornate doorways. 

Parking garages in every random spot. Quite a bit of dogshit. Best watch my step.

Bar Saeta.

A backstreet, corner pub, Bar Saeta. Since 1962, “Every Tuesday two for one vermouth.” Sadly, to time to stop. Just across, a swanky meat restaurant.

Tram tracks embossed into cobbles. Bright murals I don’t understand.

A literal soup kitchen. Customers eating street-bound outside. I walk discreetly past. 

A Buenos Aires street.

I see quite a lot in the 30 minutes before returning to Santo Remedio. There’s my optimism at work. The bloke told me 15 minutes. Half an hour, maybe, then? That might be pushing it a bit.

It is, indeed, open. I’m their first customer.

It’s a specialist beer place. With the customary Wall of Taps. A smoking Franka Zappa rather scarily peering around it.

Santo Remedio wall of beer taps.

I have a couple of beers. To be precise, Astor A.M. IPA. Jabalina Doble IPA Fake News. And Kellan Imperial Stout. All pretty decent. 

I’ m happy just to be relaxing, beer in hand. Having a moment of calm. I’ve come to love a quiet daytime pub. The daylight. The quiet. The lack of fucking people.

Their other speciality: hot dogs. A Venna hot dog fills a hole. My stomach thought my throat had been cut. Though, obviously, the steady flow of beer was a hint that hadn’t occurred.

When I get back to my hotel at 13:00, my room is ready. Inside, I go to plug in my laptop. And realise they have a unique socket here. I feel a total idiot. It’s the sort of basic travel error that greatly amuses me when it’s made by others.

I return to my oldest friend on reception

“Where can buy an adaptor.?”

“You don’t have to. You can borrow one.”

“That would be brilliant.”

There’s my arse saved. Beginning to think my preparations for this trip weren’t quite extensive enough.

After firing up my computer, I pour myself a whisky. A big one. I’d anticipated a much simpler day.

A glass of rather sludgy IPA.

Some judges are meeting up in Santo Remedio before going to the dinner in Sashimiya, a Japanese restaurant. I trail on down there. Obviously. Not just because I took a liking to the place earlier. I’m a very sociable chap. 

Too sociable Dolores might say. More likely. “It’s another way of saying alcoholic.” She can be quite direct. Or: “Right. Too ‘sociable’.”

But I am really looking forward to meeting the other judges. That’s why I make these trips. As a man with both feet firmly planted in old age, I have limited opportunities for new social encounters. Or any social encounters. I’m delighted when they do come along.

The rest of the evening is filled with a happy combination of sushi and beer. And is surprisingly vague 

Walking back to the hotel, I'm feeling totally knacked. But loving Buenos Aires.

Sleep quickly overtakes me, without even a whisky to push me over the cliff edge, like a disappointed lover.




SAETA Cafe
Chile 602, 
C1098AAN Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.


Santo Remedio
Chile 700, 
C1098AAN Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.


Asambleas del Pueblo Comedor Popular
Chacabuco 608, 
C1097 Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.
https://lavaca.org/notas/no-es-magia-cronica-de-un-comedor-hoy/

A very noble enterprise, providing food to those in need. As they were distributing as I passed by, obviously I didn’t take any photos, as I’m not a fucking ghoul.


Sashimiya
México 1965, 
C1222ABC Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires, Argentina

 

Disclaimer: my hotel, some meals and some drinks were paid for by Copa Argentina de Cervezas. 

Flying out

"Bum."

"What's the matter?"

"The stupid esim app is complaining about my email address."

"And?"

"I can't see if my esim for Argentina is installed."

We spend a delightful couple of hours fiddling with my phone. The end result being that it doesn't even recognise my esim adapter. Brilliant.

"Can't you just buy a sim at the airport?"

"I suppose so."

I remove the esim adapter to leave room for a standard sim.

As always, I get to the airport hours before my flight. And head straight to the sim shop. Where there are no lights on. As it’s closed. Fucking brilliant. I guess I'll have to buy a sim when I arrive.

The boring/annoying formalities don't take long. The airport is pretty quiet. I head straight for the lounge, pausing only to buy a bottle of Tomatin in the duty free. About the only reasonably-priced single malt. I dream of the days when I could afford to buy Lagavullin. 

Two whiskies sitting on a table in the KLM lounge.

It's my standard drill: kick off with a brace of whiskies then get some food. This time: beef rendang plus spuds. The rendang is far too runny, but tastes OK.

Feeling a bit dehydrated, I get a whisky and an orange juice on my second round.

I notice that the flight is 10 minutes late. Not too bad. But I know what airlines are like. I’ll be amazed if the delay is under half an hour.

I drag myself down to the gate about when boarding should start. And see that it's now 25 minutes late. I notice someone seems to be poking the wing with a stick. What is he doing? Whatever it is, we won’t be going anywhere until he's finished.

To pass the time, I just doze. Which makes the minutes rush by. Why have I never done this before? Are strategic naps an oldie superpower? Just as well I’ve learned the trick. It's 90 minutes late when we board.

If you look closely, you can see the man with a stick.

I seem to in premium economy. Did I book that? I don't remember. But I'm not complaining. I watch some crap films. Jojo Rabbit, What Happens in Vegas, Valentine's Day. They pass the time.

After eating - a meal which is a good bit better than the usual KLM slop - I get my head down At first I'm not that comfortable. But when I do drop off it's for real. We're only a couple of hours from landing when I wake up.

Everything runs pretty smoothly on arrival. Soon I’m landside wondering where the hell my driver is. I walk around arrivals for 15 minutes, then give up and go to a taxi counter. I really can’t be doing with any around-fucking than 100% necessary.

Dawn is breaking spectacularly as we weave our way through the morning traffic. It cheers me up a treat.

Sunrise in Buenos Aires.

I'm way too early to check in. So I dump my bags and go in search of a sim card. I get one in a kiosk just down the road. Not the easiest transaction, given the bloke behind the counter’s total lack of English. And my, er, existing level of Spanish. (Existing, as in Eastern European Socialism.) I leave with a prepaid sim of some sort. Not sure exactly what sort. Probably should have researched that a bit more.

Wake-up juice is what I need. Do they have cafés in Buenos Aires? Well, there’s one on the big road just around the corner from my hotel. I drop by and order a coffee with milk. And take a look at my shiny new sim. I struggle to understand the attached instructions.

The coffee is pretty good. Who would have guessed that? And it’s doing its job pretty well. I’m feeling positively lively when I leave.

Inside Sumo cafe.

Back in the hotel lobby, I install my new sim. And try to get it working. With no luck. I ask the bloke on reception for help. He speaks pretty good English and lends a hand.

To activate it, I need to send a photo of my passport and one of me holding the passport. What the fuck? When I've done all of that, it still doesn’t fucking work. There's no money on the card. It’s prepaid to zero. 

OK. All I have to do is load up gigas and gigas of bytes. The very helpful young chap on reception helps me through that data uploading. Until the credit card transaction fails. With both credit cards. 

My ever-helpful chum on reception suggests I load up with cash in a kiosk. Though obviously, I’ll first need to get some cash. This is getting way too complicated. He very constructively shows where the nearest bank is on a map. On the main drag. There and back is just exactly far enough to be annoying.

Some random buildings.

20,000 pesos in my pocket, I return to the kiosk right next to my hotel. The one where I bought the sim card. With so much difficulty and miscomprehension. What could possibly go wrong?

“No. We don’t do that.” Is what I think he says to me. Or it could have been: “Your cabbages love potatoes. Cigarettes?” Given his accent and my near zero knowledge of Spanish.

Whatever he said, he clearly doesn’t anticipate any further financial activity between the two of us.

Should I try another kiosk?  I've now been fucking around for 2 hours. I'm done. Time to accept that I’ll be relying on wifi and head to the pub. 
 

 

Sumo
Av. Independencia 797, 
C1099AAH Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires. 

 

Disclaimer: my hotel, some meals and some drinks were paid for by Copa Argentina de Cervezas. 

Let's Brew - 1904 Tetley X2

And here we are with the non-pale version of X2. Quite different from X2 Pale but also not the same as X1.

What’s the difference? Grits. While X and X1 both contain a very high proportion of grits. While X2 has none. In its place, there’s rather more mild malt. Almost as much mild malt as pale malt. Along with some sugar. All in all, a rather simple grist.

The hopping is much heavier than in X1: 7lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt compared to 4 lbs. That’s quite a big difference. Though it’s well short of the 12.5 lbs per quarter which graced Tetley’s Pale Ale.

And what were those hops? Worcester, Kent and Mid-Kent. All from the 1903 harvest. 

1904 Tetley X2
pale malt	5.25 lb	44.42%
mild malt	5.00 lb	42.30%
brown sugar	1.50 lb	12.69%
Caramel 1000 SRM	0.07 lb	0.59%
Fuggles 120 mins	1.75 oz
Goldings 30 mins	1.75 oz
Goldings dry hops	0.50 oz
OG	1057
FG	1014
ABV	5.69
Apparent attenuation	75.44%
IBU	41
SRM	14
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1469 West Yorkshire Ale Timothy Taylor

 

 

 

Buenos Aires cafe bars

Just a quick photographic post today. Because, in what seems to be becoming a tradition. I've returned from South America with part of me broken. This time, it's my lungs.

I developed a cough after a couple of days. By the time I boarded the plane to come home. it had escalated to a near-constant coughing fit. I'm sure the passengers seated around me appreciated that.

It was so bad, I went straight to my doctor. Who diagnosed me with pneumonia. Iy's my fourth bout. I guess I'm just lucky.

I'll be taking things very easy for the next few days. Some photos of Buenos Aires locales will have to bide you over for a while.

Saeta

El Federal

El Gaucho

La Estancia

Mercado del Centro

 

 

 

 

 

Exhibit of Foreign and Colonial Beers (part four)

I'm still desperately milking this article for content. As I have to, when I'll be gallivanting off to South America for almost two weeks.

We'll start with some general remarks about the beers entered. Beginning with those fancily-labelled beers.

One of the first points to be noted at the exhibition was the pains expended abroad in making bottled beers attractive to the eye by choosing the most tasteful bottles and labels. It will not be invidious to state that the beers of the United States of America stood out prominently in this connection, whilst the Russian and Japanese samples deserve the highest praise for their artistic get-up.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

Most UK labels were pretty functional back then. With little more in terms of graphic design than the company's logo. Like Bass and their red triangle. Mostly, iy was just text.

There had been a revolution in brewing outside Europe with the development of artificial refrigeration. Which made brewing possible anywhere in the world, no matter what the climate. My experiences in brew houses in Brazil, where I felt like I was about to collapse from heatstroke, demonstrate how difficult brewing there would be without refrigeration.

The adoption of scientific methods of brewing has rendered possible the production of beers in countries where the climate is by no means propitious, so that those who have taken up their abode in tropical countries need no longer be deprived of the luxury of malt liquors except at prohibitive prices. Indeed, the establishment of breweries would seem to proceed hand in hand with the spread of civilisation, and to-day some type of beer is produced practically all over the world.

Bearing in mind the conditions obtaining in some of the countries from whence the beers emanated, and taking into account the distance they had to be sent, it would not have been surprising had many of the samples arrived in an undrinkable condition; yet such was not the case, and among the whole collection tasted not one of the beers could be described as actually unsound.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

There were drawbacks to these new cold-fermented beers. Without cooling, they quickly spoiled.

Bottom-fermentation beers must of necessity be brewed under what may be described as artificial conditions (low temperature), so that the difficulties of local environment are in a sense minimised. On the other hand, it must be remembered that these bottom-fermentation beers are less able to withstand disease when exposed to ordinary temperatures for lengthened periods than are top-fermentation beers. It is, therefore, the more to the credit of those who produced them, even bearing in mind that they were all bottled samples, that they stood the transport so well. But most of the samples from India, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand were top-fermentation beers, and although these differed from the English product, being more of the Lager type in character, the majority were of very excellent quality, and none of them could be described as undrinkable.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

It's interesting the colonial top-fermenting beers were Lager-like in character. What is exactly meant by that? A lack of fruity esters? A high dextrine content?

Finally, a note on the system of marking.

In making the awards, beers of similar types and from the same countries were placed in competition. This was the only practical course since the products of different countries differ so markedly. The beers have been awarded three, two, and one marks respectively in their order of merit; but these marks have a purely relative value, and it must not be concluded that two samples from different countries to which equal marks have been given are of equal excellence, even sui generis. In some cases the type of beer differed so greatly from anything we were previously acquainted with, that comparison was a difficult matter.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

No style guidelines, then. Just comparing like with like, as for style and origin. Seems fair enough to me. 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1911 Eldridge Pope Double Stout

Just 3º lower than in 1896 is Eldridge Pope’s other Black Beer, Double Stout. Even though that leaves it under 1060º and not much stronger than a London Porter. Far short of what you’d expect for a Double Stout.

As this was parti-gyled with the Light Tonic Stout, I don’t really have anything to say about the recipe. This was the junior party in the parti-gyle, amounting to 52 barrels compared to LTS’s 94.

Unlike LTS, Double Stout was sold in draught form. Costing the same as Pale Ale: 54 shillings for a 36-gallon barrel.

This does not look like a candidate for extended ageing. I can’t see there being more than a couple of months between racking and consumption. 

1911 Eldridge Pope Double Stout
pale malt	7.50 lb	59.41%
crystal malt 60 L	1.125 lb	8.91%
black malt	0.750 lb	5.94%
oats	1.50 lb	11.88%
No. 2 invert	1.500 lb	11.88%
caramel 1000 SRM	0.25 lb	1.98%
Cluster 120 mins	1.00 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.50 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.50 oz
OG	1059
FG	1018
ABV	5.42
Apparent attenuation	69.49%
IBU	51
SRM	38
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	59.5º F
Yeast	White Labs WLP099 Super High Gravity