Brewing in Argentina (part five)

It's time to finally say farewell to Argentina with the final post in this series. Which has spanned the time I was actually in Argentina, having a really good cough.

This time we're looking at how beer was packaged. At the time, there were only two options: bottles and casks. And both were employed.

The Argentine beer is put up in bottles and barrels, the retailers in the larger towns being supplied mainly in barrels. Shipments in quantities to the interior are occasionally made in barrels also, the beer being, kept cool by means of ice. The more general way of shipping the beer to a distance, however, is in closed cases containing four dozen bottles. 
The Brewers' Journal vol. 35 1899, January 15th 1899, pages 46 - 47.

Large settlements got casks and the countryside got casks. Pretty obvious, that. I wonder how draught beer was served. Was it with CO2 or air pressure? And how on earth could I find out?

A personal observation here. I noticed that in non-specialist beer places, while they served draught beer, quite a lot of people were drinking bottles. That's usually a sign of customers not trusting draught beer and resorting to bottles as a safer option.

Empty barrels and staves for barrel making are admitted free of duty. The value of the casks, barrels, and staves imported into the Argentine during 1895 was £43,598, these goods to the value of £17,035 being imported from the United States and to the value of £8,510 from Belgium. Germany sent them in to the value of £5,164. 
The Brewers' Journal vol. 35 1899, January 15th 1899, pages 46 - 47.

It sounds like a lot of the casks were imported or made from imported wood. Much of it from the USA. Presumably, American oak, then. But, if they were going for the continental practice of lining casks, taint from the wood wouldn't have been a problem. I'm a bit surprised by Belgium as a source. I can't recall there being forests of oak there.

The importation of glass bottles of all kinds fell off from a valuation of £70,078 in 1896 to £60,334 in 1897. Most of these goods were obtained from Germany, whose share of the trade amounted to £42,503, Belgium ranking next with £9,000. The amount purchased from the United States amounted to £2,026. The duty on glass bottles is 25 per cent, ad valorem. The machinery used in the breweries is nearly all of French manufacture. A little of it is from Germany. Machinery generally pays a duty of 10 per cent. ad valorem when it exceeds a value of £20.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 35 1899, January 15th 1899, pages 46 - 47.

Interesting that there was no import duty on casks, but there was on bottles. The sources were the same as for most brewing-related items: the USA, Germany and Belgium. Which makes it all the weirder that the machinery mostly came from France. 

Health update

In case any of you were worrying, I'm now feeling much better. Just over two weeks after getting back from Argentina. 

Not totally back to normal, but well on my way. I'm now just coughing like a chain smoker. A course of antibiotics and some steroids really helped. And lots of rest. 

I need to get my strength back. As I'm off to Australia in three weeks. With Andrew. Wish me luck. 

Brewing in Argentina (part four)

We now move from beer itself to its principal ingredient: barley.

To put this into context, in the 19th century, large quantities of malting barley were exported from Chile to the UK. Becoming, along with the USA and the Middle East, one of the UK's main suppliers. Argentina is just next door and parts of it have a similar climate to Chile. So was Argentina also exporting malting barley? The short answer is, no.

The cultivation of barley in the Argentine has not been very successful, the quality of the crops being much depreciated by recurrent droughts and the ever-present devastating locusts. The area under cultivation in the province of Buenos Aires alone last year was estimated at 75,000 acres, yielding about forty bushels per acre. Argentina is both an exporter and importer of barley. It was in 1876 that the republic first began to export the cereal, beginning that year with a shipment of sixteen tons, and continuing to export through succeeding years up to 1895, when the exportations amounted to 8,990 tons. As the production increased Argentine purchases of foreign barley decreased from £9,168 in 1888 to £5,737 in 1897. The latter figure was, however, three times larger than the quantity imported in 1896, which was valued at only £1,901. This was due to the poor crops. Great Britain supplied £1,337 worth of barley; Germany £447; and the United States only £9 worth of the 1896 importation.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 35 1899, January 15th 1899, pages 46 - 47.

Argentina wasn't having a great deal of luck growing barley. And, while it was exporting barley, it wasn't of malting quality. And malting barley was still being imported.

The two largest brewers were involved in growing barley. But they still needed to import large quantities of malt. 

Both the Bieckert Brewing Company and the Quilmes Company are interested in barley-growing lands. The increase in the importations of barley last year, just referred to, would indicate that the quality of the barley being raised is not good enough for brewing requirements. If it were, so much of it as was wanted would be kept at home to save the import duty of two and a half centavos per kilogram (2,204 pounds) on cleaned and three-quarters of a cent per kilo on uncleaned barley. For the same reasons that apply to barley, malt is imported in considerable quantities, the value of the importations during last year amounting to £34,528. The importations during the preceding year amounted to £32,221, of which Germany supplied £31,987, Belgium £131, and Great Britain £105. The duty on malt is 10 per cent, ad valorem. The amount of hops purchased by the Argentine increased from £5,136 in 1895 to £6,713 in 1896, and during last year amounted to £6,701. Germany supplied £5,170 worth, while Belgium sent in the commodity to the value of £1,989. Great Britain supplied £145 worth. Hops pay a duty of 2.5 per cent, ad valorem.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 35 1899, January 15th 1899, pages 46 - 47.

There were three main foreign sources of brewing materials: Germany, Belgium and the UK. All supplying both malt and hops.

I'm slightly surprised that there was no attempt to cultivate hops in Argentina. As, unlike most of South America, some areas of the country do have suitable climatic conditions for the crop. Something which is now being taken advantage of. Earler this year, I judged IPAs brewed using Argentinian hops. Which was quite tricky. All the varieties being specific to Argentina, leaving me with no idea what they were supposed to taste like.
 

A horrible feeling

I have a terrible night. Spending most of it coughing up my guts. Any relief from the cough medicine has only been temporary. Bum. At least I’m not in a rush.

I’m starting to worry about my cough. The burning sensation in my lungs is uncomfortably familiar. From the time I had pneumonia a couple of decades back. And it wasn’t diagnosed immediately. I recall coughing all through lunch at work. And that feeling just getting stronger and stronger inside my chest.

Trying to dispel such gloomy thoughts from my mind, I plod along for breakfast. Not that I’m even vaguely hungry. Some hydration and ballast are required for my rather long journey. I go through the motions with scrambled egg and cheese. Along with coffee and orange juice.

A breakfast of scrambled egg, cheese, coffee and orange juice.

I doodle on the internet for a little back in my room. Not much else to do before fucking off as I pretty well packed last night. At 9:30, I dawdle downstairs to check out.

Getting an Uber is a little frustrating, as the wifi keeps cutting out and I have to step back into the hotel. When I do manage to book one, the pickup point isn’t clear. A bit of a problem as I’m on the massive main drag.

I’m informed that my ride has arrived. Despite not being able to see the car anywhere. After a little walking around, it turns up where I expected it. Now there’s some stress I could have done without. Especially with all my luggage. And that burning feeling inside.

My stress levels increase when we don’t seem to be going the right way. Is that the runway already? That’s far too quick. Oh fuck. It’s the wrong airport.

“This isn’t the right airport.” I say to my driver. “I must have booked for the wrong one.”

“The international terminal is right here.”

“It’s the wrong airport.”

After a while, I get him to understand that I need to be at the other airport. It’s not easy, his English being limited and my Spanish non-existent. I agree to pay him in euros. We don’t mention an amount.  I hope have enough left.

“It takes 45 minutes.” My driver says. Just as well I set off hours early.

After a few minutes dodging along the motorway, the traffic thickens. Then starts clumping, sometimes coming to a total stop, 

“Just as well I left really early.” I think to myself reassuringly. While that horrible feeling grows in my chest.

My driver seems more than happy with the bunch of euros I thrust into his hands. I’m just grateful that he didn’t dump me at the wrong airport. Or worse, in the middle of nowhere. As I have no mobile data.

This trip hasn’t gone totally smoothly.

Even though I’ve just got my small wheelie bag, the walk through the airport’s fucking-around bits leaves me short of breath.

I don’t bother with any duty free. There’s aren’t any Argentinian spirits. Just international types and brands. What’s the point in buying Johnny Walker or Smirnoff?

Lounge empenadas and croissants.

The lounge is pretty quiet. Only a couple of other punters. I don’t feel much in the mood for food or drink. But, look! Free-pour spirits. I get some whisky. (Johnny Walker: I might not buy it, but I’ll drink it when it’s free.) Healthied up with some orange juice.

I don’t enjoy the walk to my gate. I do get a seat there, which is cool. Wouldn’t have felt up for much standing around.

Just after I’ve boarded, a flight attendant comes and tells the bloke next to me that she’s been able to get an upgrade for him and he fucks off to premium economy. He dodged a bullet there.

I do loads of coughing during boarding. And after take-off. I eat fuck all of the meal. All the coughing is making my stomach muscles really ache. After not eating, I get back into some really serious coughing.

It’s an uncomfortable flight. More like a nightmare for those seated around me, as I cough through the night. Pausing only for some restless sleep. Though, I’m probably coughing through that, too.

We park om the tarmac and are bussed to the terminal. Which, thankfully, removes some of the walking. And what walking I do, I take very slowly, so I don’t collapse panting on the floor.

No queue at passport control and I breeze through. At least, what passes for breezing in my wheezy, shuffling state.

Of course, it’s a bit of a walk to the luggage carousel. A very slow walk. I sit and have a good cough while I wait for the first bags to spill out.

With my bags loaded onto a cart, the walk to the taxi rank is a bit easier.  I only need to pause to cough half a dozen times or so on the way.

Back on our street, I have difficulty walking my luggage from taxi to front door. And opening said door. Dolores, waiting, as always with tea for me, notices something is wrong. That horrible burning feeling has grown even stronger. It’s been a horrible journey. Much worse than coming back from Salvador with a broken arm. That was a doddle, in comparison. A bit painful, but ay least I could fucking breathe.

“I think I’ve got pneumonia again.”

This time, I don’t fuck around and go straight to my doctor. 

Relaxing in Buenos Aires

After a reasonable kip, considering how ill I feel, I go to the bog at 7:30 feeling shit. And for some reason my nose starts bleeding. And doesn't want to stop. I'd planned another couple of hours in bed. But, as I don't fancy doing the red harvest thing again, I stay up. When it's under control, it's not worth going back to bed.

The breakfast buffet isn't bad. Scrambled eggs, but no bacon. Just some weird-looking sausages. I can give those a miss. The cheese is way better and there are several types of it. I get some down, along with a couple of coffees and orange juice, despite feeling really, really shit. Being ill is so much fun when you're abroad and alone. 

A breakfast of scrambled egg, covered in triangular slices of cheese, coffee and orange juice.

Best breakfast so far. Though the fruit selection wasn’t up to Brazilian standards.

As there are loads of chemists around, I decide to look up cold medicine: "medicina para el resfriado". Armed with this knowledge, I head to the nearest chemist. Where I manage to score some decent cold medicine.

An impressive old building on Lavalle.

Then walk down Lavalle looking for somewhere to get a bite to eat and something to drink. It seems to be the main shopping drag. With some impressive old buildings, all plaster ornaments, balconies and balustrades. Accompanied by a depressing number of empty units. As well as quite a few café-bars and restaurants. I’m after the former, wanting to hang around, not just eat.

Fairly randomly, I settle on Mercado del Centro. Where I order an empanada and a caipirinha. And knock back a couple of cold tabs. It seems like a fairly traditional place. Old men in caps sip coffee. Groups of workers and shoppers drop in for lunch

Inside Mercado del Centro.

After an hour or so and a couple more cocktails, I feel a bit better. Not great, but nearly human. Those cold tablets must be kicking in.  I while away a couple of hours sipping on cocktails and watching the locals. And chatting with Mikey on WhatsApp.

“How much is a beer?” Mikey messages.

“6.50 euros for a litre of Stout. And I'm on the equivalent of Calverstraat.”

“6.50 for a litre. ‘kin hell that's cheap.”

Always worth making the effort to piss off Mikey a bit.

“How much are the cocktails.”

“No idea. They weren’t on the menu.”

Coffee and conversation in Mercado del Sur.

I leave at 15:30. A bit over €5 a pop, my caipirinhas. I learn from my bill. I can live with that. Cocktails cost a fuck load more in Amsterdam.

More food is what I need. (Starve a fever, feed a cold, that’s what Mum used to say. With the cold I have, feasting would be appropriate.) Feeling like something fishy. Wanting a change from meat. 

I wander off the main drag and down some of the small side streets. Lined with tiny shops, parking garages and the odd eatery. Without much luck, initially. It’s all beef, pizza and empanadas. I’m getting pretty frustrated when I spot a little Peruvian place. That'll do. They’re bound to have fish.

Coya inside.

It’s not very busy. But also not very big. A couple of middle-aged blokes are getting stuck into big plates of stuff. A tiny waitress eats demurely in a corner. Family members of the owner, with a toddler and baby in tow, chat quietly. I wave and smile at the baby. It’s all very low-key.

The owner suggests that I try an orange alternative to pisco sour. It tastes lovely, but contains so much ice that my brain freezes up. Pretty much exactly what I don’t need. It sets me off coughing again. Which I’m sure the others really appreciate. I’m back to coughing at Olympic level. Damn this cold.

In a radical departure from the usual footie, they're showing videos of Peruvian music on the TV. With performers in very sparkly outfits. Quite showbiz. Most of the music is Cumbia, a personal favourite of mine. I’d always thought of it as a specifically Columbian thing. Though I did learn last year that they have it in Chile, too.

My fried fish and potatoes.

The fried fish I order is a massive pile. Far too much, but really nice. I get through about two-thirds of the fish, along with a couple of mouthfuls of the potato underneath it. And all of the pisco I order. When I finish, they're already loading the chairs onto the tables. They clearly aren't opening this evening.

Even though the sun isn't down, it's pretty chilly when I leave. Just like in Chile, late in the afternoon the temperature collapses like me after three hours at an all-you-can-drink bar. (After which, there was the red harvest incident, mentioned above.)

In my room, I chill a little more with my “special” drink. And get in the heavy-duty coughing I didn’t feel comfortable doing out in public. I sound like a Victorian poet in the final stages of consumption. Just without the blood. At least, so far. Apart from this morning.

It's another early night. I don't need to be up that early, but I do need as much sleep as I can get. A long flight tomorrow.

I cough into some rum on the slumber trail.





Mercado del Centro
Lavalle 502, 
C1047 AAL, Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.



Restaurante Turistico Coya
Tucumán 874, 
C1049 Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.

 

Back to Buenos Aires

I make it up on time. That is: with enough time to eat breakfast properly. I need some ballast for that long bus ride. I haven’t had the best night.

I have a traditional scrambled egg and cheese breakfast. As is my wont in South America. Along with the usual liquids – coffee and orange juice. Followed by a quick dessert of fresh fruit. It’s better than the breakfast in Buenos Aires, which was pretty fucking basic.

A breakfast of scrambled eggs and cheese, with coffee and orange juice.

I didn’t have that brilliant a sleep. A lot of coughing went on in the night. I suspect most of it was mine.

Amazingly, the bus leaves almost on time, at 8:09. It's a long, tedious slog back to Buenos Aires. But I’m well-prepared, with snacks and a “special” drink. Most of a bottle of rum mixed with cola.

Argentina imitating Holland.

The weather is much duller. Low cloud and grey light combine with the flat landscape to give the scene a rather Dutch air. Until the sun comes out. The bright, azure sky is a dead giveaway that we aren’t amongst the polders.

We slide past rusty towns of gomerias, bungalows, churches and parrillas. Dusty football pitches slumber silently in the sunlight. 

A roadside town.

A railway strings along parallel to the road. It looks in use, as the sleepers are concrete. But, up until now, I’ve seen no sign of any actual trains. On the trip either way. I assume that it connects Buenos Aires to Mar del Plata. Can’t be a very frequent service.

As we near Buenos Aires, the landscape becomes more dense and industrial. Pipes and chimneys replacing meadows and trees. Closer yet, stubbly blocks of high-rises sprout. Until we hit the city itself. Castellated in its skyline, where constructs of very varying heights elbow into each other. Like a football match between six and sixteen-year-olds.

It seems a shorter journey than on the way out. Probably because we don't make any stops. The drive still lasts almost 5.5 hours.

I do quite a lot of coughing on the way back. Is my cold getting worse? I think so. Just in time for my free time in Buenos Aires. Wonderful.

My worry for today is getting an Uber without mobile data. Fortunately, many of us tip down to Bierlife. Where I can get wifi. Soon I'm bouncing my way to my hotel. Which is on the main drag. It's not that far. But way too far me in my ill and knackered state. With a shitload of luggage.

El Federal inside.

Once checked in, I almost immediately retrace my steps to El Federal. A cool old bar just around the corner from Bierlife. To meet up with Pete and Amy and a few other judges. For a couple of caipirnhas and a little food. Not that we stay long, as the others have to get to the airport.

It’s a shame we can’t stay longer as delicious-looking plates of food keep being ferried past me. But I couldn’t really hang around by myself, taking up a table for six, while there’s a queue outside.

Soon, I’m back in my hotel room, looking for inspiration. And not totally in my “special” rum drink.

What to do tonight? Maybe Parrilla. There are a couple of places just over the road on Lavalle. So that’s where I head. 

It’s just after 17:00 on a Sunday. And Lavalle is pedestrianised shopping street. Families are strolling around in the fading daylight. Not much strolling for me. I’m hungry and need to find a restaurant.

Inside El Gaucho. 

I pick El Gaucho for no particular reason. Other than it’s not far, looks fairly traditional and not too expensive. And has a cool name. I have to walk past the charcoal grill to get into the seating area. Which is all white tablecloths and wine glasses. Like a proper restaurant.

I settle down my arse at a table. And order a steak and a bottle of Malbec. While half watching Spain against Portugal in the final of the Nations League on the TV.

El Gaucho meal.

There aren’t very many other diners. It’s well past lunch and, as in Spain, evening meals are taken late. I’ve no problem with it being quiet. I quite like that, being a boring old fart. I don’t need to be surrounded by bustle and noise to convince myself that I’m having a good time.

Both the steak and the wine are pretty good. So good, that I eat almost all the steak. You'll have to guess how much of the wine I managed to get down.*  And Portugal beat Spain on penalties. That’ll teach the cheating bastards for cheating England in the final of the Euros last year.

Back in my room, I laze around and drink some more of my “special” drink. Before turning in dead early. At 8:30 again.



* The whole bottle.



Bar El Federal
Carlos Calvo 599, 
C1068 Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires.



Parrilla El Gaucho de Lavalle
Lavalle 870, 
C1047 AAR, Cdad. Autónoma de Buenos Aires,
https://parrillagaucho.com/


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

 

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. 

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. 

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.