Let's Brew Wednesday - 1990 Youngs Pilsner Lager

Here’s a fun one. A parti-gyled Lager. As this was brewed together with the weaker London Lager above.

Obviously, it has the same simple recipe as London Lager. Just lager malt in the grist. Interestingly, it’s brewed at classic Pilsner strength: 1048º or 12º Plato. That’s definitely atypical for UK-brewed versions of the style.  Which were rarely above 1040º. And often quite a way lower. Like, closer to 1030º.

I’m not totally sure what the name of this beer was. It’s just “PL” in the brewing record. I’ve guessed “Pilsner Lager”. But it could also be “Premium Lager”. Or something else entirely.

I doubt this underwent any actual lagering. 

1990 Youngs Pilsner Lager
lager malt	10.50 lb	100.00%
Styrian Goldings 60 min	1.50 oz
Styrian Goldings 10 min	0.67 oz
OG	1048
FG	1011.5
ABV	4.83
Apparent attenuation	76.04%
IBU	25
SRM	3
Mash at	147º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	60 minutes
pitching temp	52.5º F
Yeast	Wyeast 2042 Danish lager

Listen to brewer John Hatch explain how they brewed at Youngs in the 1990s.  

Craft Beer in East Asia

Charles Guerrier, organisor of the Asia Beer Championship in Singapore, discusses brewing in East Asia. And why it can be difficult.  

Talking and talking

Dolores has made tea before I wake. Again.

“Cup of tea, Ronald?”

“Yes, please. No fear of pissing myself today.”

“Charming.”

“Just being honest.”

I’m intrigued by what the breakfast will offer.

“I wonder if there’ll be bacon.”

“Why?” Dolores asks.

“A breakfast isn’t a breakfast without bacon. Not a proper one”

“That’s just your opinion.”

“And that’s all that really counts.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

It does turn out to be a proper breakfast. With bacon and two types of sausage. Dolores goes for the cold stuff.

“No bacon for you?” I ask.

“You know that I don’t eat bacon. Not for breakfast.”

“I thought you might have seen the light.”

“Fuck off, Ronald.”

“That’s not very ladylike.”

“Fuck off.”

I recreate my preferred Brazilian breakfast: scrambled egg and bacon, followed by fruit. That puts me in a good mood. And the coffee gets me perked up and ready to rock.

Someone comes up and tells me that my ride to Villa Raab, where I’ll be speaking, leaves in six minutes. Just as well I left plenty of time for breakfast. We quickly go upstairs and fetch my laptop, And books. Which I take in the roller bag. As they’re effing heavy.

“We shouldn’t have brought so many bricks with us.”

“Very funny, Ronald.”

Markus Raupach, whom I know from Chile, is also in the minibus. It’s nice to see him again.

When I get to the room, they’re unpacking the beer that will be served while I’m talking. Apart from Fullers IPA, all Sam Smiths beers. Nut Brown Ale, Porter and Imperial Stout.

I fire up my laptop and try to connect it to the massive TV. I’ve plugged in the HDMI cable, without any luck. Someone from the hotel comes to my aid. Rolling down the screen to which the HDMI cable really connects. I’m glad it was so easy to sort out.

Ninety minutes are scheduled for the talk. On the history of UK beer styles. Including any questions. I should be able to fill that. Once I get started, I’m hard to stop.

The talk goes pretty well. Though I’m having so much fun rambling on, that I need to rush the last part a bit. I could easily have gone on for two hours.

I shift a decent number of books. Which is good. Dolores is pleased. And that’s what is most important. I never want to piss her off.

The people from the next talk start setting up. Bringing lots of cheese. Rather smelly cheese. At first, I wonder if I remembered to change my socks this morning. Before realising that the cheesy smell is coming from, er, cheese.

We’re taken back to the castle. Where we’ve a few hours before my second talk. We spend some of it in the tent in the courtyard, where we have lunch: Eupener bratwurst and mashed spuds. Not exactly gourmet fare. It fills a hole, though.

My second talk is in a smaller room in the castle museum. Which is in a building about 50 metres away from the castle itself. It only holds about twenty people.

It’s a new talk I wrote especially for this event. On brewing in the DDR. I had so much fun writing it. Partly because I already had pretty much all of the material I needed. Only having to top it up a little with some extra details from Kunze’s “Technologie Brauer und Mälzer”. One of my favourite books and favourite technical authors.

Having Dolores along is handy. As she actually drank some of the beers I’m describing. Every now and again I call on her for comments.

The audience seems quite surprised by some of the information. DDR brewing having fallen out of consciousness and, to some extent, been written out of history. Which is a shame, as it’s an important part of post-war German brewing. Not just a temporary aberration.

I don’t shift as many books after I’m done yapping. But I do have some good conversations with audience members.

“I feel like a lie down now.” I tell Dolores.

“That’s OK.”

“We oldie people need our naps.”

“Speak for yourself.” 

Back in our room, I don’t in fact sleep. Deciding to watch the rugby. The Ireland vs Scotland game. Which is on ITV. Necessitating firing up their iplayer. As the game is most of the way through, I opt to watch the programme from the beginning,

Just one problem. There’s more than an hour of people talking bollocks before the game starts. And I can’t fast forward through the nonsense. Fuck.

I have a quick draught of hotel whisky to ease my annoyance. It helps. But not much.

Eventually, the fat men start chasing the funny-shaped ball around.

Dolores nipped to the local supermarket earlier. And picked up more rolls, cheese and shit. On which we dine lavishly.

“Do you want some of the Korean chicken?”

“Can do. How hot is it now?”

“Like Russian roulette. Some pieces are OK, some hot as hell.”

“I’ll chance it.”

The piece I pick is towards the hell end of the spectrum. About as hot as I can eat with pleasure.

There’s a sort of end-of-event piss-up at the Bürgerhaus. Where home brewers will be serving their beers. It kicks off at 20:15.

It’s a short walk away from the castle. The supermarket is on the way and we drop in. For supplies for the train tomorrow. And some emergency whisky. Got to have some of that.

The Bürgerhaus is very busy. I have trouble making my way to one of the bars. Someone grabs hold of me and guides me to his bar. Where he has a couple of bottles of 1980s Berliner Weisse for me. From the DDR.

We open one of the bottles and share it. For a beer that’s forty years old it’s in incredible condition. Not oxidised at all. And very complex. Really rather wonderful. The other bottle I get to take with me. Which is so cool.

Moving along, Markus takes me to the bar where the brewer from Lemke is. He has a bottle of Bock-strength Berliner Weisse for me.

“I’ve been trying persuade someone to brew one of these for years. Without any luck.”

I’m so happy to get my hands on one. Dead intrigued as to how it will taste.

It’s all a bit too crowded for me in the room where the beers are being served. I’ve been standing too long, too. Fortunately, there’s seating in an adjoining room. And a couple of free seats. Me and Dolores sit down.

No need to get up and fetch beer. People keep bringing it to me. Like a yummy Stout that’s a couple of years old and brewed to one of my recipes. And a very good Barley Wine brewed in collaboration with Henry Kirk. Christoph brings over his Session IPA, which he’s serving via handpump. Very tasty, too.

People also drop by for a chat. It’s all very sociable. And lots of fun. Dolores seems to be enjoying herself, too. Finding plenty of people to talk to. I’m glad she isn’t getting bored.

I’m given a bottle of home-brewed Berliner Weisse. It’s getting to be quite a Berliner Weisse evening. Which is no bad thing.

We leave at around 11:00. I can’t be doing with late nights anymore. It’s been a long day, too. With my first beer at 10:00. I need some rest.

“What did you think of the weekend, Dolores?” I ask as we walk back to the castle.

“I enjoyed it. The atmosphere was really good. Everyone was very friendly.”

“What about the beer?”

“Most of it was good. And it was free. I liked that.”

“Free beer tastes the best.”

“Exactly.”

“You weren’t bored?”

“No. There were plenty of people to talk to.”

“That’s good to know.”

It really is. The last thing I want to do is piss off Dolores. That never ends well.

The castle looks magical in the darkness. A patch of the outer wall illuminated blood-red.

Emergency whisky is my slumber helper.



Bürgerhaus Romrod
Zeller Str. 9, 
36329 Romrod.
 

 

A video of my time at the Heimbrau Convention.

My YouTube channel

 What's the point of it, you may ask. Dolores already has. Several times.

 "What do we get out of this?"

"Exposure?"

"That's what you get when you try to sleep half way up Everest." 

"I didn't mean that sort of exposure."

"I know. I'm not an idiot." 

I have a couple of aims. Mostly mirroring what I do on the blog. Drone on endlessly about historical stuff. Or  Report stream-of-conscious-style about my trips abroad.

Most important is recording retired brewers about brewing in the distant days of my youth.Really important oral history.

Almost as important as that, is getting anyone to listen to my music.

My debut album will be out in a couple of months. Reserve your copies now.

A sample video.

Romrod bound

Dolores has already made tea when I wake up. 

“No tea for me.”

“Why not, Ronald?”

“I don’t want to be bursting for a piss in the car.”

“Charming.”

You have to think of these things when you’re my age. Especially when a long car journey is planned.

With the hotel breakfast a bit pricey, we’re dining on our Lidl purchases. Rolls, cheese and sliced meat. It’s full of cheapy goodness. Dolores tries the washed Korean chicken.

“It’s not too bad now. Just about edible. Give it a try.”

“Not for breakfast.”

“Because it will make you want to piss?”

“Very funny.”

Once checked out, we take seats in the lobby next to the window to wait for our lift.

“Do you know what Christoph looks like?”

“No. I told you we’ve never met.”

“You might have seen a photo.”

A car pulls up outside bang on the planned time of 11:00. It’s Christoph Riedel. Our ride to sunny Romrod.

Getting all the luggage to fit is a bit of a challenge on account of all the beer in the boot. But we manage it. Soon we’re rocking through Düsseldorf. Its streets bustling with traffic. And bristling with red lights. It takes a while before we pop out onto the motorway.

As we race through the German countryside, I chat with Christoph about beery things. History, mostly. It fills the time nicely. As we have a way to go. Three hours or so.

Halfway there, we stop for lunch. At a service station. This being Germany, there’s a pub and beer garden. Though it’s too chilly for the latter.

We sit inside. Where it’s kitschly rustic. In a fun sort of way. They seem to be big on Schnitzels. Which is what Christoph and Manuel order. With chips. Dolores goes for a Schnitzel on bread. While I opt for a Strammer Max. And a regional Pils.

The food is pretty good, and the portions generous. Not stupidly priced, either. Not bad for a service station. Though having to pay a euro for the bogs is annoying.

As we get closer to our destination, it’s very rural. Looking very much like Thüringen, with half-timbered villages. The trees are just sprouting green fingers, in bright contrast to the dull browns and greys of the surrounding fields.

We park a little away from the castle and approach it on foot. The towers loom majestically over the town. In a beautifully gothic way. Dead impressive.

We’re staying on the first floor. Not in a tower, sadly. The walls are a metre thick, though. And it’s up a stone spiral staircase. Still pretty cool.

Once we’ve stashed our stuff, we go for a wander. Let’s be honest: in search of beer. It takes a little while. As they haven’t really started serving yet. Eventually someone comes up and offers us some. A rather nice strong Stout. A good start.

There’s a reception for the speakers in the hotel restaurant. For which there’s a cask of Roppelt Kellerbier. Oooh. I’ll have some of that. It’s very fizzy. My first glass is mostly foam. Nice tasting foam, mind.

We wander into another bit of the castle. Where more beer is served. And some rather nice cheese. Dolores gets a mirabel beer which she rather likes. Chatting with the brewer for a while. She seems to be enjoying herself. I’m relieved. I had worried that she’d be bored. Or hate all the beers. Or both.

The evening passes as we pass through various rooms. Drinking various beers, mostly home-brewed. And mostly pretty tasty.

As pleasant as the beers are, and the people we chat with, we don’t stay out too late. My first talk tomorrow is quite early: 9:45. I want to have a leisurely breakfast, too. I’ll need to be up by 8:00.

I start typing up notes back in the room.

“Are you writing lies again, Ronald?”

“No. Just improving the truth a little.”

“Isn’t that just another way to describe lying?”

“Not at all. It’s just a better version of the truth.”

“It’s still lying.”

“Maybe technically.”

I have a whisky nightcap, obviously. Purely for medicinal purposes. Not because I’m a pisshead.



MAXI Autohof Mogendorf
Im Reimersheck 3, 
56424 Mogendorf.
https://www.maxi-autohof.com/mogendorf/
 

A video of the day.

Taking the train

 “Do you want to come to Germany with me, Dolores?”

“Where to?”

“Romrod.”

“Where on earth is that?”

“Somewhere in Hessen.”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll be staying in a castle.”

“OK, then.”

“Why are you going there?”

“I’m speaking at a home brewing convention”

“What will I do?”

“Help me sell books.”

“You mean you might actually earn some money?”

“Hopefully.”

“How will we get there?”

“I’ve been offered a lift from Düsseldorf.”

“Great, we won’t have to depend on Deutsche Bahn.”

That seemed to swing it. To avoid any surprises from DB, we decided to take the train to Düsseldorf the day before our lift. And to stay a night close to the station.

Our train is at a bit past 14:00. Meaning I can leave some of the packing until the morning. Our luggage is quite heavy, on account of all the books.

“Better to have too many than too few.” I remark.

“Easy to say when you aren’t carrying them all.”

“Some are in my bag.”

“Some being the important word.”

“I’ve got almost half.”

“The important words there are ‘almost’ and ‘half’.”

We take the tram to Centraal Station and wait patiently on the platform for a while. Towards the end of where the train will be. As we don’t have seat reservations.

“I suppose I’ll have to find the seats.” Dolores remarks. ”As usual.”

“You are good at it. After all that practice as a student in the DDR.”

“You always bring that up.”

“Because it’s true, Plus, I’m old and feeble.”

“Feeble in the brain.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,”

“I know.”

The train isn’t that busy and we can easily find seats. It’s not that long a journey. Just two- and a-bit hours. If the train runs the normal route. And isn’t delayed.

In case I get too thirsty, I’ve prepared a drink for the trip. Two half litre cans of Gulpener Gladiator decanted into a litre plastic bottle. It keeps me hydrated for the duration.

Everything runs like clockwork in Holland. Once in Germany, we’re either bombing along at 200 km per hour, or crawling, at near walking pace, where they’re fiddling with the line. It doesn’t delay us too much, and we arrive in Düsseldorf just a few minutes late.

Once checked in, we nip to the Lidl over the road for some supplies. Important stuff like cheese and whisky. I first grab a bottle for 11 euros. Until Dolores points out the one for 7.99 euros. No point throwing money away.

At the checkout, I notice the bloke in front of us has the same whisky.

“He must be a connoisseur like me.”

“Old drunk, more like.” Dolores replies.

“Charming. You think so highly of me”

Shopping dumped in the hotel, we leave again in search of food. Something Asian. As there are lots of Asian restaurants close to the station. We start wandering in the vague direction of the city centre. And come across a Korean place. Sojubar.

“What about here, Dolores?”

“I don’t know. Is there a menu outside?”

“Yes. Here.” I say pointing out an A-board.

“Finally, you’re some use.”

“Thank you.”

Being reasonably priced, we enter. Even though it’s not quite 18:30, it’s quite busy. Which is a good sign. Lots of young people. Not sure if that’s a good sign or not.

 Time for drinks. Dolores opts for a Hefeweizen.

“Ooh, look. They’ve got soju.” I say.

“It is called Sojubar.”

“I hadn’t noticed that.”

“I’m surprised. You’re usually remarkably observant when it comes to alcohol.”

“I wonder which soju I should get?”

“I’m guessing strongest one.”

“The most traditional one.”

“Is that, by any coincidence, the strongest one?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Dolores orders a Bibimbap. A bowl of vegetables and meat. While I fancy fried chicken. Still having soju on my mind, I order Soju Go To Hell. And beef kimbap. 

My chicken is quite spicy. Very spicy. Way too fucking spicy.

“This is a bit hot.”

“Why did you order it?”

“Because it has soju in the name.”

“Didn’t you see what it says on the menu? The hottest fried chicken in the world.”

“No.”

“You should pay more attention.”

Dolores isn’t wrong. But I don’t admit that.

I manage to eat one piece of chicken. And my mouth is on fire. The rice in the kimbap helps a bit. A bit. It’s a while before I dare try any more of my soju.

“I’ll pack the chicken up and we can wash the sauce off in the hotel.”

“Good thinking, Dolores. I wouldn’t want to waste food.”

Or destroy my mouth. I don’t say that bit out loud.

When we leave, noticing Oststrasse U-Bahn station, I say: “We must be close to Schuhmacher Do you fancy a beer there?”

“OK.”

Dolores is so wonderful. I can’t imagine a better partner. Especially as she appreciates a good beer. Definitely a keeper.

Schuhmacher is only a short walk away. The main room looks busy. And we only want to drink. So we sit in the small room at the front. It’s sort of like a public bar. Soon glasses of Alt appear in front of us.

I do like a good Alt. And Schuhmacher’s is a really good one. A malty backbone overlaid by a good dose of bitterness. Fresh and very drinkable. Especially as it’s served by gravity from a wooden cask. The way god intended.

We only stay for two Not wanting to be out too late. On the way back, we manage to get a bit lost. But not for long.

Things don’t go so well with the chicken washing. The sink won’t drain and fills up with a red, greasy mess.  After carefully bailing it out and cleaning it up, Dolores goes to reception and tells them about the blockage. After a short inspection, it’s concluded that the sink can’t be quickly fixed and we’re moved to another room.

We don’t stay up too late. Even though we don’t need to be up that early. We’re being picked up at 11:00.

The cheapo whisky works its wonders. Slumber soon embraces me.




Sojubar Dusseldorf
Charlottenstraße 49, 
40210 Düsseldorf.
https://www.sojubar.com/dusseldorf/


Brauerei Schuhmacher
Oststraße 123, 
40210 Düsseldorf.
http://www.brauerei-schumacher.de/

 

A video of the day. 

Let's Brew - 1990 Youngs John Young's London Lager

In the 1970s Youngs brewed a much-mocked Lager called Saxon. Eventually, taking the hint, they introduced a couple of more authentic Lagers. The weaker of which was this beer.

It’s a very simple beer. A SMASH beer in fact. Though there were two types of lager malt from different suppliers. Doesn’t leave me very much to discuss. Other than to remark that it’s interesting that no sugar was involved. And that this beer is Reinheitsgebot-compliant.

The fermentation was relatively cold, hitting a maximum of 55.5º F. The mashing scheme, however, is typically London. Where an initial infusion was followed after 30 minutes by an underlet to raise the temperature of the mash by a few degrees.

The hops were rather old, being from the 1986 season. All of just the one type. I’ve increased the quantities to achieve the bitterness level listed in the brewing record.

I don’t think this was lagered. 

1990 Youngs John Young's London Lager
lager malt	8.25 lb	100.00%
Styrian Goldings 60 min	1.375 oz
Styrian Goldings 10 min	0.50 oz
OG	1038
FG	1011
ABV	3.57
Apparent attenuation	71.05%
IBU	24.5
SRM	2.7
Mash at	147º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	60 minutes
pitching temp	52.5º F
Yeast	Wyeast 2042 Danish lager

Listen to brewer John Hatch explain how they brewed at Youngs in the 1990s.  

Another video of Romrod

 This time with a commentary. Of sorts.

 

The amazing journey

I don’t sleep that well. Imagining all sorts of nightmare scenarios. This could work out very expensive. Dolores will not be happy if I have to fork out a couple of thousand euros for a stupid mistake. All of my own making.

Most of the judges have already left. Only a couple are around at breakfast. I would have my usual. Except that there’s no scrambled egg. Leaving my plate looking rather sad with just cheese. 

One of the staff brings out a plate from the kitchen for another guest. It’s scrambled egg. She notices me looking and gestures asking if I want some, too. I nod vigorously. Phew. Breakfast saved. If only that was my biggest worry.

I’m still doing some heavy-duty fretting. However I look at it, my chances of catching my Amsterdam flight don’t look great. Everything will have to run perfectly for me to be successful. Even the slightest delay could be disastrous. How often have I been on a flight that was 20 or 30 minutes late? Far too often for me to feel comfortable.

I check out at midday. And jump in an Uber to the airport.

It’s three hours until my first flight. I decide not to check in a bag. To make my exit from my arrival airport in Rio quicker. Just as well my check-in bag is small enough for hand baggage.

There are a couple of cafés and bars airside. I’m too stressed for alcohol. I want to keep a clear head, too. I get a baguette from the oddly-named Smell café. I think “aroma” is the word they were looking for.

You have to tick boxes on a form to say what fillings you want. Most of the options, I can’t understand. Which is why I end up with a boiled egg and red onion baguette.

Reassuringly, my flight is listed as on time. Now. Hopefully, that doesn’t change.

I read some Private Eye. And look at the Guardian website on my phone. I’m so modern, now. Just like one of those young people. Whose faces are permanently glued to their phones.

The flight is, indeed, on time. Even better, it’s a little early. Pulling away from the gate 10 minutes before the scheduled departure time. A good start. Still a long way to go, mind. I’m still feeling very stressed.

We arrive in Congonhas early, too. No air bridge, though. Meaning a bus ride to the terminal. My connecting flight is also out on the tarmac. Fortunately, the bus goes from the very next bay. That’s handy. My luck is holding.

I spend no time, really, between flights. And the second one also leaves early. Things are going about as well as they could. I let Jose know that I should be arriving on time. It’s still going to be tight. My heart is racing. Which is worrying.

As soon as we land in Rio, I message Jose. He’ll see me in arrivals.

With no checked-in bag, I walk straight to arrivals. It only takes us a couple of minutes to meet up. We climb into his car at 17:00. I feel relieved. Until Jose points out that the satnav estimates that it will take 53 minutes for the trip. Which is 57 minutes before my Amsterdam flight is scheduled to leave.

When does check in close for intercontinental flights? Forty minutes before departure? I hope so. If it’s an hour, I’m screwed.

The traffic is bad. We often slow almost to a standstill. The satnav estimates our arrival time at 19:53 or 19:54 for most of the journey. But as we get closer, it drops to 19:48. Which is exactly when we pull up at international departures.

I quickly find the KLM desk. It’s very quiet. And there’s a sign saying: “closed”. It doesn’t look good.

“Can I check in for the Amsterdam flight?”

“Yes, you’ve got a minute. Can I see your passport?”

Phew. As my bag rolls away on the conveyor belt relief rolls over me. That was way too fucking close. If we’d been stopped by one more red light, I’d have missed my flight. I’m glad that I didn’t know the cutoff time was 60 minutes. I’d have been worried sick the whole car ride.

That was far too much of an adventure. I get anxious enough just watching Race Around the World. I don’t want to live it.

Boarding has already started before I’m through security. It’s a long walk to my gate. With a couple of minutes’ delay at the duty free, I arrive at the gate 30 minutes before departure.

Once on board, I nip to the bogs to down a couple of miniatures I bought in the duty free. Just to calm my nerves. What a stressful day it’s been. Not one I’d like to repeat.

We take off pretty much on time. Just 10.5 hours and I’ll be back in Amsterdam.

A French-speaking couple sit next to me. They’ve brought McDonald's with them. KLM food isn’t great, but is it that bad?

The main meal – chicken with cheese on top – is surprisingly edible. One of the best meals I’ve had for a while on a KLM flight. Though that isn’t saying very much. The bar is barely at shoe-height.

I start watching some Mission Impossible nonsense. But doze off halfway.

I don’t sleep that well. I can’t really get comfortable. A couple of hours out from Amsterdam I give up and return to Mission Impossible. It hasn’t got any less ridiculous while I’ve been dozing.

The main part of breakfast is a bit weird. On the plus side, there’s some fruit. And coffee and orange juice.

When we arrive, I’m feeling pretty tired. Thankfully, I don’t have to piss around for too long in the airport.

When I roll up at home, Dolores opens the door. Of course, she has tea waiting for me. My first cup in over a week. It tastes so good.

 

Free in Uberlandia

No judging today. And no rush to get up. I rise a little after nine. Then go for brekkie. Happy enough, once more, just to have made it to another day. I no longer take waking up for granted.

Jose and a few others are there. I sit with them and chat. While eating my usual breakfast. Scrambled eggs and the white cheese. Followed by fruit. Can’t forget the fruit.

Jose offers to pick me up from the airport in Rio tomorrow. Which is nice. And take me out for some food and beer. That's dead cool. He’s such a nice bloke. It’s been great spending time with him.

Even after three coffees I feel rather knacked. I consider going back to bed. But instead fiddle on my laptop.

There is an excursion to a coffee plantation today. But, as the start time was stupid o’clock, I gave it a miss. I simply couldn’t be arsed to get up that early. The only other thing on the agenda is the awards ceremony this evening. A free day. Yippee!

My plan is to take things easy. Very easy. I could go out for lunch. What are my nearby options? Mostly buffets. I’m a bit buffeted out. Instead, I think I’ll have a wander to the supermarket and pick up some cheese and salami.

It’s an interesting walk. A bit downhill. Along some really crap and uneven pavements. You could easily do yourself an injury, if you weren’t paying attention. Especially if it’s a bit icy. Then I remember. Not much chance of ice here. Not unless there’s a nuclear war or massive meteor strike. In those cases, I’ll have more pressing worries than an icy pavement.

Not the largest of supermarkets. It does have all the stuff I need. Along with the aforementioned supplies, I buy rolls, bananas and cola. The latter I need to mix with the gut-rot cachaça I brought from Rio.

Luckily, the road only gets really steep past the supermarket. I really can’t be doing with hills anymore. That’s what decades of living surrounded by the Dutch mountains gets you. The only inclined surfaces at home are the approaches to bridges. A rise of no more than a couple of metres.

I play around on my laptop. Doing a bit of writing. And lots of looking at crap on the internet. It's so cold in the room, that I'm wearing my jacket. I can't seem to turn the ac up. Or is it down? Make it fucking warmer in here, that's what I mean.

The gut-rot cachaça is, er, rotting my gut. That’s annoying. Typical that I feel crap on my day off.

It doesn’t get better as evening rolls around. Think I’ll give the awards ceremony a miss. They’re quite stressful – lots of standing up and deafening noise – at the best of times.

Looking at my email, I notice one from KLM. Asking if I want to check in. That’s a bit early. It’s 48 hours until I fly.

At least, that’s what I thought. It seems my flight is booked for tomorrow, 4th March. Didn’t I book it for the 5th? That’s what it says in the document with all my trip details. I originally planned to return on the 4th. But when I changed my departure date to a day later, the KLM site automatically shifted my return to a day later, too. Or that’s what I thought.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. Fuck. How on earth could I get that so wrong?

Will I be even able to make it? My Amsterdam flight leaves at 20:50. And I don’t get into Rio until 18:50. At the other airport. The domestic one. Two hours for the transfer is really tight. Any sort of delay will completely bugger me.

To make matters worse, I have two flights to get to Rio. With quite a tight connection in Sao Paolo. Lots of room for delays. One of as little as ten minutes could ruin everything.

I message Jose that I won’t be able to meet him for drinks tomorrow. Kindly, He offers to give me a lift between the airports.

According to Google maps, it takes twenty minutes by car between the airports. Even if it’s half an hour, I should be OK. Should be.

I start to do some industrial scale worrying. What the fuck do I do if I miss my flight to Holland? Would I be able to rebook onto the next day’s flight? How much would that cost me? Where would I stay in Rio? As I’ve already cancelled my hotel.

Maybe I could change my flight from Uberlandia to an earlier one. No. GOL only have the one flight a day. Maybe another airline.

I look at Azul. They want around 500 euros for a single. And the times are no better. A Latam flight would be earlier. However, they want 1,200 euros. What the fuck? That’s more than I paid to fly from Amsterdam to Rio and back.

I do some more worrying. Then go to bed. 

 

 

A video report about my time in Uberlandia.

Romrod castle and the Heimbrau Convention

My recent trip to Romrod castle in Hessen to speak at the Heimbrau Convention.

 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1991 Youngs Oatmeal Stout

After disappearing sometime in the 1960s, Oatmeal Stout made a comeback in the 1990s. To many people’s surprise.

This beer is quite strong for a post-WW II Stout and is around the gravity of pre-WW II Oatmeal Stouts.

Unlike London Oatmeal Stouts from before the war, where the oats content was minimal, there’s a decent amount here. Maybe even enough to be noticeable. Other than that, the grist is quite simple. Just base pale malt and a bit of roast barley. Along with some Young’s Special Mix, a combination of glucose, molasses and caramel.

There’s not much else to say, really.  Just two types of English hops. Again, with no indication of vintage. And I’ve had to double the quantity to hit the bitterness level recorded in the brewing record. 

1991 Youngs Oatmeal Stout
pale malt	10.00 lb	81.17%
roast barley	0.55 lb	4.46%
flaked oats	0.75 lb	6.09%
glucose	0.75 lb	6.09%
molasses	0.25 lb	2.03%
caramel 2000 SRM	0.02 lb	0.16%
Fuggles 70 min	2.25 oz
Goldings 10 min	1.00 oz
OG	1055
FG	1014
ABV	5.42
Apparent attenuation	74.55%
IBU	31
SRM	18
Mash at	149º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	70 minutes
pitching temp	63º F
Yeast	WLP002 English Ale

 

Listen to brewer John Hatch explain how they brewed at Youngs in the 1990s.  

Still judging

I rise at 6:30 feeling much better than yesterday. After a solid eight hours of kip. It’s amazing what a good sleep can do. Just waking up is a positive at my age. You never know when it may not happen. I’m downstairs by 7:15.

I have my usual breakfast. Call me Mr. Boring. I don’t care. It’s what I want to eat. And I’ll fucking eat it. That’s the great thing about being old. Not really having to give a fuck what anyone thinks.

I’m sitting with Jose. The chat turns to yeast with the bloke on the next table who has a yeast company. I meet such interesting people at these things. And learn interesting stuff. In the Anglosphere, the discussion rarely turns to South American beer. A shame.

For me, it’s one of the most interesting regions of the beer world. Lots of very enthusiastic people trying out lots of stuff. Some of which works. Like Catherina Sour, which I think is a wonderful style. So drinkable. And so lovable.

Back over at Überbräu, I’m on the same judging table as yesterday, with Suzanne and Alan. I’m happy with that. We rattled through the flights yesterday. Coming to a consensus without much argument. Which saves much time. And annoyance. Especially annoyance. The last thing I need is extra stress.

In charge of beer service is Matteo. A livelily friendly young man. With whom I chatted a bit at the barbecue yesterday.

Lots of flights this morning. Fortunately, mostly very small flights.

We start with fruited wheat. Just two samples. Both pretty good.

Scotch Ale. One sample. Pretty nice. A perfect breakfast beer. 

American Pale Ale. Six samples. Loads of hops.

Session IPA Not the greatest flight. Lots of oxidation. One or two decent ones.

Dorada Pampeana. One Sample. A type of beer from Argentina. Lucky that we have an Argentinian on the table to explain it to us.

Dutch-style Koyt. One sample. Pretty decent.

German-style Rye Ale. One sample. Tastes right to me. Quite similar to the Thurm und Taxis Roggebier.

We finish at 11:00. Or, rather, we think we do. Matteo gets us one more flight.

Wood and Barrel-aged beers. Six samples, three of which are based on Wee Heavy. The Wee Heavies are so good, I finish all of them. Just to get me in the mood for lunch. My plan works.

We finish at 11:42. A victory for common sense.

Lunch isn’t at the judging location today. We’re whisked off to a restaurant, Boca e Uva, in taxis. At first, I think we’re going back to the hotel, when we pull into the street it’s on. In fact, we’re headed to a place just a little past it. 

It’s a buffet, obviously. This is Brazil and it is lunchtime. A bit more choice than on other days. It’s OK. I get some meat and some salad. Which pretty much describes what I always collect from a buffet. And an orange juice to wash it down.

After lunch, there’s a real treat. Non-alcoholic beers. Six samples. All three sour styles are pretty good. With the Catharina Sour the pick of the bunch. The best non-alcoholic beer I’ve ever drunk. Which may be quite a low bar. Or was. It’s been raised considerably now.

That was much better than expected. Some flights of alcoholic beers were far worse. Not sure what that tells us.

There’s then a long wait for the pre-BOS. Like two fucking hours. Such fun sitting and sweating. Watching Match of the Day helps pass a little time.

I’m doing the pre-BOS of English styles with fellow Dutchman Ferry Wijnhoven. At 16:50. Just four beers arrive:

British-style IPA
Special Bitter
Dark Mild
Robust Porter.

This should be nice and quick. Oh no, that was a mistake. It's actually 14 beers. Fuck.

It does turn out to be fairly painless. Only complicated by the fact that most of the beers are excellent. I quite like the English IPA and the Dark Mild. Though we settle on the Imperial Stout as the winner. It’s a lovely beer.

We’re done at 17:18. And I can fuck off back to the hotel. Totally knacked again.

I have some time to relax in my room. Which I really fucking need. Excuse the swearing. I’m feeling stressed. Weirdly, the hanging around seems to take more out of me than the judging. 

That should be the last stress of the trip. No more judging. Just a couple of days relaxing to come.

Some judges are going to the Madero steakhouse tonight. I decide to tag along.  I could do with some more meat. Can’t remember the last time I ate some. It’s so hard to get hold of here in Brazil.

I bump into Tina Rogers outside the hotel. She’s headed the same way. We share an Uber. 

The restaurant is in a shopping centre. Most of the others haven't arrived when we get there. It’s fairly spacious. Reasonably posh. And not very full.

For a while just Tina and me sit on a large table. Drinking caipirinhas, as they don't have any decent beer. And I like drinking caipirinhas. Who doesn’t? Weirdos, that’s who.  Anyway, I’ve had enough of beer after the last couple of days.

There are ten of us eventually. A very international bunch, a mix of South Americans and Europeans. Which is always fun. One of the reasons I enjoy judging so much, mixing with people from diverse locations. The main reason I love it, now I come to think of it. The actual judging can be as much fun as sandpapering your bollocks.

I order a picanha steak and chips. Medium rare, of course. It's very tasty. And goes well with a caipirinha. Well, anything goes well with a caipirinha. Even better with two caipirinhas. Or three. Or four. Any number, really.

We stay until around 10:15, then get Ubers back to the hotel.

I don't stay up long. Even though I can sleep in tomorrow. Just a quick draught of gut-rot cachaça to push me down the hill to unconsciousness.



Madero Steak House Uberlândia
Av. João Naves de Ávila, 1331
Tibery, Uberlândia
MG, 38408-902.
https://www.restaurantemadero.com.br/pt/restaurante



Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia. 

I take the train to Düsseldorf

Me and Dolores take the train to Düsseldorf, eat Korean food and drink Alt in Schuhmacher. 

Back home

The kids keep taking the piss out of me for not learning any Portuguese. Totally incorrectly.

“I know enough.”

“Like what?” Andrew asks.

“Sanitarios? The question mark in the tone is important.”

“Obviously.”

“And knowing where the bogs are is vital when you’re an oldie like me.”

“I don’t need to know that, Dad.”

“Carvalha. That’s oak.”

“Any non-alcohol-related words.” 

“Morango. Strawberry.”

“That’s something that was added to a beer, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“Learnt any new words that aren’t a fruit or type of food?”

“Er.”

“Got nothing?”

“Mandioca. Cassava.”

“Also in a beer?”

“No.“

“Part of a meal?”

“Possibly. That’s three new words. You should be congratulating me.”

“That’s not even a word a day.”

“Caju. Cashew.”

“You already knew that one.”

“I haven’t told you to fuck off yet, have II?”

“I’ve a feeling you’re about to, aren’t you?

“If it’s that obvious, I’ve no need to.”

“Right.”

“Tapioca. That’s a new one.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tapioca.”

“So the same as in English?”

“Yes. Still counts as a new word.”

“Even though it’s exactly the same as the English word?”

“Yes. It isn’t pronounced exactly the same.”

“You just did.”

“Because I’m not a native Portuguese speaker.”

“I’m going to say it now.”

“What?”

“Fuck off, Dad.”

“I’m glad you said it and not me.”

We have such inspiring conversations. 

Lots more judging

I rise at 6:30 after a shit sleep. A shower livens me up a little. A little.

A coffee helps some, too. But I only get the one before the coffee machine breaks. Bum.

My breakfast main course is scrambled egg and cheese once more. I’m sitting with Jose again.

“I see you’re trying the white cheese. Do you like it?” He asks.

“Yes. Much better than the yellow stuff.”

Which it is.  Like cottage cheese formed into a solid lump. Still very soft. The yellow cheese is very plasticy. And pretty tasteless.

The judges’ bus is at 8:00 again. Sort of. It’s close enough. We’re in South America, after all. No point in getting hung up on exact timings.

I’m on table 7 today. Where Suzanne Schalow is captain. The other judge is Alan Iglesias, a brewer from Argentina.

We start with a mini-BOS of American Malt Liquor. A couple of OK ones. Quite an alcoholic start to the day. Not totally sure about what a Malt Liquor is. Other than a strongish Pale Lager.

Our scores are quite a long way apart. With mine being particularly low. I’m rather a mean scorer. If beers have faults, which many do I’m pretty ruthless.

More Lager next. Slightly weaker stuff: Dortmunder Export. There are a couple of pretty good ones. Rather surprisingly. Pale Lagers are difficult to get right. And quite fragile. Which isn’t great when beer isn’t kept refrigerated the whole time.

We jump up in strength again. With Double IPA. Pretty good generally. With a couple of outstanding beers. Though they’re quite hard on my tastebuds.

There’s no letting up on the strength: English Barley Wine. A couple of real crackers in this set. As I can’t stand wasting good beer, I finish off the best samples.

American Imperial Porter. Another really good flight.

Lunch. I’m not particularly hungry. Not surprising, given all the big, chewy beers I’ve tasted this morning. At least we kept up a good pace. We got through five decent-sized flights. Have we caught up yet? Probably not. I eat some stuff simply as ballast rather than with any great joy.

Back to judging. Fuck. It’s Irish Red Ale. Even less fun to judge than non-alcoholic beers. The six or seven times I’ve judged them, I’ve never had one that was even half decent. This lot aren’t quite as terrible as usual. A couple are almost drinkable. Almost. Out of twelve samples.

Czech Dark Lager. four samples, one quite good.

Followed by an hour wait. Then more flights in quick succession.

Belgian style Witbier. six samples. Some OK ones.

Wild Beer. five samples. Mostly with Brettanomyces. Quite a difficult flight to judge.

West Coast IPA. Eleven samples. Eleven fucking samples! After all the strong beers we’ve judged today. My palate has gone. They all taste the same. Which I hate. I always want to do justice to the beers I’m judging. I defer to the other judges.

I've already packed away my laptop, when we're asked to judge another flight. Aargh. I thought I'd escaped. Fuck. Luckily, it’s a very small flight. Of a style so obscure, even I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like.

Breslau-Style Schoeps. Two samples.

And we’re really done. Just to make sure, I pack up quickly and head for the exit. Don’t want them dragging me into judging yet another flight.

I'm so fucking knacked. We’ve judged so many beers today. And lots of strong ones. I never want to drink beer again. I’m so done with it. I just want to drink some cachaça and sleep.

Back at the hotel, I'm tempted to skip the barbecue at Captain Brew and just get some food from the supermarket. Then I see that it isn't open. I'd forgotten it was Sunday. Barbecue it is, then.

I'm half way through arranging an Uber when another judge asks me if I want a lift. That's handy.

There's the lovely smell of cooking meat when I enter. That perks me up a bit. I get myself an IPA. One brewed here. It’s perfectly fine. Hitting the spot without pummelling it to death. With enough alcohol to keep my interest.

I’m offered a taste of Einbecker Maibock which a German judge has brought over. Then a Bayerischer Bahnhof Gose. 

"It's not sour enough." I complain. As usual. I can be a real pain in the arse. I should learn to keep my gob shut. Particularly when people are giving me beer.

I find myself a seat. because, well, I'm well knacked. Platters of meat appear. And are quickly consumed.

I get chatting to Matteo, who’s been organising the beers for our judging table. A really nice bloke, full of energy. As young people tend to be.

Someone brings around Paraguayan rum. Which is very nice. And nicely alcoholic.

I leave a little after 21:00. Back in the hotel, I sip dodgy cachaça and watch the rest of Match of the Day. And crash out not much after 10. I need sleep.



Captain Brew
R. Marieta de Castro Santos, 135
Altamira, Uberlândia
MG, 38411-004.



Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia. 

 

A video of my time in Uberlandia.