Let's Brew Wednesday - 1884 William Younger No. 3

In addition to the strong Shilling Ales, William Younger also had a range of numbered Strong/Scotch Ales. Which seem to be inspired by the numbered Burton Ales of breweries like Bass and Truman. Originally, they ran from No. 1 to No. 4. But by the 1880s, only Nos. 1 to 3 remained.

No. 3 was by far the longest-lived, limping its way into the 21st century. What was the difference between No. 3 and 100/-? Not very much. The hopping rate is the same. And the only difference in the grist is the presence of a small amount of dextro-maltose. For which I’ve substituted No. 2 invert.

This was probably darkened with caramel. There’s nothing in the brewing record. But, it definitely was a little later. And there’s a No. 3 Pale, implying that this version must have been darker. A shade of 15 to 20 SRM would be my guess.

The presence of dextro-maltose, which would provide food for a slow secondary fermentation, implies to me that this was a Stock Ale. Probably aged for at least twelve months.

There were four types of hops: Kent, California, Württemberg, American, all from the 1883 harvest. 

1884 William Younger No. 3
pale malt	15.75 lb	92.65%
No. 2 invert	1.25 lb	7.35%
Cluster 150 min	3.00 oz
Hallertau 60 min	2.00 oz
Fuggles 30 min	1.00 oz
Goldings dry hops	1.25 oz
OG	1077
FG	1027
ABV	6.61
Apparent attenuation	64.94%
IBU	85
SRM	9
Mash at	153º F
Sparge at	163º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	57º F
Yeast	WLP028 Edinburgh Ale

 

Exhibit of Foreign and Colonial Beers (part six)

I hope you're enjoying this series. Because there's loads more of it still to come.

We're looking at some more European beers. Starting with Austria.

Austrian samples
Exhibitors	Country	Samples	Style
Nussdorfer Bierbrauerei, (Bachofew and Medinger)	Austria	Vienna Maerzenbier	Märzen
Alt-Pilsenetzer Brauhaua	Austria	Pilsen, Sterilised	Pils
Alt-Pilsenetzer Brauhaua	Austria	Pilsen, Non-sterilised	Pils
Source:
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

This is their opinion of them.

Austria.— The non-sterilised Pilsen of the "Alt-Pilsenetzer Brauhaus” was one of the best European beers sampled, of good character, flavour, and condition. It is awarded three marks. The sterilised sample was not so good. Two marks are given.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

No surprise that a good Lager should come from Austria. Especially when not sterilised.

Holland provided just a single. Surprisingly, not from one of the big Lager breweries, but from a Trappist monastery.

Dutch samples
Exhibitors	Country	Samples	Style
Bierbrouwerij de Schaapskooi, Bij Tilburg Trappiat Monastery	Holland	Trappisten Bier (as exported to Java)	Trappist
Source:
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

The judges seemed to like it, though. 

Holland.—Three marks are given the Trappist Monastery beer as exported to Java. It was a very fine dark lager, but somewhat sweeter than Munich beer.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

Was it really a Dark Lager? Or was it a dark top-fermenting beer?

Sweden only provided two beers, both of them Porter. One of which, Carnegie Porter is still knocking around today. And an excellent beer. A personal favourite of mine.

Swedish samples
Exhibitors	Country	Samples	Style
Carlston Brygueri, Stockholm	Sweden	Porter	Porter
D. Carnegie and Co., Göteborg	Sweden	Porter	Porter
Source:
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

Sweden.—The porter of Messrs. D. Carnegie and Co., Goteborg, was a very good sample of excellent condition and carrying a fine head. Three marks are awarded. The porter of the “Carlsten Bryggeri” was too sweet, and had a burnt flavour. It is awarded one mark.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674. 

 They seemed to like the Carlsten Porter much less than the Carnegie.

Exhibit of Foreign and Colonial Beers (part five)

Those of you with long memories might remember this series. This incomplete series. Which, as I heed to bash out a shitload of posts for my next foreign jaunt, I'm going to finish off.

This time, we're going to be looking at some of the individual beers and the scores they were given.

Kicking off with the beers from France.

French samples
Exhibitors	Country	Samples	Style
Grande Brasserie et Malterie (Eugene Burgelin), Nantes	France	La Gerbe Brand (non-Pasteurised)	Lager
Grande Brasserie et Malterie (Eugene Burgelin), Nantes	France	La Gerbe Brand (Pasteurised)	Lager
Grande Brasserie et Malterie (Eugene Burgelin), Nantes	France	L’Etoile Brand (Pasteurised)	Lager
Grande Brasserie et Malterie (Eugene Burgelin), Nantes	France	L’Etoile Brand (non-Pasteurised)	Lager
Brasserie et Malterie Phocéenne, Marseilles	France	Biere Kleber	Lager
Brasserie et Malterie Phocéenne, Marseilles	France	Biere Kleber Brune	Lager
Brasserie et Malterie Phocéenne, Marseilles	France	Biere Kleber Munich	Munchner
Source:
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

And this is what the jury thought of them.

It is impossible to enumerate every brand of beer exhibited, but I will now give a list of the principal samples submitted to the jury, with the marks awarded to them and some of the criticisms passed upon them.

France.— Of the various samples tasted the best was undoubtedly “La Gerbe” brand (non-Pasteurised) of the "Grand Brasserie et Malterie (Eugene Burgelin), Nantes.” To it three marks are awarded. A good second with two marks was "L’Etoile” brand (Pasteurised), whilst the "Biere Kleber” of the "Brasserie Malterie Phocéenne” (two marks) had not quite so clean a flavour. In the Pasteurised samples the flavour was somewhat covered by the Pasteurisation.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

How ironic that French beers should be spoilt by pasteurisation.

Now it's the turn of Belgium.

Belgian samples
Exhibitors	Country	Samples	Style
Brasserie Anglo-Belge, Brussels	Belgium	Brussels Brune	Brune
Brasserie Anglo-Belge, Brussels	Belgium	Brussels Blonde	Blonde
Brasserie Anglo-Belge, Brussels	Belgium	Brussels Blanc Imperiale	Blanc
Brasserie du Phenix, Brussels	Belgium	Munich	Munchner
Brasserie du Phenix, Brussels	Belgium	Pilsen	Pils
T. de Preter, Putte, Mechelen	Belgium	Bock Stella	Bock
A.B.R. and Company, Limited	Belgium	Krieken Lambic. 3 years oid, Flavoured with cherries	Kriek
A.B.R. and Company, Limited	Belgium	Gueuze Lambic, 2.5 years old	Lambic
A.B.R. and Company, Limited	Belgium	Faro (A rough Beer)	Faro
Van Velsen Freres, Bornheim	Belgium	Light PiUen	Pils
Van Velsen Freres, Bornheim	Belgium	Stout	Stout
Source:
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

Belgium.— The Pilsen of the "Brasserie du Phénix,” Brussels, was a fair lager. Two marks are awarded; whilst the “Light Pilsen” of Van Velsen was not so good, and cannot be given more than one mark.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 672 - 674.

Interesting that they make no comment at all about the Lambic beers. I imagine that they confused the fuck out of the judges. I'm guessing that the Lagers were much easier to get their heads around. 

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. 

Let's Brew - 1885 William Younger P

There are still loads of Younger’s beers to go. Especially Pale Ales, which is where we’re starting now. With the entry-level beer, called simply “P”. They didn’t brew a huge amount of it. And, unusually for Pale Ales, was brewed at the Abbey Brewery rather than Holyrood.

In terms of strength, it looks rather like and English AK, the classic Light Bitter. And the weakest type of Pale Ale.

The grist isn’t exactly complicated. Just two types of pale malt. Which is very typical of Pale Ales of the period.

All the complication comes in the hopping. Where there are Californian, Spalt, American and two types of Kent, all from the 1884 harvest.

Definitely no ageing for this beer. It looks like a classic Running Bitter. 

1885 William Younger P
pale malt	11.00 lb	100.00%
Cluster 120 min	1.50 oz
Spalt 60 min	0.75 oz
Fuggles 30 min	1.50 oz
Goldings dry hops	1.00 oz
OG	1047
FG	1007
ABV	5.29
Apparent attenuation	85.11%
IBU	57
SRM	4
Mash at	152º F
Sparge at	163º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	WLP028 Edinburgh Ale

 

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.
 

In Australia soon

I'll be speaking in Sydney next month. About Stout. A subject very dear to my heart.And there will be historic Stouts to entertain, not just my dull droning.

Not much use if you don't live in New South Wales. 

https://www.facebook.com/socialbrewers/posts/-an-evening-with-ron-pattinson-beer-historian-ever-wanted-to-sip-on-history-nows/1310260891108366/ 

It should be a good laugh. And I'll get to drink some more of my recipes. I always grab those with both hands.

I've also an event in Melbourne on Sunday 27th July, 13:00 at The Local Taphouse. I'll be talking about the history of Mild. There will be four historic Mild Ales to savour.

I'll be in Australia Sunday 20h July to Sunday 3rd August, passing through Perth, Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane.

This might well be my last time in Australia. I'm up for more events. This could be your last chance to have me lecture you at extreme length on the minutiae of beer history. Just saying.

 

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. 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1884 William Younger Special XP

While the great mass of beer brewed in Younger’s Holyrood brewery was standard XP, there were occasional brews of something called Special XP.

What was the difference between the two XPs? The hopping rate. The standard version was hopped at around 8.25 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt. While Special XP had 10.25 lbs per quarter. That tells me that Special was going to be matured longer before consumption. Possibly, because it was a beer for export.

The grist is the same as for the standard version: base pale malt and nothing else. Though there were three different types, all made from foreign barley. Two from the modern-day Turkey and one from Hungary

There were loads of different copper hops. Kent, American and Hallertau from the 1884 harvest, along with American and Spalt from 1882. As well as three types of dry hop: East Kent, Württemberg and American, all from the 1884 season.

This definitely looks like a stock or export beer. My guess is at least 12 months of secondary conditioning.

1884 William Younger Special XP
pale malt	12.75 lb	100.00%
Cluster 120 min	1.50 oz
Fuggles 60 min	1.75 oz
Hallertau 60 min	1.25 oz
Spalt 30 min	0.75 oz
Cluster dry hops	0.50 oz
Hallertau dry hops	0.50 oz
Goldings dry hops	0.50 oz
OG	1055
FG	1014
ABV	5.42
Apparent attenuation	74.55%
IBU	71
SRM	5
Mash at	155º F
Sparge at	163º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	WLP028 Edinburgh Ale

 

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.