Another of my short videos, this time looking at Best Mild, a stronger type of Mild Ale.
| 1909 Maclay Mild 42/- | ||
| pale malt | 4.50 lb | 61.02% |
| amber malt | 0.25 lb | 3.39% |
| black malt | 0.125 lb | 1.69% |
| grits | 1.50 lb | 20.34% |
| No. 2 invert sugar | 1.00 lb | 13.56% |
| Cluster 120 min | 0.50 oz | |
| Hallertau 60 min | 0.50 oz | |
| Fuggles 30 min | 1.00 oz | |
| OG | 1034 | |
| FG | 1013 | |
| ABV | 2.78 | |
| Apparent attenuation | 61.76% | |
| IBU | 28 | |
| SRM | 10 | |
| Mash at | 146º F | |
| after underlet | 150º F | |
| Sparge at | 170º F | |
| Boil time | 120 minutes | |
| pitching temp | 61º F | |
| Yeast | WLP028 Edinburgh Ale | |
I rise just after 8. Don't want to be late. We have a train to catch.
The kids turn up at 10:15. We laze around for a while. Quite literally in Andrew's case as he gets into bed.
We check out at 10:45 and get an Uber to the station. Montreal Gare Centrale is remarkably well disguised as an office block. Inside, it’s quite cramped, too. Not quite as charmless and alienating as Birmingham New Street. But not far off.
We plonk ourselves down in the business lounge to wait. I get myself a coffee.
Our train is coming from Ottawa and appears to be on time. Which is good. We're sitting in the little compartment thingy again. Which is nice and private. And the business class seats are pretty comfy.
There's a drinks service straight after boarding. I get a gin and tonic again, while the kids have beer.
It's all very green and agricultural outside. With the occasional small town. And lots of trees. A few times we get a view of the mighty St. Lawrence River. Which makes the Rhine look like a little stream.
“Would you kill a seagull, Dad? Alexei asks.
“No. Of course not.” I reply.
“Not even if it stole your chips?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a twat.”
“That’s open to question.” Andrew chips in.
“OK. I’m not an animal-abusing twat.”
“I’ve seen you kill mosquitos.” Alexei says.
“Those evil bastards don’t count.” I say.
“That’s a slippery slope, Dad. Who knows which animals ‘won’t count’ next.” Andrew buts in.
“Look, I’m not an animal torturer.”
“Just an animal murderer, for certain species.”
“You’re defending fucking mosquitos, Andrew. The things that eat you alive, given half a chance?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Right. I stand 100% behind my anti-mosquito stance.”
“It’s hard for you to stand up 100%, let alone behind anything.” Alexei says.
“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”
“My pleasure.”
My Creole Haddock is OK. Certainly, far better than most KLM meals. And two glasses of red wine help it slip down more easily.
Our hotel isn't very central. It's about a 20-minute ride from Quebec railway station. After checking in, we hang around in my room for a while wondering what to do. Alexei has found a pub with a decent beer selection nearby: Café au Temps Perdu. We head there.
There's a supermarket nearby. But we'll leave that for on the way back. Au Temps Perdu is a lively neighbourhood bar. We sit on the terrace. As the sun sets behind suburban houses. Dead relaxing, is how I would describe it. The air is still and the light golden.
I get a Noctem Catnip IPA, the kids have cider. And some food: beef dumplings, fried calamari and poutine. The poutiine is really good: rich and deeply savoury. It really does seem to be better in Quebec. The gravy is almost like brown sauce, in a very good way
It's a lovely summer evening and customers drift in and out, the crowd becoming noticeably younger as time drifts on. I get an espresso martini for my second drink. What the hell, I'm on holiday.
A wonderful local bar. I’m so glad Alexei found it. One of the highlights of the trip so far.
“You're going to have to rate all the cities once we're done, Alexei.”
“What?”
“Score them all 1 to 10.”
“Well, you're a minus one.”
“We're not rating each other.”
“Why not, if we're rating cities?”
“You're missing the point.”
“That you don't want to be criticised?”
“Just go fuck yourself.”
“Exactly. That proves my point”
We drop by the supermarket on the way back. Milk, sandwiches, crisps. That sort of thing.
Back in my room we hang around for a while. I turn in around midnight again. Canadian clubbed.
Café au Temps Perdu
867 Av. Myrand,
Québec, QC G1V 2V8.
http://www.cafeautempsperdu.com/
I rise at 8:30. With a dry nose. That's an improvement. I'm feeling much better. What a relief.
Alexei turns up at 10. As was arranged yesterday.
"Andrew says we can go for breakfast without him." He tells me. And so we do.
Allô mon Coco isn't far. Just around the corner, really. It bills itself as a breakfast restaurant. Really, it's like a posh diner. A licensed one.
Alexei gets himself a mimosa. While I have an espresso martini. I do quite like one of those to wake me up in the morning.
We both get the gourmand breakfast. Which is pretty big and includes two pancakes. Which I don't want.
“Do you want my pancakes, Lexxie?”
“I suppose so. I’ll see if I’m hungry when I’ve finished my breakfast.”
I'm so generous, letting Alexei have food I don’t like. Father of the year behaviour.
The potato element to the breakfast comes either mashed or cubed. Both me and Alexei go for the latter.
“What type of cheese do you want? Swiss or cheddar?”
They turn out to be fried potato cubes, topped with grated cheese. That’s a new one for me at breakfast.
“We’ve had lots of different types of potato on our breakfasts.” I remark. “Proper hash browns, breakfast potatoes.”
“Poutine.” Alexei chips in. “You made me eat most of it.”
“There was a fuck of a lot of it.”
“It was good.”
“What else? The other type of hash brown and chips. Is that the lot?”
“I think so, Dad.”
It’s a very large breakfast. And Alexei has a chocolate milkshake with his. Along with my pancakes.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit too much for a breakfast. Or any meal, really” I ask.
“It is the continent of over-consumption.” Alexei replies.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Usually when you’re overindulging in something.”
“Fitting in with the local culture.”
“That’s a feeble excuse.”
“Like all of yours.”
“I have reasons, not excuses.”
“Right.”
Our breakfasts come to $91. Which isn't too bad considering we both had a cocktail.
Alexei goes back to his room. About 90 minutes later he and Andrew appear at my door. I have time to look through my recommendations for Montreal and decide on Pit Caribou. Which looks like a nice place.
It’s a little closer than Dieu du Ciel, in the same direction. We get there a little before 15:00. There are people outside on the terrace, but it's deserted inside. Where we sit.
It’s rather beerhall-like. Less posh and ordered than many of the places we’ve been. There are long, high table, surrounded by stools. Also bench seating and normal-height tables. The small, round tables are decorated with beer-related images: a hop cone, mashing paddles, barley stalks.
I get the Double IPA, while the kids opt for some Lager or other. As they often do. It’s yet another sludge IPA. Which is starting to be a bit irritating.
“What a surprise: you’ve gone for the strongest beer again.” Andrew snipes.
“Fuck off.” Is my witty reply.
“As eloquent as ever, eh, Dad?”
After a couple of beers, we get some bits of food. They don't really do full meals here, just snacks. Which is OK by us. Me and Alexei both get toasties. Something to soak the beer up.
Andrew tries several different beers, as he does. While I stick with IPA, despite its sludgy nature. It's full of alcoholly goodness. Which is the taste I go for.
We spend a few happy hours, pints joyously slipping down our throats. What fun. Then Uber it back to our hotel. Where I reacquaint myself with Canadian Club. And crash out around midnight.
Allô mon Coco
70 Rue Sainte-Catherine E,
Montréal, QC H2X 0C7.
https://allomoncoco.com/locations/allo-mon-coco-ste-catherine-e/
Microbrasserie Pit Caribou
951 Rue Rachel E,
Montréal, QC H2J 2J4.
I'm feeling crap. And rise at 8. Gulping down some of my cold medicine.
We're supposed to be going to Tim Horton's for breakfast. But I really don't feel up for it.
The kids drop by my room at around 10. Then head off to Tim Horton's. I feel really shit.
"Get me a roast beef sandwich. Or a breakfast sandwich." I ask them.
“OK.”
The kids are gone for a while. Hopefully the cold medicine will kick in soon. My nose is running like a tap. Most annoying.
The kids return a little before 11. With a breakfast muffin for me. And a pile of stuff for Alexei. Nothing for Andrew. Who has to throw up. Then crawls into one of the beds and falls asleep. He’s not much of a morning person.
The sandwich livens me up a bit. Which is good. Alexei and I watch some TV while Andrew sleeps. This is going to be an exciting day.
Around 13:00 me and Alexei go the convenience store, as we've run out of soft drinks. And beer. We pick up a few other things, too. Like a bottle of pinot noir. I also get a roast beef sandwich from Dagwood, the sandwicherie in the shop. I manage to conduct the whole transaction in French.
Andrew isn't looking much livelier when we return. He's still crashed out in bed.
"What's the plan for today?" I ask Alexei.
“We could go to a brewery.”
“Sounds good to me.” I reply.
“It’s not hard to persuade Dad to go to a brewery.” Andrew declares.
“Nor you.” I retort.
I have a look at the places that have been suggested to me. The name Dieu du Ciel cropped up a couple of times. It's not too far away. That'll do.
We set off about 14:30. We should catch it at a quiet time. The neighbourhood it's in seems pretty lively. Lots of shops, restaurants and bars.
Dieu du Ciel has quite a pubby feel. Reinforced by the presence of two handpulls. And a Cask Marque sign by the entrance. Which is a good sign, if you’ll excuse the pun It's deserted inside and we have our choice of seats.
“Ooh, look!. They've got a cask Mild.”
"You get excited so easily, Dad." Andrew retorts.
“I know. It's wonderful, isn't it?”
“No, not really.”
“You really know how to make me feel good about myself, Andrew.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean that in a positive way.”
“I know, Dad. I understand irony. Unlike you.” Andrew says. “And don’t tell me to fuck off, like you usually do.”
“Go frig yourself.”
“Very original. You twat.”
“Who’s resorting to profanities now?”
“Just shut up, Dad.”
“I was waiting for that. One - nil for Dad.”
“This isn’t a football match.”
“No, it’s a much more important competition.”
“Fuck off, Dad.”
“That’s two – nil.”
I get a pint of Mild, obviously. It's really rather nice. The kids go for something Lagery. There's a really good variety of beers on offer. Two cask beers (the other is an Ordinary Bitter), two Stouts, Bavarian Helles and Amber, a Hefeweizen and, of course, a couple of IPAs, including a non-sludge one.
We order some food: poutine and fried chicken. The poutine is excellent. The best we've had so far.
I have a London Stout next. It's on nitro but is packed with roast flavours. At 5.6% ABV, it’s like an interwar London Stout. Andrew seems to be working his way through the full beer range. As he does. You can’t accuse him of being unadventurous when it comes to beer.
A middle-aged bloke comes over and comments of Alexei's shirt. He's wearing A Montreal Canadiens jersey that I bought for him the first time I was in Canada, more than a decade ago. The bloke is very surprised that someone from Amsterdam should have the shirt.
After 17:00 it really starts to fill up. This seems like a very popular spot. No surprise there. The beers are all excellent and it’s a really cool place. The best brewpub we’ve been to so far. I can understand why several people recommended it to me.
I switch to Peche Mortel, an Imperial Coffee Stout. It's also dead good. I'm very impressed with the beers here. The kids seem pretty happy, too.
“Going for the strongest beer again, eh, Dad?” Andrew remarks, rather aggressively.
“I just happen to like Imperial Stout.”
“And Barley Wine and Quadrupel.”
“What can I say? I like full-bodied beers.”
“Right. Beers that just happen to be high in alcohol.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re fooling no-one, Dad.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Not even yourself.”
The kids nip to the SAQ just down the road to stock up on booze. They get me a bottle of Canadian Club 1858. Which comes in the weird size of 1.14 litres.
We leave about 19:30. With the kids getting more beer in the nearest little shop.
The rest of the evening is pretty quiet with me sniffling while sipping whisky and watching shite on the TV.
Sleep comes knocking around midnight.
Brasserie Dieu du Ciel
21 Av. Laurier O,
Montréal, QC H2T 2N2.
http://dieuduciel.com/
| 1896 Ny Carlsberg Export Pilsner | ||
| pilsner malt | 7.25 lb | 60.42% |
| cara-pils malt | 1.25 lb | 10.42% |
| barley flour | 3.50 lb | 29.17% |
| Saaz 150 mins | 0.75 oz | |
| Goldings 60 mins | 0.50 oz | |
| Goldings 30 mins | 0.50 oz | |
| OG | 1051 | |
| FG | 1015 | |
| ABV | 4.76 | |
| Apparent attenuation | 70.59% | |
| IBU | 22 | |
| SRM | 3.5 | |
| Mash double decoction | ||
| Boil time | 150 minutes | |
| pitching temp | 41º F | |
| Yeast | Wyeast 2042 Danish lager | |
| Mash in at 35º C (95º F) | 5 minutes |
| Warm whole mash to 52º C (126º F) | 20 minutes |
| Rest whole mash at 52º C (126º F) (protein rest) | 15 minutes |
| Draw off first mash and without a rest bring to the boil | 30 minutes |
| Boil first mash | 10 minutes |
| The rest of the mash remains at 52º C (126º F) | 40 minutes |
| Mash at 70º C (158º F) | 25 minutes |
| Rest whole mash at 70º C (158º F) (saccharification rest) | 30 minutes |
| Draw off second mash and without a rest bring to the boil | 15 minutes |
| Boil second mash | 10 minutes |
| Mash at 76º C (169º F) and mash out | 20 minutes |
I spent a few hours today trawling through Carlsberg records. From the late 19th- and early 20th-century. As research for my book "Free!", which I like to keep working on.
The earlier ones aren't too bad. As the format is based on William Younger's records. The first book literally is a William Younger's one, from his time as an apprentice in Scotland. The handwriting can be a bit crap and the malts somewhat unclear. I can make enough sense of them to be able to create recipes.
The last book in the old format ends in 1906. From then on, the records look completely different. Starting in May 1905. Meaning the two formats overlap. There's a distinct difference in emphasis between the two record types.
 |
| old format, 1932 |
 |
| new format 1905 |
The older ones, despite their being a column for it, didn't have mashing details. Whereas the new ones have quite a lot of detail about both mashing and boiling. Though not the quantities of all of the ingredients and, most importantly of all, there's no gravity.
These are wort production records. With no mention of anything after the boil. Not even the volume of wort. Which means that records with the information in the old format must have continued to exist.
Just had a quick check. I've a 1930s book which is old format. I hadn't looked at these for a while. Fuck. I missed a whole load of records.
It looks like it could be a cataloguing problem. The two types are both described as "bryghusjournaler" "brew house journals". Even though they're totally different in size and shape. The old are landscape, the new portrait.
In case you're wondering, the catalogue numbers are consecutive:
old 1901-1906
old 1881-1887
new 1905
Not sure why 1881 to 1887 was out of chronological sequence.
I doubt the more useful format records have been lost. Carlsberg don't throw stuff away. They'll just be catalogued as something else. I wonder if the catalogue is online?
It makes me want to visit Copenhagen again. Who was my contact at the archive? It's such a long time ago. (2015, according to the time stamps of the photos.)
Marcin Ostejewsk and I discuss the Grodziskie competition in Grodzisk and the future of the style.
| 1899 Barclay Perkins Export Brown Stout | ||
| pale malt | 9.00 lb | 54.96% |
| brown malt | 1.875 lb | 11.45% |
| black malt | 1.00 lb | 6.11% |
| amber malt | 2.25 lb | 13.74% |
| No. 2 invert sugar | 2.25 lb | 13.74% |
| Goldings 150 mins | 3.25 oz | |
| Goldings 60 mins | 3.25 oz | |
| Goldings 30 mins | 3.25 oz | |
| Goldings dry hops | 1.00 oz | |
| OG | 1076 | |
| FG | 1023 | |
| ABV | 7.01 | |
| Apparent attenuation | 69.74% | |
| IBU | 115 | |
| SRM | 38 | |
| Mash at | 148º F | |
| After underlet | 156º F | |
| Sparge at | 170º F | |
| Boil time | 180 minutes | |
| pitching temp | 59º F | |
| Yeast | Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale | |
I rise at 8:05 again. I was in bed before midnight, though. I need to get my rest.
I write for about an hour. I've been so diligent, so far.
Dan. I can feel a cold coming on. Exactly what I don't want: being ill on holiday.
Alexei knocks on my door at 10:30. Andrew is getting up, he assures me. I go down to check. Andrew is, indeed, in the process of getting up.
We've decided that Universel Déjeuners et Grillades looks like a good spot for breakfast. It's a bit of a walk, but not too bad.
"It's licensed, so Andrew will be pleased." I say.
“Very funny, Dad.” Andrew responds.
“I thought so.”
“You always think you’re funny. But you aren’t.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“But true.”
The walk is mostly on the level. Thankfully. Montreal is annoyingly hilly. I really can't be doing with hills. Not with my lungs.
We mostly walk along Sainte-Catherine St. West. Parts of which have some rather colourful characters hanging about. I prefer not to know what they’re up to. I hang on tightly to my phone. Wouldn't want to have it nicked.
It's 11:30 when we get there. Which is a good time. A bit late for breakfast, too early for lunch. So it isn't too busy. The internet describes Universel Déjeuners et Grillades as a diner. Though it's rather more upmarket than that label implies. Quite posh, in fact.
We park our arses at a table and peruse the rather long menu. Drinks first. As it's before noon, I get an espresso martini. Andrew goes for an Irish coffee. Alexei gets a chocolate milkshake.
“Do you want to try my Irish coffee, Dad?”
“Fuck me, that’s strong.” I say after taking a sip.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“It’ll definitely wake you up.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Like my espresso martini.”
“That’s just because you’re a pisshead.”
“What’s your excuse, sorry, reason?”
“Like I just said: to wake me up. Your memory has totally gone, hasn’t it?”
I go for a typical egg and bacon affair. Alexei has eggs Benedict. Andrew has a milkshake, as he isn't feeling hungry, but wants to get some calories in. A big milk shake probably is almost as many calories as a breakfast.
My espresso martini is really good. So good, I get a couple more. The breakfast is pretty tasty, too. And large. I feel totally stuffed. The kids have a couple of beers. Some sort of craft Lager.
We walk back to our hotel. Where we chill in my room for a while. Our plan for this afternoon is to take a look at the cathedral. And wander around Old Montreal a bit.
The cathedral is an impressive gothic pile. Unfortunately, partly covered in scaffolding.
Happily, there's an SAQ (offie) directly opposite. Where I pick up a bottle of Canadian Club Rye. And a cheap bottle of wine. Unlike in the LCBO in Ottawa, there's no beer. Andrew has to make do with cider.
Old Montreal is pretty cool. Varying between old stone houses and massive classical public buildings. All rather European in appearance. We have to shelter in a doorway for a while when there's a brief flurry of rain.
Our next destination is 3 Brasseurs. Part of a chain of brewpubs which, I believe, started in France. I've been to one in Lille, for example.
It's rather large. And rather full. We led to seats towards the back. I order an Ambrée, the kids go for some Lagery thing. My beer isn't great, to be honest. I switch to espresso martinis.
“What’s your beer, Dad?” Andrew asks.
“Ambrée.”
“Is that, by any chance, the strongest beer on the menu?”
“It could be.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. You’re so predictable.”
“I call it consistent.”
“I call you a consistent pisshead.”
“Fuck off.”
“Well, that settles the argument.”
“The beer is pretty crap, actually.”
“Serves you right, Dad.”
The kids - even Andrew - are quite hungry and order burgers. I just have a fried squid starter. A combination of that monster breakfast and my cold have mostly killed my appetite.
“Can you find where there's a chemist nearby. I need some cold medicine.”
“OK, Dad.”
Andrew manages to find one on the way back to the hotel. Which is where we head after a couple more rounds. Arriving shortly before it closes. It’s a bit tricky to find, located inside a hospital. Someone has to open the exterior door to let us into the building.
The medicine perks me up a little. We watch some random shit on the TV. Including baseball with a French commentary. Which is novel. It’s the Blue Jays, of course. They’re the only Canadian team. And they’re losing again. Of course.
"Don't drink all of the whisky, Andrew. I'll need some of it for breakfast." I warn. To no avail.
“Fuck off.”
“How am I supposed to wake up without a whisky eye-opener?” I beseech.
“Try not being an alcoholic.” Andrew replies.
“OK. I’ll try.”
“Really?”
“I didn’t say how hard I’d try.”
“Right.”
“Not very hard. Hardly at all, really.”
“Very amusing. You at your wittiest. That is, not funny at all.”
Despite Andrew’s taunts, sleep doesn't play the stranger, ignoring my cold.
Universel Déjeuners et Grillades
359 Sainte-Catherine St. West,
Montreal, Quebec H3B 1A4.
http://stecatherine.resto-universel.com/
3 Brasseurs Saint-Paul
105 Rue Saint-Paul E,
Montréal, QC H2Y 1G7.
https://www.les3brasseurs.ca/fr/trouver-un-3-brasseurs/saint-paul/
The first part of my talk last Saturday at Butcher's Tears. Where I discuss 1805 Barclay Perkins Brown Stout.
Another of my little YouTube videos, this time about Oatmeal Stout. Well. Oat Malt Stout, too.
I rise at 8:05. Not sure why. The kids aren't due to come here until 10.
I do my usual writing thing. The kids still aren't here at 11. Where the fuck are they? They eventually turn up at 11:20.
"Are we going to the diner now?" Alexei asks.
"It's far too late for that." I answer.
He looks quite disappointed. It’s his own fault for getting up too late. Unless he was just waiting for Andrew. We had planned a diner breakfast. Which is always a good way to start the day. But I wouldn’t want to have to rush it.
Instead, we go to the A&W next the light rail stop. Me and Alexei both get bacon, egg and cheese muffins. Along with coffee and, for Alexei, a chocolate croissant. Andrew doesn't have anything. What a shock.
The place was deserted when we entered. After a few minutes, it's become packed. I guess because it's after midday and this is the lunch trade. Our food is fine, if a little light.
The light rail gets us to Ottawa station in about 10 minutes. It's a very new, rather bland affair. But very functional. Very functional. Though it wouldn’t win any beauty prizes.
Me and Alexei get ourselves sandwiches. Then we go and sit in the lounge. Which is nice and relaxing. I get myself a café latte. I can do with some more waking up.
It's only a two-hour ride to Montreal. Nothing too strenuous. I get a gin and tonic again. While Andrew sticks with Steam Whistle Pilsner. For which he has to show ID. It’s his fault for shaving this morning. He has such a baby face when he’s beard-free. Alexei has a soft drink.
It's very flat outside. And very wet. Mostly farmland, punctuated by the occasional small town. And there are trees. Lots and lots of trees. A surprising number of them bare and dead.
“What do you think of the countryside, Alexei?”
“It’s a bit empty. Lots of trees, though.”
“And lots of maize. Potatoes, too, I think. Maybe some cabbages. Or kale.”
“Fascinating conversation, Dad.” Andrew chips in.
“Thank you.”
“You’re really not very good at spotting sarcasm, are you, Dad?”
“Piss off.”
“Always ready with a witty riposte, eh, Dad?”
“Fuck off.”
“Just proving my point.”
Despite hanging around just outside the station for 10 minutes, we arrive just about exactly on time.
It’s not the prettiest of stations. And seems to be just the basement of an office block. A bit cramped, is how I would describe it. And busy.
The metro station at Montreal Gare Centrale is amazingly poorly placed. And hard to find. It's out of the station, across a busy road and hidden inside an office building. With no sign on the outside. Without directions, you'd never find the fucker.
Our hotel is further from the nearest metro stop than I would have liked. And all uphill. I'm knacked by the time we get there.
Once checked in, the kids nip out to the shop for supplies. Beer mostly. And cola.
“Can you get me some milk?” I ask.
“For your disgusting cocktail?” Alexei replies.
“Not all of it. I drink some of it straight.”
“To wash down all of your pills.”
“Partly. It’s not my fault I’m old.”
“Why do you mix your whisky with milk?”
“Because it’s easier on my stomach.”
“But it looks disgusting.”
“Tastes delicious.”
“I doubt it.”
Our evening destination is BreWskey Pub. Which is in Old Montreal. Back towards the metro station. Except this way it's all downhill. Or at least most of it. I try not to think about the return journey.
We walk past the town hall. It's pretty impressive, in grey stone. As are most of the buildings behind it in Old Montreal. It looks just like France. BreWskey is part of the very imposing Marché Bonsecours. A massive neoclassical pile.
Is this a brewpub? I’m not quite sure. They do seem to all their own beers. But where are they brewed? Is it here or another location? I’m none the wiser after looking at their website.
It's in a basement and has no windows. Which could be a bit claustrophobic. The range of beers is pretty decent. Seventeen draughts in all, with a Witbier, Kellerbier, Red Ale, Catharina Sour, Irish Stout and, of course, IPA. There are seven of those.
I get Exo, a sludge IPA. They seem to be the only type you can get in Canada. The kids go for Lagers. As they usually do.
It's not full. Only about half the tables are occupied. But it is a rainy Tuesday. A very rainy Tuesday.
We order some onion rings and cod cakes. Both are pretty good. The cod cakes are similar to Thai fishcakes, but without the chili.
Andrew notices that Roi du Frigo is listed as a TIPA.
"What's a TIPA, Dad?" Andrew asks.
“A Triple IPA. Like an IPA, but really strong.”
“I’m surprised that’s not what you’re drinking.”
“Why?”
“You always go for strong beers. Usually the strongest.”
“That’s not always true.”
“Really? Really?”
Just to prove Andrew wrong, I finish with a Roi du Frigo. A sludge Triple IPA. Which is a shame. Andrew gets one, too. I'm guessing because of the strength. The fucking hypocrite.
We don't stay out too late. It's pissing it down when we leave. Not to worry, we're getting an Uber. No way I'm walking up that hill again.
Back in the room, the kids drink some beer and I polish off the Reifel Rye.
Sleep isn't hard to find. It's there, lurking just under the sheets.
BreWskey Pub
380 Rue Saint-Paul E,
Montréal, QC H2Y 1H2
https://www.brewskey.ca/pub/
I rise at 8:40. Have a shave and start writing. As I do every morning. If I don't write things up the next day, I get all confused and forget stuff. That's what us oldie people are like. Minds like sieves.
Alexei turns up at about 10.
"Is Andrew up yet?" I ask. Expecting the answer no.
“Yes. But he isn't feeling well. He has trouble with his stomach.”
Andrew turns up 10 minutes later, looking very pale. Well, even paler than usual. We decide to drop by the chemist opposite to get him a sports drink. Not sure why.
"Parlez-vous Francais?" A customer asks an assistant.
"No." Is the curt reply.
I thought it was the Frech speakers who were funny about speaking English?
“There’s a washroom in the Mall.” The assistant keeps saying. In English. It’s a bizarre interaction.
We get an Uber to the Elgin Street Diner. For breakfast, obviously. It's another classic diner. One that never closes. Literally.
I order the blue-plate breakfast. It's enormous. With about a kilo of poutine. I feel like Beard meats food.
"I've never seen poutine on a breakfast before." I remark.
Alexei has a normal-sized breakfast. And a milk shake. Andrew just has toast. Now there’s a surprise.
"Would you live in Canada, Dad?" Alexei asks.
“Only in Vancouver. It gets far too fucking cold everywhere else.”
I eat all the meat and eggs on my breakfast. But there's no way I'm getting through all that poutine. I pass my plate to Alexei. Who polishes it off.
Andrew suggests we go for a beer in an English-style pub he noticed on our way down. Sounds fine by me. I spotted it, too.
It turns out Andrew had seen a different place to me. The Sir John A. Looking at the menu outside, I see that it has quite a range of beer. 26 beers described as craft, plus 8 domestic and 14 international. Not bad for somewhere that isn’t billing itself as a specialist beer bar.
It has a reasonably pubby feel. With a long bar running almost the whole length of one wall. I suppose they need plenty of room for all those beer taps.
I kick off with a Bicycle Velocipide IPA. Which is a bit sludgy. Andrew has a Lager. And Alexei, a diet cola. As he's feeling rather stuffed. I’m not surprised after all that poutine.
We have a couple of rounds. With me switching to Muskoka Mad Tom IPA, a West Coast style IPA. Which is more my style.
“Let's continue on to the pub I spotted. I think it was called the Lord Clyde.”
Andrew looks for it on his phone and can't find it. I suggest he just looks on a map.
“There, that's it." I say, pointing to a pub.
“It's not called the Lord Clyde. It's Deacon Brodies.”
“I knew it was something Scottish.”
“Completely different from what you said, though.”
“But something Scottish.”
“You really are going senile, Dad.”
It is, indeed, very Scottish. There's tartan everywhere and the barmaid is wearing a kilt. You can’t get much more Scottish than that. There’s a fairly short bar counter, with a bar back crammed with bottles of various whiskies. They’re really running with the Scottish theme.
They only have a dozen craft draughts here. I get Dominion City Sunsplit NEIPA. Another sludge IPA. Andrew has a house Lager.
"Is that diacetyl." He asks.
I try his beer. "Yep. That's diacetyl. Well spotted." I’ve taught him well.
We order some breaded prawns to share. Which are pretty nice.
I get a shot of Glenfiddich 14 year Bourbon Cask, this week’s single malt special. It’s full of alcoholly goodness.
“On the whisky again, eh, Dad.” Alexei remarks.
“I’ve had enough sludge beer for the day. All that crap isn’t good for my stomach.”
“Unlike whisky, eh?”
“I am on holiday.”
“That’s your excuse for everything.”
“A reason, not an excuse.”
“It’s always a reason with you, isn’t it, Dad?”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“I was taking the piss.”
On the way back we nip into an LCBO and pick up a bottle of Reifel Rye and a few cans of a Trailer Park Boys themed alcopop.
After a short rest in our hotel, we walk up to have a look at the parliament buildings. Which are impressive in a gothic way.
"It's all very Hogwarts." I remark.
"Very true." Alexei replies.
We jump in an Uber to take us to Tooth and Nail, a brewpub a little out of town. Located in a rather residential area. Where we're meeting Philip Kochanke, brewer at Braumeister Brewing.
Phil is there to greet us on entry and we grab a table on the patio. I start off with Fortitude, a 5.4% ABV Stout. The kids opt for Vim & Vigour, a Pilsner.
The evening rushes by as we chat, drink and snack a little. I switch to Rabble Rouser, a West Coast style IPA. A type which seems to be a rarity in Canada, with most IPAs being of the sludge variety.
On a trip to the bogs, one of the owners grabs hold of me and gives me a little impromptu tour of the brewery. Which is pretty compact.
Back in the hotel, I try out the Reifel Rye. Purely for medicinal purposes. It puts me to sleep a treat.
Elgin Street Diner
374 Elgin St,
Ottawa, ON K2P 1N1.
http://www.elginstreetdiner.com/
Sir John A Pub
284 Elgin St,
Ottawa, ON K2P 1M3
https://www.sirjohna.ca/
Deacon Brodies Pub
247 Elgin St,
Ottawa, ON K2P 0G1
https://www.deaconbrodies.ca/
Tooth and Nail Brewing Company
3 Irving Ave,
Ottawa, ON K1Y 1Z9.
https://toothandnailbeer.com/
Buy a signed paperback edition of the Homebrewer's Guide to Vintage Beer. For locations inside Europe.
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