I speak!

I rise at 8 after a long, long sleep. I feel so much better. It seems like every day this trip I've had an hour too little sleep. Or more.

I've arranged to meet Thomas for breakfast at 9.

I have the same breakfast as always. I love living life on the edge. I spend a couple of hours chatting with Thomas.

A breakfast pudding of guava, pineapple, orange juice and coffee.

Doug turns up and tells me that a car will be picking me up at 18:30 tonight to take me to my talk. That's cool.

I arrange to meet Thomas downstairs at 12 to go into town for drinks and food. We decide on de Marchand taproom. But it isn't open. Instead, we wander down onto the seafront and go into a random restaurant, Casa do Camarão. And order caipirinhas.

I start with a couple of strawberry ones. Along with some cod balls. Which are tiny. The two combined are smaller than one in Colarinho. And cost more.

Tiny cod balls.

A couple of Italian judges join us. And I get a passion fruit caipirinha. Which is dead good.

We decide to go somewhere cheaper to eat. A buffet place. Where it's about 12 euros for as much as you can eat. Deep-fried sushi is available again. I get various meats, loads of battered prawns, sushi, some meat bits, half a tomato, a few slices of beetroot and some pickled chili. A totally normal combination. At least here.

There are two choices: all you can eat for 75 reals, or 105 per kilo. Which means, if you want good value, load up you plate with a kilo of food all you can eat. If you're only going for 500 gm, pay per kilo.

A buffet lunch of potato, beetroot, sushi, boiled eggs, tomato and various meat.

As all the tables downstairs are taken, we head upstairs. Where there’s loads more room.

When I try to order an Uber to take us back to the hotel, my phone goes all weird. I don't see to have a mobile connection. Fuck. Have I used all my data? We go back to the buffet place and log on to their wifi to order the Uber. Which is an extortionate 1.50 euros.

On the way back, my connection reappears. Maybe all those highrises were to blame for my inability to connect.

Back at the hotel, I say goodbye to Thomas. Who is flying back to Atlanta. When will I see him again? Who knows?

Luc is already waiting for our car to the festival when I step outside the hotel. It doesn't show up at 18:30 or even 19:00, when Luc is supposed to be giving his talk. He's pissed off. And with good reason.

Me? I'm in South American mode. It will arrive when it arrives. Which is 19:10. There are already two passengers.

"Just as well we're all good friends." I remark. It's very intimate on the back seats.

Inside the hall, I grab myself a glass and go into the festival to find a beer. Any beer, really. On the way in, I bump into Tina.

The Green Coast stand at the beer festival.

"It's empty inside." she says. That's just how I like my beer festivals. Though the music is loud. Very loud.

There's a bit in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy about a rock band. Where the best place to listen to their concerts is in a concrete bunker 20 miles from the stage. I'm wishing I could find that bunker.

I have to shout into the ear of the server to get my NZ IPA. Three times.

“Why do they have music so loud?” I ask Tina.

“What?”

“Why do they have music so loud?”

“What?”

“Oh, forget it.”

“Almost seven forty-five.”

The location of the talks is cleverly hidden behind the counter where glasses are handed out. No chance of any random punters stumbling across it accidentally. Or even finding it if they’re looking for it.

There are nine of us for Luc's talk. It thins out after he's dome. One hand is enough to count my crowd. Including the staff. And me.

My talk goes quite well. Is that despite or because of the small crowd? Who knows?

Do I mind that the attendance was so poor? Not really. I don’t expect things to always go smoothly. I’ve learnt to just take things as they come, when I’m in South America. As long as one person enjoyed it, I’m happy. Easily pleased or at peace with myself? You decide.

Okcidenta stall at the beer festival.

I head back into the festival with Tina. And we bump into Rafaelo. Who is in Bavarian gear today, in honour of it being a beer festival. He points us to an Argentinian brewery with barrel-aged stuff. I get myself an Imperial Stout. With a head almost as dark as the beer itself. Just my sort of beer.

When I've finished it, I fuck off. I need to be up fairly early. For a long journey. And I don't want to start out feeling shit. I'll be seeing Rafaelo in a few weeks in Chile. And Tina after a few more in Rotterdam. No need to torture myself for social reasons.

Outside, it's raining. Proper Brazilian rain. Not quite as bad as earlier. Like the world won’t be ending until tomorrow. Not in just a couple of hours.

As we swish through the deluge, I reflect on the trip. Much like the rain, it's been intense and enveloping. Unlike the rain, it's also been lots of fun.

I'm in my room by 9:30. What a good boy you've been, Ronald. You deserve that cachaça nightcap.



Casa do Camarão
Ed. Imperador - Av. Atlântica, 2100
Centro, Balneário Camboriú
SC, 88330-666.


Restaurante Tempero e Sabor
R. 1700, n 193
Centro, Balneário Camboriú
SC, 88330-514.


Disclaimer: my hotel and some meals in Balneário Camboriú were paid for Concurso Brasiliero de Cervejas.

Beer Guide to the 1970s (part sixty-one)

It may look like this is one contiguous series. But I wrote part 59 more than a month before part 60, That's what happens when I keep swanning off to South America.

Of this trio of Whitbread breweries, I only ever got to drink beer from one, Flowers. And it was nothing to write home about. Positively dull, in fact. Not sure how they managed that. Probably through a huge technological effort.


Dutton
Blackburn,
Lancashire.
Founded:    1799
Closed:    1978
Tied houses:    784

Bought in 1966. No cask in the 1970s.

beer	style	format	OG	description
Trophy	Pale Ale	keg	1035.1
B	Pale Ale	keg
BB	Pale Ale	keg		a stronger Bitter
Mild	Mild	keg		dark
Amber	Mild	keg		pale
OBJ	Barley Wine	bottled

Evan Evans Bevan
Cadoxton, Neath,
Wales.
Founded:    1846
Closed:            1972
Tied houses:    

Bought in 1967. Great name for a brewery. I’d have kept it open, just for the name.

Flowers
Cheltenham,
Gloucestershire.
Founded:    1760
Closed:            1998
Tied houses:    1,275

Bought in 1963. They ended up brewing cask brands from other closed Whitbread breweries, such as Wethered. I wasn’t hugely keen on the beer they brewed.

beer	style	format	OG	description
Bitter	Pale Ale	draught	1038	hoppy, full-bodied
PA	Pale Ale	draught	1031	subtle
Starbright	Pale Ale	keg	1032.1	low gravity

 

Until I sell more copies, I'm going to keep plugging of my latest book, "Keg!".

Get your copy of "Keg!" now!

 

Cachaçaria!

I rise just before six. Glad I was a good boy and in bed by eleven last night.

I'm downstairs breakfasting by 6:15. Usual drill, usual food. With lots of coffee. Really lots of coffee.

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

I had a weird dream that I was dead, but still floating around the world. Most people couldn’t see me and kept sitting on me in the tram. It was an unsettling feeling being unseen and irrelevant. No-one’s interested in the opinions of dead people. What could it mean? That I ate too much meat last night?

Not wanting to risk missing the 7:30 bus from Hotel Blumenhof, I get an Uber at 6:50. Which gets me there not long after 7. Giving me time for another coffee. Exactly what I need, given the early start.

I sit with Pete. He, Amy and Mike Hall are going over to Blumenau to meet people at the other contest. Which, crazily, overlaps with the competition here.

"Say hi to Gordon Strong for me."

The bus sets off about on time. I sit next to Tina Rogers at the front where there's a bit more legroom.

Once we're off the motorway, the countryside becomes denser. Paddy fields lap against forested valley banks, trembling with trees in a symphony of green. Slopes stubbed with stands of short sugar cane. Very appropriate, given our destination.

Young sugar cane with trees in the background.

Destilaria Rech is our destination. Wedged into a steep valley with sugar cane slopes.

The owner shows us around. After first warning us to cover our flesh with insect repellent. Now there's reassuring.

"I'm glad I had a yellow fever vaccination a couple of years back." I quip to Tina.

We kick off in the building that houses both the fermenting vessels and the stills. Various stages of fermentation can be seen. Violently erupting and almost still. It's kept between 30 and 34 C, which is the optimal fermentation for the flavour profile they prefer. It smells like banana bread.

A copper still at Rech.

One still is running and clear spirit is spilling out like water from a tap. I’m tempted to stick my finger into the flow.

Spirit flowing from the still at Rech.

Next up is the vat room. With vats both varying in size and material. Several different woods have been used. Just about everything except oak Which is interesting. Aririba is the most common. Though quite a few are grapia. No idea what either of those woods are.

Our host explains that they didn’t originally market any of their products themselves, selling them onto third parties who put on their own labels. In recent years, however, they’ve been building up their own brands. Currently 60% is white label, 40% their own. 

A large barrel, made of an exotic wood, at Rech.

We finish in the barrel room. Where casks are stacked from floor to ceiling. This is also where the tasting occurs.

Starting with clear, unaged cachaça. Which is incredibly fruity. The golden version is rounder and smoother. Then we get to the good stuff, starting with 5-year-old. Follwed by one aged in cinnamon wood. Which is intensely spicy. As you would expect.

A barrel at Rech.

We progress with a couple which have been sequentially barrel aged. That is, starting in a barrel of one wood, then transferred to a cask made of another wood. These are incredibly complex, vanilla and spices dancing around the tongue.

Wagner, who doesn't want to drink too much, generously lets me finish his samples. What a great bloke. I’m only too happy to help him out.

We repair to the shop, where bottles are out for us to pour our own samples. The really posh barrel-aged ones are quite expensive: 30 to 50 euros. I get 2 silver, a gold and a 5 year. Together they come to around 30 euros. The robbing bastards. One of the silvers is for hotel drinking. As I've just about polished off the cheapo vodka.

Booze bought, it's back on the bus. We stop at a petrol station to get some scran. One meat and one cheese empanada for me. Not bad, but could have done with more filling. Too dry.

The Faroeste brewery we visit next is also out in the countryside. You can tell from the smell of cow shit. Which is sort of appropriate, given the cowboy theme of the place. Is it real or a clever mood-setter?

Faroeste taproom shed.

We grab ourselves beers and take seats for a presentation. The early start and the cachaça samples have taken their toll, and I nod off, dropping my phone. Pull yourself together, Ron.

There’s a quick spin around the brewery. Which doesn’t take long, as it’s pretty compact. Some of the judges buy a beer from the taproom shed in front of the brewery. I just top up my plastic cup with more of the free IPA. I get a taste of the paid-for Catharina Sour. It’s very good. Though not superior enough to the IPA to validate forking out cash.

I'm having a great time. A distillery and a brewery today. Full of free cachaça, I fall asleep on the bus on the way back.

It's around four when I'm roused from my slumber and dropped off at my hotel. Feeling totally knacked, I nip to the petrol station to get a couple of sarnies and a big bag of crisps. Carefully noting the production date of the former. Some sandwiches are a few days old.

It's the awards ceremony tonight I'm not going for a couple of reasons. It will be dead loud. There will be no seats. And the leftover competition beers will be a total lottery when it comes to quality.

I'm also knacked and want an early night. I don't even write up today. Instead watching some YouTube while sipping cheapo vodka and coke.

I turn in at 9. Not because I need to get up early. I don’t. But because I’m knacked and want to have a good, long sleep. Some cheapo vodka helps me get there.



Destilaria Rech
R. Roberto Rech, 904
Baixo Canoas,
Luiz Alves
SC, 89128-000.


Cervejaria Faroeste Beer
R. Serafim Gamba, 6050
Brilhante I,
Itajaí
SC, 88318-260.


Disclaimer: my hotel and some meals in Balneário Camboriú were paid for Concurso Brasiliero de Cervejas.
 

Let's Brew - 1883 Truman (Burton) No. 4 Ale Stock

And here we are with the Stock version of No. 4 Ale. Let’s see how it differs from the Runner.

Starting with the grist. Which, in this case, is particularly simple, consisting of just a single type of base pale malt. While the Runner version contained a bit over 10% sugar in addition to the base malt.

The hopping rate is, as you would expect, much higher than in the Runner. 9.5 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt compared to 5 lbs. Which results in a much higher calculated bitterness level. The hops are there to protect this beer during the ageing process.

The two types of hops are the same. Except that, rather than being in similar quantities, they were in the ratio of two Hallertau to one English.

The maturation process would have probably lasted between 12 and 18 months. 

1883 Truman (Burton) No. 4 Ale Stock
pale malt	18.00 lb	100.00%
Fuggles 180 mins	2.50 oz
Hallertau 60 mins	2.50 oz
Hallertau 30 mins	2.50 oz
OG	1077
FG	1017.5
ABV	7.87
Apparent attenuation	77.27%
IBU	79
SRM	6
Mash at	149º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	180 minutes
pitching temp	55º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

Beer Guide to the 1970s (part sixty)

I'm off travelling again soon. And I need to schedule a load of blog posts again. Meaning I may finally finish this series.

Three Whitbread breweries today. One in Yorkshire, which I can remember being driven past, but which closed just a couple of years befrore I moved to Leeds. It was always weird to me how few pubs Whitbread had in Leeds, given that they owned two substantial breweries in the city.

Briskwoods, I heard, was decent stuff. Though I, sadly, never got down to the South Coast to drink it. Campbell, Hope & King, on the other hand, closed too early for me to ever have a chance of trying.


Bentley's Yorkshire Breweries
Woodlesford, Leeds,
West Yorkshire.
Founded:    1829
Closed:            1972
Tied houses:    380

Bought 1968.


Brickwood
Portsmouth,
Hampshire.
Founded:    1851
Closed:            1983
Tied houses:    675

Bought in 1971. I never tried their beer, as its distribution area was too far south for me.

beer	style	format	OG	description
Pompey Royal	Pale Ale	draught	1046.9	full-bodied, well hopped
Trophy	Pale Ale	draught	1037.8	pleasant, well-balanced
Mild	Mild	draught	1031.5	dark, pleasant
Sunshine	Light Ale	bottled
Brown Ale	Brown Ale	bottled

Campbell, Hope & King
Edinburgh,
Scotland
Founded:    1710
Closed:            1970
Tied houses:    73

Bought 1967. And closed almost immediately. 

If more of you bought it, I wouldn't have to keep plugging of my latest book, "Keg!". From which this is an excerpt.

Get your copy of "Keg!" now!

 

Please make it end

I rise at 7. Perform my ablutions, get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast.

It's the same as usual. Scrambled egg, cheese and ham. Followed by fruit for pudding. I'm dead boring. At least when it comes to breakfast. I’m Mr Exciting when it comes to, er, something. Let me have a think and I’ll get back to you.

Breakfast pudding of watermelon, a banana, orange juice and coffee.

Thomas Sjoberg joins me again. Always nice to start the day chatting with him. Then we trundle onto the bus.

It’s the last day of judging. Thankfully. For a different competition today: the South Beer Cup. With entries from all over South America. Four judges to a table, this time. No idea why.

I judge with Matin Proano, Rodolfo Rebelo and Hugo Simon.

Time for the first flight of the day. Experimental, and other, IPA: 10 examples.

This type of beer isn't my forte. I really struggle to make sense of them. The other judges seem better acquainted so I defer mostly to them.

Many judges, judging at tables.

After the first flight, Rodolfo leaves to buy stuff for tonight's BBQ. Which I'm really looking forward to. As many caipirinhas as you can drink, as well as food, for 120 reals. "That sounds like a challenge to me." I quip. How many can I get down in 3 hours? I'm aiming for double figures.

The second five beers are slow to appear. Which is annoying. The other days have been much better. No idea what the problem is as it's the same people serving. And there are fewer tables. The break does give me a chance to do some writing.

Next is smoked and historic beers. It’s very mixed in terms of styles. And strengths.

The flight is also brought out in two phases. There's a long wait for the final six beers. Dead frustrating watching other tables finish up and go to eat, while we just sit on our arses.

I'm sure that we judged several of the historic beers yesterday, too. Which is a bit weird.

One of the Grodziskies is dead good and gets a medal. A really nice Smoked Porter wins an award, too. And an Adambier. Though, personally, I found it too sweet. The Gotlandsdricke was in with a shout. But missed out narrowly. Partly because none of us had anything to compare in to.

We're in pretty close agreement as to which beers are the best. Which is good, seeing how long we've been hanging about.

A healthy bowl of crisps, rice, spaghetti meat and black beans.

Lunch isn't in a restaurant. Just a pre-packaged polystyrene bowl of stuff in the coffee corner. It’s carb-heavy, even for Brazil. A three-carb trick of crisps, rice and spaghetti. Along with some meat and black beans.

After eating I quickly fuck off before they ask me to do the BOS. I'm back in my room by 15:40. Yeah! What to do for the rest of the afternoon? Well, there is that cheap vodka. It won’t drink itself.

Barbecue tonight. At a yacht club. Fellow judges have bought the meat and the drinks. And it will be party time. Yeah!

I get an Uber down there at 18:30. The party is already in full swing. Meat, cocktails. Merriment. What more could you ask for?

Rafaelo in gaucho gear holding a tray of meat, bread and farafa.

I quickly grab myself a brace of caipirinhas and join in the fun. Rafaelo Santos, in gaucho costume, comes around with bread and meat. Delicious, succulent meat. Fuck me, it’s nice. I quickly consolidate my caipirinhas into one glass to leave a spare hand for meating.

Is it the meat or the caipirinhas? Things are getting pretty wild. Judges stand on tables and shout stuff. Mostly about the bottle of spirits they’re sharing. Like Norwegian aquavit, aged by a trip around the globe.

A Norwegian judge standing on a chair telling fellow judges about hi aquavit.

More than beef, the barbecue. Pork and even lamb, too. A meat heaven. Where the only danger is overindulging. Chatting with the other guests is a helpful distraction from the meaty deliciousness that keeps floating past.

Only 20 euros for all I could eat and drink. Which, in the latter case, was nine caiprinhas. Gutted I don't make double figures. But I need to be up at 6 AM. And I want to feel human.

I leave a little after ten. Regretting not having eaten more meat. Who hasn’t done been there? Vegetarians and vegans, I suppose. Or, perhaps, especially them.

I’m back in my room with enough time for a little writing and some cheap vodka. I really am living the dream. We're visiting a cachaçaria tomorrow. Wish me luck.



Yacht Club Camboriú
R. Dom Henrique, 1200
Jardim Iate Clube,
Balneário Camboriú
SC, 88337-260.

Disclaimer: my hotel and some meals in Balneário Camboriú were paid for Concurso Brasiliero de Cervejas.

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1883 Truman (Burton) No. 4L

What does the “L” mean here? Well, usually, it stands for “London”.  As opposed to “C” which stands for “Country”, i.e. everywhere apart from London. In this case, it seems to indicate that this beer is a Runner.

That certainly seems to be confirmed by the rather low hopping rate of just 5 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt. Which isn’t much for a beer of this strength.

The grist, like all of these Burton Ales, is pretty simple. Just base pale malt and an unspecified type of sugar. For which I’ve guessed No. 2 invert.

Just two types of hops in about equal quantities, one English one Bavarian.

All the evidence suggest that this beer wasn’t aged. And was, quite possibly, blended with the Stock version, S4.

1883 Truman (Burton) No. 4L
pale malt	15.50 lb	88.57%
No. 2 invert sugar	2.00 lb	11.43%
Fuggles 180 mins	2.00 oz
Hallertau 30 mins	2.00 oz
OG	1082
FG	1024
ABV	7.67
Apparent attenuation	70.73%
IBU	40
SRM	10.5
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	180 minutes
pitching temp	54º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

 

Still judging

I wake at 6:30. And feel shit. I decide to give a shower a miss and stay in bed for another 40 minutes.

I see Thomas at breakfast again. I'm not the only one without enough sleep.

"I ate too much meat last night." He says.

“You should be used to that, living in the States.”

I drink lots of coffee and orange juice. To wake me up and to replace all the lost vitamins. Along with the usual scrambled egg, cheese and ham. Plus fruit, of course.

A breakfast pudding of watermelon, orange juice and coffee.

Michael Hall comes around and gives me a beer. Which is nice of him. I get to choose and opt for Hop Rising Double IPA.

Two Military Police are grazing the buffet today, That’s a change. The other days it’s been the city police.

Just a minibus this morning. Have that many of the judges left already?

I’m judging today with Carolina Barioni (Brazil) and Dario Elia (Italy). I’ve judged with Carolina before.

Our morning flights are, er, varied. Kicking off with Special/Best Bitter. The surprise is that one is really good. Biscuity malt, English hops. Pretty much spot on. Let’s not speak about the others.

Six samples of beer for judging.

Next is a mini-BOS of Hazy IPA. Nothing too sludgy, thankfully. Picking three good ones isn’t too hard.

The penultimate morning flight is another mini-BOS: American Amber Lager. How can I put this politely? I didn’t care much for any of them. Let’s leave it at that.

The morning ends with something much more to my taste. A mini-BOS of Belgian Quadrupel. A bit sweet, overall. But a couple of really nice ones. I finish off the ones I like. I hate seeing good beer wasted. When I could be getting wasted.

I go to lunch with Chris. And have the same as yesterday: tomato risotto and sirloin. The meat is dead good. As I've been roped in for BOS, I order a caipirinha. And then another. And another. That gets me right in the mood for BOS activities. And the espresso I finish with should keep me awake.

A lunchtime caipirinha.

My pre-BOS is with Andreas Fält. As he lives in Leeds, we have a chat about the city and its pubs. In particular, the Cardigan Arms. My old local. He knows it well.

We have thirteen UK styles. All are pretty good. But the IPA is a standout. We agree, making the discussion on which beer to pass forward is a very short one. Then I'm done, as I'm not judging the BOS itself. I'm free!

As only one person is on the bus, I realise it won't be leaving for ages. I decide to get an Uber. Paula is, too. So we share one. On the way back, she tells me about visiting Space Adventure, which I can see from my room's window. It’s right next to the rocket.

I have a peek in the petrol station shop for essential supplies: cola, a sandwich and some cheap vodka. It saves pissing around going to a supermarket. I pay in cash. Which is quite a novelty.

My plan is to eat in Boka's, a seafood place. Before I have chance to leave, a thunderstorm breaks. A full-strength one. As if the world is about to end. Each lightning flash a silver sliver of sunlight. The lights on one of the high rises downtown flicker off. What happened there? I may have to rethink this evening.

Wind and rain whip around and contort trees. Cars creep cautiously down the street, headlights flickering behind the swirling rain. Thunder booms and cackles at the few people scurrying about. No fucking way I’m going out in that.

In a change of plan, Thomas suggests that we go to Starfish. where we'll get a free beer and a discount on subsequent beers. OK, I suppose.

When the rain has receded to just pissing it down, I grab an Uber.

I assumed Starfish Cervejeria was the place. How wrong I was. That's just a weird little taproom which isn't open. Fuck Starfish, then. I take another Uber to Boka's. Where there's already a table of judges. I sit next to Michael Hall.

We order caipirinhas and a mixed seafood platter. It's supposedly for two. In reality, it would feed a family of fourteen for a fortnight. There's a mountain of prawns, two crabs, fish stew and a whole plaice. Fuck me, that's a lot of food.

A massive pile of prawns, a sole, two crabs, rice and chips.

We’re informed that they’ve run out of cachaça and will have to use vodka in the caipirinhas. You what?

“How can they have no cachaça?” I remark. “This is Brazil, after all.”

Obviously, we can't finish all the food. We barely make a dent in it. Despite it being delicious. Which is a bit of a shame.

Thomas turns up after a while.

“I thought you were going to Starfish.”

“That didn’t work out.”

He sits on a different table of judges. Ours is already full.

We share an Uber back to the hotel. Unlike some of the others, who continue on to Starfish. I'm too sensible for that. I remember how I felt this morning after too little sleep. As it is, it's after 11 when I get back.

I watch Match of the Day 2 while sipping some cheapo vodka. It pursues me along the narrow path to sleep.



Boka's Restaurante
Av. Marginal Oeste, 60
Vila Real,
Balneário Camboriú
SC, 88340-000.




Disclaimer: my hotel and some meals in Balneário Camboriú were paid for Concurso Brasiliero de Cervejas.