Growing hops in Egypt (part two)

More about the, obviously, futile attempt to grow hops in Egypt. This time it's the report complied by Mr. Linton which was mentioned in part one. It doesn't make happy reading.

The School of Agriculture,
Ghizeh, 22nd September, 1902.
Report on the Cultivation of Hops at Ghizeh.
The hop sets were planted on the 7th March, 1898, so that they have now passed through their fifth season of growth. The sets were planted in deep alluvial soil, the plants being 2 yards distant from each other, and the rows a little over 2 yards apart. The initial planting proved very successful, only a few of the sets failing to take root. The whole area occupied by the crop is about three quarters of an acre. To give the hops every chance, no other crop has been sown under them, and by deep hoeing, the surface soil has been kept free and clean. Each year farm-yard manure has been applied around the roots of the plant.

Training.— During their first seasons tho bines were trained up vertical ropes attached to horizontal wires; but for the last two years, to save the plants from the high dry winds, they have been trained vertically to a height of about 8 feet, and then led over more or less horizontal ropes. Experience has shown that this change has had practically no effect on tho amount of vegetation produced by tho plants.

Season of Growth.— From November until the beginning of March the hops received no irrigation, and only enough cultivation to keep the land free from weeds. About the 1st of March the crowns of the hops were cleaned, and shortly afterwards growth began. From this time the plants received a full supply of water, at first being irrigated every 16 days, but later receiving two waterings in this time. This season, in order to retard growth as much as possible, the crowns were undressed, and water was withheld until the shoots had been some time above the ground. During the months of April, May, and June the bines rapidly increased in length, but invariably failed to send out any considerable show of lateral shoots or flowers. The bines about June 15th would average 10 to 12 feet in length, more in the first years, less in the last two seasons. In July the hops “hung fire,” some of the flowers becoming quite ripe — at least dead — while others were still undeveloped. Towards the end of August new bines were produced while the old ones gradually became brown, lost their lower leaves and often died. During September, the young bines kept their green colour but were never very vigorous, although they produced mature flowers. While the quick-growing bines produced few side branches, those bines in active growth during the hottest weather produced few flowers, many exceedingly frail lateral branches, and seldom attained a length of 8 ft. About October 20th the plants were all ripe or dead, and no further increase in vegetation took place. At this time there was the greatest show of crop, and picking was carried out. However, to have obtained all the yield of hops, it would have been necessary to collect intermittently from July. This would have entailed great trouble, and on a largo scale would scarcely have been a financial success, as at no season was there ever any abundance of vegetation or number of mature flowers. The hot months of July and August seem to be more than the plants could bear, and in those months what flowers were produced were always exceedingly small and brittle. The roots of the plants seem also to gradually weaken, and the number of bines produced from the crowns are decreasing, and a good many of tho roots are dead. During this last season it was hoped that by retarding growth in spring the development of the flowers might be kept back until August or September, so that they might escape the deadly month of July. This attempt ended in failure, as the plants without attention or irrigation sent up their bines at their usual season, March. Some of tho plants suffered from the aphid fly, but the attack of this insect was never sufficient to interfere with tho trial with the cultivation of the crop. Of the varieties under experiment the East Kent Goldings have done worst, the other varieties have been also bad.

Briefly, the following are the outstanding features noticed in tho cultivation of the hops:—

1. On planting few of the hops died.
2. The amount of vegetation produced by the crop has always been exceedingly little.
3. The flowers have ripened at various seasons.
4. The bines gave fair promise until the hot weather, when they gradually browned and died.
5. With the return of colder weather in autumn the younger bines wore fairly healthy, but never had anything like the amount of vegetation usually produced by the hop.
6. The vigour of the plants is gradually decreasing, and each year there is less show of leaf and stem. At the same time the stems are shorter and the leaves scarcer.
7. The plants are dying off in gradually increasing numbers.

As the hops have proved such a failure when exposed to the Egyptian summer sun, next year the crop will be restricted to about l-20th of an acre, and will be roofed over with some sacking material. Under those conditions the plants will have a moister atmosphere, and will be protected from the sun during the hottest months. If the hops fail when sheltered, their cultivation at Ghizeh will be given up, as the crop will not do without some great improvement over its present unsatisfactory growth.

[Since the above was written, Mr. Tripp informs us that he will be sending out to Dr. Mackenzie some hop sets from California within the next few weeks.]
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 644 - 645.

It's all rather sad. I feel quite sorry for the poor hop plants, struggling to survive in a totally unsuitable climate. I'm surprised at how long they persisted with these experiments, given how badly they went.

Growing hops in Egypt (part one)

I was quite surprised to find a report about growing hops in Egypt early in the 20th century.

From what little I know about the growing of hops, they require very specific climatic conditions. One of which is the length of daylight in the summer. Which, in the northern hemisphere, means that there's a limit to how far south hops can be grown. And the limit is much further north than the southern coast of the Mediterranean. Meaning growing hops in Egypt was never going to work.

The Cultivation of Hops in Egypt.
Some years ago we drew attention to the fact that Mr. C. Howard Tripp, managing director to Messrs. Ind, Coope and Co., of Burton-on-Trent and Romford, was endeavouring to start the cultivation of hops in Egypt. The matter was taken well in hand, and, through the kindness of Dr. Mackenzie, the Principal of the School of Agriculture at Ghizeh, near Cairo, three-quarters of an acre of Government land was reserved for making a trial. Mr. Tripp has twice visited Egypt during the last few years, and, on each occasion, thoroughly inspected the hops; they were not sufficiently advanced, nor did there seem to be much prospect of success. The matter has, however, recently been again brought under Mr. Tripp’s notice, and, at his request. Dr. Mackenzie instructed his assistant, Mr. Linton — who is in charge of the hop cultivation at the School of Agriculture above mentioned — to make an exhaustive report on the whole subject.

The Trade has every reason to be grateful for this disinterested enterprise which Mr. Tripp has undertaken, and our readers will be glad to learn that he is nothing daunted by the want of success which has, up to the present, attended the scheme. He has now suggested to Dr. Mackenzie that as the English hop sets, Essex, Worcesters, East Kents, Wealds, have all more or less failed to withstand the trying July heat referred to in the report, Californian hops might, perhaps, prove better adapted to these conditions. Mr. Tripp purposes, therefore, sending Dr. Mackenzie, during this autumn, from California, a quantity of hop sets. It would unquestionably be a great assistance to the trade if it were possible to grow a large quantity of hops, even of the Californian type, in Egypt. No crop is more insidious than the hop, and the shortage of the present season brings this prominently to the minds of brewers. la order that our readers may see for themselves how very thoroughly these interesting experiments have been carried out, we give below in extense the report on the subject already mentioned. If it be found possible to make the necessary arrangements a trial may be made in the neighbourhood of Alexandria, where during the summer the atmosphere is moister and the temperature lower than at Ghizeh.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 38 1902, November 15th 1902, page 644 - 645.

For anyone brewing in Egypt, locally-grown hops would have been dead handy. Plenty of barley was grown in the Middle East and hops would have been the only ingredient which would have needed to be imported.

I'm not surprised that English hop varieties struggled in the heat of the Egyptian summer. Though, given the daylight requirements of hops, American varieties weren't going to fare much better. Making any attempt at growing hops in Egypt futile. I wonder when they realised how much daylight hops required?

Flying North

I’m feeling a little better when I trail my bags outside and order an Uber. Terminal 2, I need.

The traffic is still anarchic and intense, even this late. And just as undisciplined. Which is scary as we’re going pretty fast – around 100 kph. A crash at this speed wouldn’t just result in a small dent.

Check in is pretty quick. It’s passport control and security that take the time. Why the fuck is the airport so crowded at 1:30 AM? It’s over an hour before I’m done. Leaving me 30 or 40 minutes in the lounge.

It’s easy enough to find. But my heart drops when I see that it’s a Saudi Airlines lounge. I correctly assume that there will be no booze. Not being hungry, it’s just and orange juice and a water for me.

On the way to my gate, I spot somewhere selling miniatures. I get myself a couple of Jack Daniels.

“Will you drink these on the plane or in the airport?”

What’s the right answer to this? Pretty sure you aren’t allowed to drink your own spirits on a plane.

“In the airport.”

Apparently, that is the correct reply.

I get to my gate at exactly the right time: as they’re just finishing boarding zone 1. And nearly ready for zone 2, where I am.

The legroom isn’t great. Meaning I can’t get in a good position to sleep. Which is what I’d hoped to do on this first leg. I try continuing to watch House of the Dragon. It doesn’t work. I can’t concentrate properly, but aren’t really falling asleep. Great. The worst of both worlds.

After the lights are dimmed, a make a valiant effort to sleep. Is it a partial victory? Or almost a total defeat? It feels like the latter when the lights come back and breakfast is served.

A breakfast of omelette, fruit, croissant, yogurt, tea and orange juice.

Compared to KLM economy class food, it’s haute cuisine. There’s an omelette, fruit, orange juice, yogurt, a croissant, a roll, butter and jam. Accompanied by tea. Into which I surreptitiously slip my two miniatures of whiskey. That should wake me up, shouldn’t it?

When we land, it’s very foggy. And not yet light. Not exactly cheerful.

A foggy runway at Charles de Gaulle airport.

Charles de Gaulle is as charming as ever. There’s some walking, a shuttle ride, lots of walking, security and passport control. Then lots more walking.

When I’ve completed the obstacle course and reached terminal 2F, it’s time to find the lounge. Luckily there’s an information board. According to which, the Air France lounge is two minutes to the right. So off I head.

No sign of a lounge after a couple of minutes’ walking. I head back and notice signs pointing to the lounge being in the opposite direction. I wander that way. After a while the signs stop. With no sign of a lounge.

Where the fuck is it? After a bit more wandering around, I spot an airport employee of some sort. “Where’s the Air France lounge?” I ask.

“Fifty metres in that direction.”

The exact opposite of what the fucking stupid information screen said. That disinformation machine made that more fucking complicated than it needed to be.

I’m feeling more lively when I finally enter the Air France lounge. Ooh look, there’s a bottle of whisky. It would be impolite not to give it a try.  Even though it is 7 AM.

The booze table in the Air France lounge.

My flight is just after eight. It will probably start boarding around half seven. How many whiskies can I get down in half an hour? Sounds like a challenge to me.

I start with a decent-sized measure. It’s very warming. I’m feeling even better than before by the time I’ve got it down. Time for another, I think. With a side order of orange juice. I’m very health conscious, you know.

When I’ve finished off the second whisky, I check the departures screen. My flight has just started boarding. Time for just one more. Just a smallish one. No more than a triple. Or so.

The gate isn’t too far. It doesn’t take that long to get there. They’re already quite a way through boarding. A woman is sitting in my seat. She’s really been assigned the middle seat. Cheeky git, trying to nick mine.

The plane is ready to leave. Except there are two no-shows. With checked bags that need to be unloaded. Great. It sets us back more than half an hour.

We’re fed a single biscuit. Plus a drink. It’s OK. Not being long since I had a decent breakfast.

Obviously, we arrive late. Not a worry for me as all I need is a taxi to continue my journey. More so for those with connecting flights. Of which I assume there are quite a few, judging by the rush with which some disembark.

I have to wait quite a while before my flight’s bags are unloaded. Exactly what I didn’t want.

My bag is one of the first out. Soon after, I’m in a taxi speeding through the rain. Outside is a grey and green blur. With cars staying in their fucking lanes. So comforting.

At home, Dolores is waiting for me. With tea. As always.

 

Pyramids

I rise at 9:20 again. And go straight downstairs for breakfast.

In a wild move away from my usual approach, I start with fruit. Then move on to cheese and salad. What a wacky bloke I am!

A breakfast of cheese, tomato, fruit, tea and orange juice.

This is going to be a weird day. Andrew is off to a wedding at 5 PM. And I need to head to the airport at around midnight. I probably won’t see Andrew before I leave.

I’m feeling pretty shit. That’s why I had a very modest breakfast: no appetite. This is crap.

I manage to drag Andrew out of bed around 11 AM. And soon we’re headed towards Giza and the pyramids.

It’s quite a long drive. Obviously, quite a crazy one, too. Along motorway-like three- to five-lane roads. With people walking along the side. Or even in the road. Two people are standing on the inside lane having a photo taken. Not sure why, as the background looks pretty grim.

The road is bounded by bulky grey apartment blocks, with tiny streets between them. You could almost shake hands across the upper storeys. The dismal flats are interrupted every so often by mosques or Coptic churches, topped with four-armed crucifixes.

It would depress the fuck out of me if I lived here. Dust is everywhere and many buildings appear half-finished, sad fingers of rebar reaching up into the sky. Washing flaps on racks hung from windows

We stop next to a little shop. Our driver jumps out and returns with two bottles of water.

“You’ll need this at the pyramids. And they charge crazy prices there.”

That’s really nice of him. And he doesn’t ask for any money. He’ll be getting a good tip.

At a random point we branch off into one of the tiny side streets. Where children play. And a butcher is hacking up a cow carcass. An exposed ribcage grasps at the air. At a bakery trays of flat bread are piled up on wooden trays and whisked away. It’s all a bit medieval.

At the entrance to the pyramids, it’s total chaos. People randomly pushing towards the ticket windows. Great.

Pyramids with horses and carts in the foreground.

Not fancying walking up a hill in the full sun, we take a horse and cart. Wouldn’t have been my first choice. Except the other options were horseback or camel.

Rather than experiencing the ancient majesty of the pyramids, I’m mostly experiencing fear for my life. For some reason, rather than the relatively smooth toad, we take a stone track up the hill.

It’s not very even, pitted with potholes. With a scattering of rocks. Some around double the size of a cricket ball (For Europeans, that’s 0.33 of a metric football.) As we rock dramatically from side to side, I wonder how high the centre of gravity is. And how far it’s safe to lean.

A horse and cart on a rocky track.

Pulling completely off the road, it’s remarkably smoother than the track. Equally littered with rocks, but pothole-free.

We stop for a photo call with a good view of all three of the large pyramids. Not wanting the considerable faff of remounting, I stay back. While I’m alone, the horse of an empty cart comes along to say hello to our horse. Which, unimpressed, snorts and lashes out with a front leg. For an instant, I fear it’s going to bolt, dragging me to a stony death.

I’m just relieved when I can get off in one piece. Maybe we should have gone for the camel option.

Pushing our way through the Egyptian vendors of tack, we find a free space where we can order an Uber.

“That was an unforgettable experience.”

“Really, Dad?”

“Not necessarily for the right reasons.”

“OK . . .”

Andrew doesn’t ask, and I don’t explain, further. Wouldn’t want to ruin the experience for him.

Our return route is completely different. Equally grim. A forest of mid-rise blocks, their dull colours dimming the sun.

Empty chairs and tables in the Flamenco hotel bar.

“I’ve still got a couple of hours before the wedding. Do you fancy a drink in the hotel bar?”

“Well, it is bad luck to walk past an open pub.”

“I never believed you when you said that when I was little.”

“I think you did for a while.”

“Just humouring you, Dad. Like I still do,”

I don’t care to ask any further about that. And keep shtum.

Hurrah! It’s almost empty. And pretty much smoke-free. My throat is still aching from yesterday.

We sit at the end of bar again.

“Let me guess what you’re having, Andrew.”

“OK. Go on then.”

“A non-alcoholic beer.”

“Fuck off, Dad. And let me guess what you’re having. An octuple whisky. Like you pour yourself at home?”

Damn. He’s already said fuck off. I have to come back with something else witty. Something completely different.

“Go fuck yourself.”

We only have a couple of hours before Andrew needs to start making himself look beautiful. Time for him to knock back no more than half a dozen half litres. And me a similar number of whiskies. Just doubles.

Thankfully, few smokers appear.

It’s a bit strange after Andrew leaves. To be safe, I need to leave around midnight. I’ve seven hours to fill. What should I do? I don’t want to stray far. Maybe a meal in the hotel restaurant.

My stomach doesn’t feel great. Despite the whisky. I sit at my laptop and watch some YouTube. Despite setting the aircon to 20 C, it’s getting really chilly. I could open the window, Instead, I put on my coat. And zip it up. That’s better.

Andrew hasn’t got up for breakfast once. He did eat one breakfast, though. Just before he went to bed on the day we arrived.

Later, I lie in bed and watch Tripped. Then the first series of Spaced. Am I going down to the restaurant? Doesn’t seem worth it. I finish off the Irish cheese and drink some water. And then vomit. Glad I didn’t waste money on fancy food.
 

More lazing in Cairo

I rise at 9:20. Giving me enough time for a leisurely breakfast. Andrew continues snoring away in bed. The lazy git.

Cheese, salad and fruit again. With tea.  Rather nice tea. Like the proper English stuff. I have a couple of cups.

A breakfast of cheese, salad, orange juice and tea.

The plan for today was to visit the pyramids. But it’s after 3 PM by the time Andrew drags his arse out of bed. We discover that the ticket office closes at 4 PM. It’s too late for us to visit today.

“What about going to the pub, Dad?”

“We could do.”

“Five Bells?”

“That works for me.”

This time there aren’t just a few customers. There are none at all. We take seats close to where we sat last time.

I start with a Stella. As does Andrew, obviously. It’s much like the first time. Except there’s no footy on the telly. Well, not a match. But some sort of football show, where players are interviewed.

I switch to Egyptian whisky after finishing the Stella. Andrew is just about polishing of his third bottle.

A prawn cocktail in Five Bells.

We order food again. Cheese croquettes for Andrew, a prawn cocktail for me. Disappointingly, there’s quite a lot of tomato ketchup on top of it.

“Look Andrew. They’re going to show the Manchester City game.”

“Is it live?”

“I think so. It is three o’clock in the UK.”

The Stella and whiskies flow through us, as the afternoon slinks into evening. A few other diners appear. An Egyptian family. Two German women. Still not exactly a crowd.

Zamalek shops.

We leave around 8 PM. And don’t return directly to our hotel. Concerned at the total absence of booze, we searched for off-licences before going to the pub. There’s one just a little bit further. Unfortunately, on the other side of quite a big road.

I’m quite apprehensive about crossing it.

“You need to be more aggressive, Dad. And just walk out into the road as if you assume drivers are going to avoid you.”

“That doesn’t sound exactly safe.”

“Don’t worry. Everyone else is doing it.”

“And look like they could get run over at any moment.”

“You’re such a wimp, Dad.”

“One who is still alive.”

The offie is called Sakara Bazar. It’s a hole in the wall sort of place. With a counter on the pavement almost completely blocking entry.

“What would you like sir?” The assistant asks friendlily in very good English.

“Egyptian whisky.”

“The best?”

“No, the cheapest.”

He invites me to squeeze through the small gap and enter the shop to take a look at the selection. While Andrew grabs some cans of beer from the fridge.

“This is obviously Heineken-owned, based on the beers they’re selling.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

I end up getting an expensive Egyptian whisky. A single malt. Our triple-bagged haul comes to around 20 euros. Not too bad.

Not totally sure how, but I make it back across the scary road intact.

“I wouldn’t want to do that every day.”

“You probably wouldn’t need to. At least, not for longer than a week.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t survive that long with your load-crossing technique.”

“Thanks, Andrew.”

A street in Zamalek, Cairo,

Some of the streets are on the way back are pretty poorly-lit. And infested with cats running around everywhere. Rather a confusion of cats than a pack of dogs.

While watching some stuff on my laptop, we drink responsibly. Really. You don’t believe me? You cynical bastard.

It’s shocking how quickly 75 cl of whisky can disappear. Especially if your git of a son is drinking it as well. Despite having seven half-litre cans of beer.

Nothing left for a nightcap. Unless you count the whole evening. Which wouldn’t be fair.



Five Bells
13 Ismail Mohammed,
Abu Al Feda,
Zamalek,
Cairo Governorate 11211.
 

Museum

I planned getting up just in time for the end of breakfast at ten. But my watch is still on Amsterdam time. And I rise 30 minutes too late. Damn.

The upside, is that I can stay in bed longer. Which I do. A couple more hours, as I’m feeling well knacked.

We were supposed to be meeting some of Andrew’s university mates at the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization at noon. But it keeps getting delayed. Meaning we can stay longer in bed. We finally meet up at 2 PM.

The ride over there is, er, interesting. Many of the roads are three lanes wide. But there’s no lane discipline. Cars, motorbikes, buses and all weave in and out of each other. It’s a wonder that there aren’t loads of collisions. Then again, seeing how many cars have dented and scratched bodywork, missing bits and parts held on with duct tape, it’s clear that there are loads of bumps.

Every driver apparently fears, should they ever stop, they’ll never get moving again. Even when, apparently, totally blocked in. I can’t understand how it works without total carnage.

Exterior of the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization.

We have to pass through a metal detector at the entrance to the museum. Which seems pretty standard here. It’s the same at the hotel. Though there the armed guard does nothing when it beeps as a guest enters.

“Racial profiling, Dad. That’s the reason.”

“Probably. When it advantages you, it doesn’t seem quite as despicable.”

The museum has artifacts from the stone age almost up to the present day. We go around in revers chronological order. Which I suppose is the opposite of what you’re supposed to do.

Old pottery in the museum.

Downstairs is the mummy room. There are a couple of dozen of them. Mostly pharaohs from various periods.

“Have you noticed something, Dad?”

“What?”

“They’re all short arses.”

“True. Though almost everyone is compared to you. Other than Lexie.”

Museuming done, the plan is to have some drinks and then food. Sounds good to me. We take a few cabs over to Cairo Cellar. It’s a pretty upmarket wine bar in the basement of a posh hotel.

We’re warned on entry that we’ll have to leave before 8 PM as some of us are wearing shorts. Including me. As soon as the thermometer hits 20 C, I ditch long kegs. Being old and sweaty, my lower regions need all the ventilation I can get.

It’s very dark inside. I can barely read the menu. What to drink? A local rum, I think. As usual, Andrew plumps for a Stella, as usual.

Rum and coke.

The group keeps getting larger. And less manageable. After a few drinks, and just before the 8 PM deadline, it’s time to pay up and move on to the restaurant.

It’s a bit of a cab ride away. A rather scary one. Is it worse or better at night when you can’t see the other traffic as easily. I’d call it a draw. On a three-lane road, with pretty fast traffic, a horse and cart passes us. Coming in the wrong direction in the outside lane.

Just before we get to the restaurant, we pass a fish market. Stalls loaded with ice topped by fans of fish. I’ve never seen a market, let alone a fish market, open this late.

Our destination is Sobhy Kaber. A place serving traditional Egyptian food which sprawls of several large rooms and three floors. Simply put: it’s massive.

Sobhy Kaber butcher.

On the ground floor, opposite the entrance, is a butchers, with slaps of meat dangling from hooks. Waiters scurry about, holding high wooden trays of small, round flat bread. It’s all pretty chaotic. And full.

One of the rooms in Sobhy Kaber.

We’re ushered to a spot next to the bakery to wait for our private room to be ready. I watch as hundreds of flat breads are churned out and then whisked away.

“It must be fun working there in the summer, I remark to Andrew.”

“I can imagine.”

Sobhy Kaber bakery.

We’re led off to a private room. And soon plates of stuff begin to appear. We each get one of salad and some sort of coriander dip. Then fruit appears. Because, this place being very traditional, it serves no alcohol. Just as well I got a good few rums down earlier.

Meat and vegetable dishes are placed on the table. Spicy lamb sausages, pigeon stuffed with rice, tender slices of spicy beef served in tin foil, a baked dish of rice and meat. All sorts of exotic things, almost none of which I recognise.

Sobhy Kaber food.

And there’s bread. Thin, flat bread, around the size of a hand towel, folded into a cone. And the small, round puffed-up ones that I’ve seen being made, transported and consumed all over the place.

It truly is an Egyptian feast. I just wish I was hungrier and could appreciate it better.

Sobhy Kaber baked rice.

It’s about 11 PM when we tip out onto the pavement. Lots of diners are still just arriving. Many with quite small children in tow.

“Have you noticed all the little kids still coming out to eat?”

“It is the Mediterranean, Dad. People do just the same on the European side of the sea.”

“I suppose they do.”

We’re lucky and get an Uber pretty much straight away. The most difficult thing is spotting the right car. The numberplates being all in Arabic script. Including the numbers/ We mostly go by the colour and make of car.

As we duck and dodge along the crowded roads, I notice a brightly-lit shop called Drinkies. Is that what I think it is? I spot what looks like a shelf packed with bottles of wine. What a great name for an offie. I’m surprised it’s still open, as it’s getting on for midnight. I make a mental note of the name for later.

Back at the hotel, Andrew asks: “Do you fancy a quick drink in the bar?”

“Sure.”

Flamenco hotel bar.

Andrew must be gasping for a pint after all that time in the restaurant. And we’ve run out of duty free. It’s surprising how quickly two litres of spirits can disappear. When you lock two pissheads in a hotel room.

The tables are all occupied and we grab a couple of stools at the bar. Andrew, once again, opts for Stella. I think I know why, now. It’s 4.5% ABV. While Sakara, the other major brand, is just 4%. I get an Egyptian whisky.

The drinks come with a bowl of what looks like cottage cheese, sticks of carrot and cucumber, as well as bread sticks. It remains untouched. Neither of us is ready for more food after the feast.

Hotel bar malt whisky.

They still allow smoking indoors. Everyone is chain smoking. And it’s quite a small room. Not very well ventilated. It’s been so long since I experienced one, I’d forgotten just how unpleasant a smoke-filled room is. Soon my throat is starting to ache.

“It reminds me of my last job in London. I was in a small room with two smokers. I had a permanent throat ache.”

“The good old days, eh?”

“Don’t take the piss.”

“Didn’t the smoke take everyone’s minds off the rickets and TB?”

“I’m not that fucking old.”

The bloke sitting next to me is puffing away, drinking Stella. And occasionally pouring himself a shot from a bottle of vodka. Looking around, I see a table of four has a bottle of Jack Daniels. A full litre.

We have a few more drinks. Quite a few more, as all the duty free is gone. Did I mention that earlier? We leave at 2 AM. Which is throwing out time.

Back in our room. We go straight to bed. As all the duty free is gone



Cairo Cellar
22 Taha Hussein,
Abu Al Feda,
Zamalek,
Cairo Governorate 4271150


Sobhy Kaber
151 Ebeid,
As Sahel,
Rod El Farag,
Cairo Governorate 4350021


Flamenco Cairo Hotel
02 El Gezira El Wosta,
Abu Al Feda,
Zamalek,
Cairo Governorate 11211

Lazing in Cairo

We get up again around 2 PM. I’m so confused about what day and time it is. I’m not so sure how wise staying up for breakfast was. I feel totally exhausted.

“What do you fancy doing, Andrew?”

“Pub.” he says succinctly.

We looked for pubs close to our hotel before leaving Amsterdam.

“How about the Five Bells?”

“Sure, Andrew.”

Five Bells exterior

It’s not far. Just a few blocks away. Thankfully, we don’t have to cross any busy roads. That looks so fucking dangerous.

Most of the pub is actually outside, covered by a tent. There are air-conditioning units. But, as it isn’t that hot, they aren’t switched on.

We both order a Stella. No, not that Stella. It’s a local beer. Though one which is produced by a brewery owned by Heineken. 

A bottle of Stella beer.

“What do you think of the beer, Andrew?”

“It’s OK.”

He’s not wrong. It’s drinkable, if unspectacular. He must quite like it, as he’s polished off his before I’ve had more than a couple of mouthfuls of mine.

We decide to order some food. Plate of chips for Andrew, falafel for me. Though neither of us is very hungry. We pick at our meals in a leisurely way.

A plate of chips and a plate of falafel'

One beer is enough for me. Not that I stop drinking. I move over to whisky. A local one. I’m not made of money. It’s OK Wet and pretty alcoholic. Rather like me.

There’s football on a TV. A local game. It reminds me of South America. Where there’s always football on TV in every pub. Often more than one game on different TVs.

There are only a couple of other customers. More staff, in fact.

A second footy game starts. A rather more important local game, given the behaviour of the staff. They’re paying far more attention. And reacting far more to events on the pitch. The game finishes two all. And, oddly, immediately goes to penalties.

We hang around for quite a while. It’s only at around 7 PM that more people start turning up. Which is our cue to leave.

Inside the Five Bells.

“Let’s go to the supermarket on our way back.” Andrew suggests.

There’s one called Metro just opposite our hotel. Which is where we go.

I think I know what Andrew is looking for: beer. It’s a very well-stocked shop. But the one thing they don’t have is beer. I can’t say that it surprises me. Instead, we get some mixers for our duty free. And some cheese and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.

Back in our room, we get stuck into the duty free. Mixing the Tanqueray with this weird lime green Schweppes stuff we got. As there was no tonic water in the supermarket.

We spend the remainder of the evening sipping away and watching stuff on my laptop. It’s quite late when we crawl off to bed. About 2 AM. We aim to rise around 9:30 AM for breakfast. Hopefully that will work.

Despite us having risen late and done fuck all but hang around in a pub for hours, I’m still feeling knacked.

Duty free Bowmore is my impetus to sleep.



Five Bells
13 Ismail Mohammed,
Abu Al Feda,
Zamalek,
Cairo Governorate 11211.

Flying East

“That’s ridiculous, Dad. Your business class ticket is cheaper than mine to sit with the plebs.”

“I know, Andrew, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“Very funny, Dad.”

“No need to thank me, Andrew,”

Air fares can be completely illogical. But I’m not complaining, in this particular case.

It’s a bit of an odd journey, this one. We start a little after 15:00, but don’t get into Cairo until 01:30. Partly because we have over three hours in Charles de Gaulle. (My favourite airport in the world. Just like living in Alphaville.) With a shorter layover, we could have done the journey quicker, but we’d always to arriving at 01:30. Which isn’t great.

We head off for Schiphol around noon. To make sure we have plenty of lounge time. Andrew may be travelling cattle-truck class, but, via me, he can still get into the lounge.

The airport isn’t too busy and we blitz through security and passport control.

When I’m signing Andrew into the lounge, the nice young lady says: “Do you realise that you’re in the wrong part of the airport? You need to be on the Schengen side.”

I’m so used to flying to non-Schengen countries, that I automatically went to that part of the airport.

“You can still come into this lounge, however.”

 Which is what we do. Having plenty of time.

Rendang and whiskies.

I begin with my traditional brace of whiskies. Following up with some food. A rather nice beef rendang. The best hot food I’ve ever had in this particular lounge. Yum.

We have a couple of drinks before heading over to the right part of the airport. We’ve still plenty of time before our flight. And drop by the other KLM lounge.

The other lounge.

The food isn’t as good. On the other hand, they have self-pour spirits. A feature I always love.

Me and Andrew say goodbye to each other on boarding. With me heading for luxury and him for squalor.

A light meal of artichoke salad, cheese and a doughnut.

It’s a pretty decent meal for a one-hour flight. Artichoke salad, cheese and a doughnut.

Back on the ground, I wait for Andrew to disembark. We make our way towards terminal 2E. Which is where our Cairo flight departs from. It’s quite a complicated walk. I love Charles de Gaulle. It’s like living in a dystopian 1960s French film.

Alphaville_airport.

On the way we pick up bottles of duty free. Bowmore for me, Tanqueray for Andrew.

Snack of cheese, boiled egg, ham, gherkins and wine.

Next stop is the Air France lounge. Where Andrew and I stock up on food and drink. I go for boiled egg, cheese, ham and gherkins. And, for a change of pace, red wine.

Cairo by night from the air.

On the next, longer, leg I have a flatbed seat. Which is dead cool. I can properly stretch out.

Despite the luxury seat, I’m feeling pretty knacked when we land in Cairo. Immigration isn’t too bad in terms of waiting time. But when we get landside we can’t find the transfer I arranged. Instead, we get a normal taxi.

Soon we’re dodging dangerously through the traffic. I used to think US motorways were scary. This is next level. Repeated use of the horn replaces obeying any of those pesky traffic laws. Cars and motorbikes pass within a few inches of each other.  At speed. None of the motorcyclists are wearing helmets.

We roll up to our hotel and get ourselves checked in. By the time we’re done, it’s getting on for 3 AM.

We have a nightcap of Bowmore and Tanqueray. Which makes it even later.

“What are we going to do now, Dad?”

“We could stay up a little longer until breakfast starts at six.”

Two breakfasts: croissants and pretzels; scrambled egg and sausage.

Which is what we do. Scrambled egg and chicken sausage. It’s not bad. I skip coffee, as I’m about to go to bed. Andrew has a few croissants and a pretzel.

We turn in at around 7 AM. I drop off immediately. It’s been a very long day.

Bottled beer in Egypt

More random stuff from by blind sweep through the newspaper archives.

This is a excerpt from an article about trade in Egypt.

"Bottled Beer.
Outside the Army of Occupation and the British community there is very little demand for the ordinary English beer, which, as has been stated in previous reports, is too heavy to suit the local taste, but a light kind of beer would be likely to find purchasers. The Acting Consul-General quotes the following passage from a report of the British Chamber of Commerce, which seems deserving of the attention of British brewers: "Continental brewers push the consumption of their article in Egypt by financing the owners of the 'brasseries' (bars), thus enabling them to establish these in good localities and in an attractive manner, thereby obtaining a large turn-over." A large brewery, fitted with the latest machinery, has been established on the outskirts of Alexandria by a Belgian Company. Light Pilsener beer is now being actively brewed, and it is probable that the Company will place tbeir beer on the market in two or three months. This will probably compete seriously with European beer.
Morning Post - Friday 30 December 1898, page 2.

First let's look at British beer exports to Egypt. They really weren't that big:

British beer exports to Egypt 1890 - 1930
1890	1900	1910	1913	1919	1920
6,591	18,597	20,600	20,530	10,408	9,796
1921	1922	1923	1924	1925	1926
11,619	11,305	8,592	8,971	9,840	10,760
1926	1927	1927	1928	1929	1930
10,760	10,510	10,510	10,659	12,571	14,603
Sources:
Brewers' Almanack 1928, page 115.
Brewers' Journal 1921, page 24
Brewers' Journal 1923, page 26
Brewers' Journal 1925, page 27
Brewers' Journal 1927, page 28
Brewers' Almanack 1928, page 115.
Brewers' Journal 1929, page 30
Brewers' Journal 1931, page 34

To put those numbers into context, in the same period around 20,000 barrels were exported to Malta. I don't need to tell you that Egypt's population is many times that of Malta. The amount is so small that it probably was mostly being drunk by British expats.

That British beer was too heavy for hotter countries is a complaint you often see towards the end of the 19th century when continental Lager brewers started to export their beers outside Europe. The growing popularity of Lager in the tropiocs had a serious impact on sales of British beer. That's one of the reasons Allsopp decided to install a Lager brewery in Burton: to be able to compete with European brewers in tropical markets.

The author clearly wasn't keen on the continental breweries buying their way into the Egyptian market. Even more surprising is a Belgian company building a brewery in Egypt. Especially as it would be brewing Pilsener. I'm not sure if anyone was brewing Pilsener in Belgium itself at the time. The style only really took off after WW I.