Charles Guerrier, organisor of the Asia Beer Championship in Singapore, discusses brewing in East Asia. And why it can be difficult.
| Singapore beers 1948 - 1950 | |||||||||
| Year | Brewer | Beer | Style | OG | FG | ABV | App. Atten-uation | package | Colour |
| 1948 | ABC | Pilsener | Pils | 1049.64 | 1012.22 | 4.68 | 75.39% | bottled | 0.48 |
| 1948 | ABC | Pilsener | Pils | 1033.68 | 1009.59 | 3.10 | 71.52% | bottled | 0.2 |
| 1949 | ABC | Pilsener | Pils | 1049.64 | 1009.01 | 5.29 | 81.86% | bottled | 0.35 |
| 1950 | ABC | Anchor | Pils | 1049.90 | 1010.73 | 5.07 | 78.50% | bottled | 0.33 |
| 1950 | ABC | Stout | Stout | 1067.94 | 1002.15 | 8.67 | 96.84% | bottled | 4 * 13 |
| 1949 | MBL | Pils | Pils | 1047.75 | 1011.04 | 4.74 | 76.88% | bottled | 0.30 |
| 1950 | MBL | Tiger | Pils | 1049.69 | 1010.37 | 5.10 | 79.12% | bottled | 0.48 |
| 1950 | MBL | Stout | Stout | 1068.20 | 1000.77 | 8.89 | 98.88% | bottled | 4 * 14.5 |
| Source: | |||||||||
| Rapporten van laboratoriumonderzoeken naar producten van Heinekenbrouwerijen in binnen- en buitenland en naar producten van andere brouwerijen held at the Amsterdamse Stadsarchief, document number 834 - 1794. | |||||||||
No rush this morning. So, I don’t get up until 8:40. Simply because I didn’t want to get to breakfast too late.
I have the same as the other days: a fried egg and cheese with a single slice of toast. With orange juice and coffee, obviously. And fruit for pudding.
After a while, Carl Kins comes and sits with me. We chat a bit about Belgian beer and the joys of being retired.
Still feeling a bit knacked, I lie down for 45 minutes when I’m back in my room. After which I feel a little livelier. And fiddle around on the internet for a while.
The bus leaves at 12:00. I head down about ten minutes before. Leaving enough time for a quick double Jamesons at the hotel bar. I still have quite a few Singapore dollars to get through. I may as well spend them. And whiskey seems a good option.
On the bus, there’s a cooler full of leftover competition beers. I help myself to a Double IPA. The number looks familiar. I suspect that it’s one of the beers I judged. It’s not bad. And keeps me hydrated as we bounce along the road.
First stop is Nanyang Sauce, a traditional soy sauce factory. We begin outside. Where terracotta jars full of fermenting soya beans sit in the sun. There’s a lovely savoury smell in the air. It takes nine months out in the sun to finish the process. After which, the soy sauce is harvested.
It’s hot out in the sun. Fucking hot. It’s a relief when we move inside.
The factory was established in 1959. By the grandfather of the bloke showing us around. Whose passion for soy sauce is evident. He speaks eloquently of the traditional process and the superior sauce that it produces.
Our visit ends with a tasting of several types of soy sauce. As well as a vinegar and a few types of chilli paste. They’re all impressively complex.
Before trooping back onto the bus, we visit the shop. I just pick up a single bottle of heavy soy sauce. Some of the other judges go more crazy, purchasing armfuls of bottles. Including the most expensive unpasteurised and aged soy sauce.
Next stop is LeVel 33. A brewpub on . . . the 33rd floor. “The world’s highest microbrewery in a building” as they bill themselves.
The view from the balcony is amazing. Gazing over the bay. I would try to describe it. But I’m a bit shit with words. A photo will do the job far better.
Charles gets us each an Oktoberfest. Which is perfectly serviceable. We spend about 45 minutes savouring both it and the incredible view.
The bus drops most of the judges off in Chinatown, to visit the Lion Brewery. I’m happy enough to give that a miss, having spent the best part of a day there with Andrew just a few weeks ago. Instead, I continue on with the bus back to the hotel.
I also don’t have much time left before I need to go to the airport for my flight home. I laze around my room for a while. Before nipping down to the 7 Eleven for a few things. It’s almost dusk. It’s still fucking hot.
Remembering that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I also drop by the hawker market. Where I buy myself roast duck, egg and rice. For an extortionate four euros.
I polish off my duty-free whisky. And my hawker meal. Which is dead good. As you would expect. Roasty in a Chinese sort of way.
At ten, I check out and get a taxi to the airport. Check-in is pretty quick. Before you know it, I’m in the duty-free shop. I wouldn’t usually bother here. But I’ve still some Singapore dollars to get rid of. I get a litre of Dewar’s.
After that, it’s straight to the lounge. It’s the Qantas lounge. And is almost deserted. I lounge around there for a while, sipping whisky. Before tipping down to my gate.
I don’t have to wait long to board after going through security.
A bit after we’ve taken off, there’s a meal service. I don’t bother with the meal, as it’s the usual KLM slop. I just have a red wine. And the fall asleep.
I wake up after 8 hours or so. With a terrible stomach ache. I go to the bog and throw up. And feel much better. What was that all about?
Breakfast is the weird dumpling-like stuff. I pass on that. And just eat the fruit. And drink coffee and orange juice.
We land about 20 minutes early. Which is good. Passport control is mobbed. Which is crap. Then it takes ages for my bag to pop out. So long, that I use the tag finder app to check where it is. Close by, the app reckons. That’s a relief. Soon after, my bag plops onto the carousel.
Not long after, I’m rolling down the motorway in a taxi.
Before I’ve chance to put my key in the door, Dolores opens it. She’s about to go to the shops. Fortunately, she has tea ready.
Nanyang Sauce
18 Chin Bee Ave,
Singapore 619940.
https://www.nanyangsauce.com/
LeVeL33
8 Marina Blvd,
#33 - 01 Tower 1,
Singapore 018981.
http://www.level33.com.sg/
I rise at 8:15. And go downstairs for brekkie.
Fried egg, cheese and toast. Again. Except I don’t bother with the horrible turkey bacon. The sausages look dead anaemic, too. I really don’t fancy them. I wash the food down with orange juice and coffee. And a pudding of fruit.
Judging was supposed to start at 9. It's more like 9:30 when we kick off. I have trouble finding my name on the table list. Until it's pointed out that I'm table captain today. More work. Yeah, just what I love: work.
My fellow judges are all Asian. All from different countries. With a range of different viewpoints. Should be fun. Except.
“My tasting ability isn’t at its best today.” I say, sniffling.
I seem to have a cold coming on. Not like I’ll need my sense of smell today, eh?
We bully off with German Pilsner. I’m surprised at how sweet some are.
“Asian drinkers like sweetness. If they brewed a Pilsner the same as in Europe, people wouldn’t buy it.” I’m told.
That’s handy for when I set up my Southeast Asian historic beer brewery. I’ll just brew those stupidly sweet Scottish Stouts. Does Heineken taste different in Asia? It wouldn’t surprise me if it did.
The flight has a couple of good examples. Though we’re not exactly unanimous on exactly which beers those are. We manage to come to an agreement because, well, the others aren’t twats. Not sure about me. The others definitely aren’t, though.
Bit disappointed by the Double IPA flight. Though I appreciate the alcohol. Some are weird. We have a polite debate about what exactly constitutes weirdness.
I really appreciate the size of the flights. How small they are. Mostly just six or seven beers. Never more than eight. Which is great. Anything bigger gets unmanageable. I’ve judged flights as large as twelve or sixteen beers. Fucking impossible. For an amateur like me.
Because that’s what I am: a total amateur. My only professional association with brewing was a few weeks filling kegs back in 1975. Beer is a career for most of those around me. Their senses are way more finely tuned than mine. Even on a good day. Which isn’t, what with my runny nose.
We’re now moving onto semi-finals and finals. The fun bit. As we don’t have to go through the whole scoring process. Just either choose the best three beers to pass through. Or award the gold, silver and bronze awards.
First is the Pilsner semi-final. Which is a mixture of Czech and German styles. I can’t say that I’m very keen on any of them.
“Pilsner is a difficult style for me to judge as I drink it so rarely.” I warn the others.
An Imperial Stout first round follows. Which is much easier for me. And there are some pretty damn good beers. I finish off the examples I like.
Lunch is the hotel buffet again. Today I decide to try out Indian corner. Where I get myself a potato and pea curry. I do love me a potato curry.
I chat beer history with some of the other judges.
“Do you have a podcast?” one of them asks.
“No.”
“You should do.”
Now there’s a thought. It’s not as if I have much else to keep me occupied. Only writing books and travelling the world. I can do with some other projects. I do enjoy bullshitting away about beer, mind.
I’m not table captain after lunch. Which is a relief. As it means less work And, at heart, I’m a profoundly lazy person. I sometimes wonder what I might have achieved, had I not been such an idle git.
It’s mostly finals and semi-finals in the afternoon session. So no full scoring. Just working out the best three beers.
I’m on table 1. Which is right next to the aircon. And fucking freezing. It’s a little on the chilly side, even for me. I can understand why some of the Asian judges on this table were putting on coats earlier.
It’s the experimental beers semi-final to start. Which includes some intriguing beers with Asian ingredients, such as koji, pandang leaves and coconut.
Another first round of Oatmeal Stout follows. I’m not enthusiastic about any of them. That’s me being nice.
“Oatmeal Stout was mostly a con. Usually, oats only made up 1% of the grist.” I tell the other judges. They must be concentrating on tasting, because they don’t react.
Next, we award the first medals, for Hefeweizen. There’s quite a bit of discussion amongst us to settle on the winners. As all of the finalists are pretty decent.
Awarding the Saison medals is even trickier. With some beers quite dividing opinion. But we eventually come to a consensus. We all emerge with our egos and teeth intact.
The Milk Stout medals are far easier. With swift agreement about the best three beers. The only discussion is about which colour medal those three beers get.
We finish with the flavoured beer final. Another tricky one, as the base beers are in all sorts of different styles. Leaving direct comparisons very difficult. The winning beers, though, are all pretty good.
A long day of judging. It’s after 18:30 when we finish. And the bus for tonight’s dinner leaves at 19:00. I just have time to go back to my room and dump my flipflop. And have a quick waker-up whisky.
Spotting a couple of fellow judges having a beer in the hotel bar, I grab myself a double Jamesons. I’ve only a few minutes and have to down it in one. Warms me up nicely. Both physically and socially. Not that I’ll be needing the former, given the temperature outside.
Tonight’s dinner location is Satay by the Bay. Which specialises in seafood. Only joking. It’s satay. As is pretty fucking obvious from the name. And is next to the bay. Also given away a bit by the name.
As soon as we sit down, pitchers of Tiger appear. Which makes a change from the fancy beer I’ve been judging. After a while plates of food start to appear. Fried rice, a beef dish, spring rolls and, of course, chicken satay.
Thankfully, the satay isn’t smothered in peanut sauce, as it is in Holland. The sauce comes separately in little bowls. Meaning I can eat the satay sauce-free. As I’m not really a fan of peanut sauce.
Charles’ son comes over to our table for a chat. I tell him how his father broke my arm last year. He seems quite surprised.
He’s 18 and will soon be starting his military service. Of two years. Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun. And he’s only just moved back to Singapore after doing his A-levels in the UK. A very nice young man.
We leave around 9:30. I don’t fancy going on for further beers. Instead dropping by the 7 Eleven for some stuff. And watch YouTube for a while, sipping my whisky.
Satay by the Bay
18 Marina Gardens Dr,
#01-19 Gardens by the Bay,
Singapore 018953.
http://sataybythebay.com.sg/
I rise at 7:30. After a very good sleep. But still feel a bit knacked. Hopefully breakfast will liven me up. Plenty of coffee should do the job.
The breakfast buffet is pretty impressive. Except . . . no real bacon. Just weird turkey bacon. They do have fried eggs, though. Two types, even: over easy and sunny-side up. I get one of the latter. Along with some cheese and a slice of wholemeal toast. Plus orange juice and coffee. I only have one mouthful of the fake bacon. Not very nice. I won't be bothering with that again.
 |
The judging room is right next to the restaurant. Which is handy. It saves so much time and effort. The latter being very important for oldies like me. We’re supposed to kick off at 9. It’s actually 9:30. Which isn’t bad. In Brazil we once sat on our arses for three hours because of computer problems.
I’m not table captain. Yippee! I love dodging responsibility. Someone else can do the hard work
We’re quite an international bunch. Our Australian captain aided by judges from Germany, Singapore and Vietnam. And me, obviously. I’ve never been on a table of five before. Usually, it’s three.
We kick off with International Pale Lager. What fun. All but one are crap. Not such a surprise. At least we get through them quite quickly.
Witbier next. A much better set. A couple of them I rather like. Especially one with a touch of acidity. Like Hoegaarden had back in the day.
Achieving consensus between five judges is trickier than between three. But, as none of my fellow judges are arseholes, we can work things out. With a bit of give and take. Judges make or break the judging experience. One opinionated twat can suck out all the pleasure. Get a pair of twats, and judging is complete torture.
American Pale Ale is the last flight of the morning. With some pretty decent beers. Hops can cover up a whole load of nastiness. In Pale Lagers, there’s nowhere to hide.
We're running a bit late in the morning session. It’s almost 2 PM when we get done and break for lunch Which is a buffet in the restaurant where we ate breakfast. Just next door. No pissing around travelling somewhere else. Which I appreciate.
It's way more varied than Brazilian buffets. Lots of different types of Asian food. With a whole section for Indian curries. As well as western stuff. The range is both enormous and impressive.
All sorts of fancy stuff. Like large prawns, mussels and other shellfish. I get some mussels, beef rendang and deep-fried chicken. Tasty.
My afternoon table has another inspiring mix of nationalities: Indian, Belgian, Vietnamese and German. Should promote healthy discussion.
I’m not very optimistic about the first flight, English Pale Ale.
“I don’t have very good experiences of judging this style.” I tell the others. “They’re usually all crap.”
Which, indeed, most of the beers turn out to be. But there’s one really good beer. Making the process worthwhile.
American IPA, which is next up, is an improvement. There are a couple of pretty decent beers in the set.
.
One of my favourite categories follows: Low-alcohol beer. Only joking. It is better than alcohol-free, I suppose. Not as awful as I feared. Some are just about drinkable.
We end with experimental beers.
“I always suspect that some brewers call beers ‘experimental’ when they go horribly wrong.” I remark.
“That’s rather cynical.”
Cynical? Moi? I’m such a positive chap. Despite what my kids say.
Thankfully, a lot of the flight isn’t that out there. In fact, mostly quite in there. Just an extra ingredient or two to add an accent to a standard style. A few are really weird, though. For example, Irish Stout with orange juice. So strange, that it’s really difficult to judge. What were they aiming for? Have they achieved it?
We finish just after six. Leaving me a bit less than an hour to chill in my room before we go out to eat. And to make sure that my duty-free whisky hasn’t gone off while I’ve been judging. I have to check twice, just to make sure.
No bus, this evening. We walk to a Chinese restaurant. When we're almost there, I recognise where we are. As we walk past the Magpie. Where I drank with Andrew a few weeks ago. It's a weird feeling. Like suddenly waking up. While walking down the street.
We sit outside the restaurant and plates of food keep arriving. As well as big bottles of Tiger. Everyone digs in enthusiastically. I’m relieved to drink beer without needing to think about it. I knock back a few. Just to be polite, obviously.
The food highlight is chilli crab. Which, being undressed, is a challenge to eat without changing the colour of your shirt. Someone asks the Vietnamese women next to me if it's spicy. "No." they say. Not my impression. I suppose they have a different concept of spicy in Vietnam.
I leave with a couple of the other older judges a little after nine. I don’t feel like staying out too late. I’ll leave that to the young and the reckless. I’m still feeling a bit knacked. And I’ll need to be up fairly early again tomorrow. Still time to drop by the Seven 11 on my way back.
I watch some YouTube in my room for a while. Before bludgeoning myself unconscious with duty-free whisky. Finding sleep isn’t a problem. It’s right there in front of me. Just looks a bit blurry.
Por Kee Eating House 1996
69 Seng Poh Ln,
#01-02,
Singapore 160069.
“Again? You’re going to Singapore again?”
“Yes, Dolores. I told you.”
“Did you? But you were there just a few weeks ago. Why are you going again?”
“To judge.”
“Oh. And how much is that costing us?”
“Not too much.”
“That’s what you always say.”
Dolores was impressed with me returning to Singapore so soon. But she’s given up trying to make me see reason.
No Dolores to say goodbye to me this time She left for Germany this morning. And Alexei is only just back from work when I leave.
Schiphol isn't too busy. In no time I'm in the lounge loading up with whisky. Once I've downed the first brace, I go for some food. I was expecting rendang again. But this time they have butter chicken Which is really nice.
When I've eaten that, I get myself another brace of whiskies. For food round 2 I it’s cheese and pastrami. And another pair of whiskies. I need to get in my ration of those. I wouldn’t want to be flying completely sober. Not with my age and reputation.
Am I slowing down as I get older? Of course I fucking am. None of us can defy the march of time. Which inevitably tramps all over all of us, sooner or later.
I wander down to the gate a little after 8 PM. And don't have to wait long before boarding. Thankfully. I hate hanging around at the gate. Especially when I could have spent that time stuffing myself with food and booze for free in the lounge.
An hour or so after take-off they serve a meal. I opt for the chicken. Though I don't eat much of it. A few mouthfuls. I do eat all the fruit, mind. Being such a healthy bastard.
I start watching Thenderbolts, but keep dozing off. I’m still not sure what it was on about. Some superheroes doing shit for some reason or other.
Not long after dinner, the bloke sitting next to me has a chat with one of the cabin crew. Then he and his wife just disappear. Have they upgraded? I can't imagine they've moved elsewhere in economy, as they said the flight was full. I'm not complaining, as I've room to lie down.
I get a pretty decent kip. Waking up about 2.5 hours out from Singapore. And watch some TV. Just total crap. My brain isn’t in the mood for anything complex. Like a genuine plot. Just feed me some pap with a spoon.
Breakfast isn't very appetising. I only eat the fruit. And drink a coffee and an orange juice.
The arrival gate isn’t quite in Malaysia this time. It’s not so far to immigration and baggage retrieval. My bag comes out pretty quickly. Soon I'm speeding towards my hotel in a taxi.
I've a couple of hours before the welcome dinner. Which I kill with some internet fiddling and duty-free whisky. It’s a pretty nice hotel with a decent-sized room.
At 18:30, we take a bus to the venue. Which is a rooftop restaurant in a small hotel. With stunning views of the city. There’s just the one downside: no bogs. You have to go down to the ground floor for toileting purposes. Which is a bit inconvenient. Especially for oldies like me.
There are a couple of judges I've met before. Like Kjetil Jikiun, a Norwegian bloke I judged with in Balneário Camboriú in Brazil in March. It’s a very international group. Lots from Asia, unsurprisingly. A good spread of ages, too. Most of the Asian judges are quite young. Not so much the Europeans. Some of whom are even older than me.
I have fun telling people how Charles Guerrier, this competition’s organiser, broke my arm in Brazil last year. When his legs stopped working after a day drinking cachaca. Luckily, I was pissed as well, which helped numb the pain.
There are a few beers on draught. Including Lion Brewery Boss IPA. Which is really nice. Better than in the brewery a few weeks back. Maybe the view is making it taste better.
The food is various meat bits. Which are quite pleasant. I’m not sure which meal my body thinks it is. Almost certainly not dinner. Just as well that it isn’t too heavy.
I go straight back to my room when we get back to the hotel. I'm not tempted to carry on in the bar, as some judges do. I need to get my body in sync with the time zone. Otherwise, the next few days will be a nightmare.
Just time for a quick eye-closer of whisky. I have no problem falling asleep.
Jayleen 1918 Hotel
42 Carpenter St,
Singapore 059921
https://www.jayleen1918.com.sg/
I rise just after 9 AM and have a shower. Now I feel better.
Today will be an odd day. After checking out of our hotel, we have around 10 hours to kill before going to the airport. Our flight is at 00:40. What could we possibly do? Hang around in pubs, I guess.
We check out at 11 AM and dump our bags.
Lion Brewery opens at noon and isn’t far away. That’ll do. The walk there takes us through Chinatown.
It’s warm. Very warm. By the time we get to the Buddha Tooth temple, we’re in need of a cold drink. And pop into the little hawker centre we ate in yesterday. We each get a cola and take seats. Directly underneath a giant fan.
After a little cooling, we carry on to Lion Brewery. Plonk ourselves down and spend a few moments appreciating the airco. Then order some beers. Nitro Stout for me, Pilsner for Amdrew.
It’s pretty quiet. Though they have just opened. It’s all very low-key. Which is how I generally like things. Dead, I think, is the technical term.
The Stout is OK. But quite burnt tasting. I explain to Andrew that there’s a long history of Stout brewing around this way. He continues to play with his phone. That’s how impressed he is.
I’m not drinking very quickly. We’re going to be here for a long time. I don’t want to get too pissed. Or spend too much money.
There’s tennis on the TV.
“You’re not keen on tennis, are you, Dad?”
“No.”
“Boring as fuck. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Something like that. Though I may have been less subtle.”
Feeling peckish after a while, I order baked oysters. Very tasty, they are.
“That’s not much of a meal, Dad.”
“You can talk. You’ve only had about three full meals all trip. And that’s counting the bacon and beans breakfast.”
“I’m having a cheeseburger.”
“And it’s just my starter.”
I’ve switched to Boss IPA. It’s alright. Doesn’t blow my socks off, but it’s perfectly drinkable.
The tennis seems to be on a loop. The same handful of games, over and over.
“This is a preview of hell, Andrew.”
“What?”
“Endless repeats of boring tennis matches. For all eternity.”
“We’ll only be here until seven.”
“That’ll seem like an eternity.”
“Exaggerating, as always.”
Totally out of character, Andrew shows an interest in food. For a full meal, at that.
“I’m having a cheeseburger.”
“Oh, you’re being serious. I’d assumed that was a joke. Given your record, so far.”
“Very funny, Dad. You haven’t exactly been stuffing yourself.”
”OK. Jalapeno bacon mac and cheese for me. It really should be macaroni cheese. That’s the proper name for it.”
“Back when all the computers were still clockwork.”
“Ha, fucking, ha.” I’m always there with a witty riposte.
“And that’s only a small meal, according to the menu. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Fuck off, smartarse.” Wit just comes naturally to me.
We do some more bonding as the clock moves slowly around. And the pace of my drinking gets ever slower. Which is weird. Usually, I’d be speeding up. Am I getting old? Or just sensible?
A taxi gets us to Changi in plenty of time. Though dropping our bags takes longer than usual. Nothing too crazy.
The Qantas lounge is massive. And fairly empty. No trouble finding seats. No Cooper, but Stone & Wood and Little Creatures Pale Ale on tap. Plus some Lagery stuff.
“A whisky with one ice cube, please.”
Andrew goes for a Stone & Wood.
They’ve got beef rendang. The proper consistency, not the soup they had in the Schiphol lounge. Just mot spicy enough. Which is surprising.
We’ve got a few hours. No rush. I whip out my laptop and watch some rubbish.
It’s a good job they only serve stingy single measures of spirits. Saved me from getting too pissed. Not a good idea before a long flight.
Our gate isn’t too far from the lounge. By the standards of Changi. It’s just big. The last gates on pier C are almost in Malaysia.
A full flight again. Which is always fun. Chicken or pasta are the food options. Not sure if I’ve had this chicken curry and rice before. Better than some of their meals. At least there’s a bit of heat to it.
I watch The Accountant II over my gourmet dinner. Filling the time until lights out. When it’s lights out for me, too.
Six hours of blissful sleep. Followed by some dozing. When I get bored of that, I turn to Black Bag. Made me think of the Viz cartoon. Where there’s a black plastic bin bag blowing around the moors like a sheepdog. Not a bad film. And it finishes just before landing.
Breakfast is weird. There’s this weird sliced up dumpling thing. What the fuck is it? There’s some fruit, too. I eat Andrew’s, as well as mine.
At passport control, a lady ushers some passengers to the electronic gates.
“Nedelandse passen. [Dutch passports].”
Happens every time.
Our bags take a while to unload. The carousel is full. No-one is taking a bag off. Leaving no room for new ones. Eventually, there’s a space for our bags.
The taxi winds his way into Amsterdam. This is the morning rush hour. But, it being the holidays, the traffic is fine.
Soon, we’re greeted by Dolores and cups of tea. It’s good to be home. And in one piece. At least, as far as I can tell.
I rise at 9:30 feeling pretty refreshed. Go through my emails. And do some writing.
Andrew is up quite late. Again. Still, we're in no real rush. We're free until 4 PM, when we're meeting Charles Guerrier. Whom I met when judging in Bahia in Brazil. And with whom I shared many caipirinhas.
We leave the hotel at 1:30. To go grab some lunch at Chinatown Hawker Center. We don't actually end up going there. go to the one we intended to visit. But stumble across a small one.
Andrew is already looking a bit hot. Not quite at the turning grey and looking ready to collapse stage. But in need of cooling down. It’s not too hot under the massive ceiling fans. Which are rotating slightly faster than a spitfire propellor.
From a Vietnamese stall we each have a banh mi. Which is very nice. It’s very posh for a hawker centre. And one of the stands proudly proclaims:
"The World's First Michelin Rated Nasi Lemak Hawker".
The banh mi isn’t quite enough for me.
“I’m still feeling a bit peckish.”
“Now there’s a surprise.”
“Do you want anything else?”
“No. But feel free to stuff your face some more, Dad.”
“I will.”
I get some roast pork with rice from another stall. Which is also very good. And dirt cheap. That should do me for a few hours. I love Chinese roast stuff.
We get to Lion brewery at around 3 PM. And get stuck into some beers. An IPA for me. Something Lagery for Andrew. It has a bit of an English pub feel, with lots of seating. Including some settees. And, of course, there's the shiny stuff behind a glass wall.
Charles turns up, as agreed, at 4 PM. It’s good to see him again. Despite the unfortunate arm-breaking incident in Salvador last November.
We have a few more beers. Then Charles suggests we go to Welcome Ren Min, which is in the Maxwell hawker centre.
Today there’s on offer on IPAs. Both the Single and Double type. I have an excellent DIPA. Andrew and Charles just a normal IPA.
“Getting the strongest beer again, eh, Dad?”
“I just feel like a Double.”
“If they did Quadrupels I guess you’d be ordering one of them.”
“If I felt like one.”
“Which you obviously would.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re only fooling yourself, Dad.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.”
“Pathetic.”
We manage to find seats amidst the chaos.
“I’m surprised that they use real glasses.” I remark.
“You have to take them back to the bar. Not to the normal returns place.” Charles says.
It's a bit odd having a craft beer stand in a hawker centre. But the beer is really good. It's brewed in Vietnam and then imported into Singapore. Which is a slightly unusual arrangement.
Next, we go to SG Taps. A small bar run by a Japanese bloke. It’s located in a typical old three-storey Chinatown house.
I have a Pink Blossoms Let it be Geraldine, a NE IPA. Which isn't as good as the beer at the hawker centre. But fine enough. Wet, alcoholic and drinkable. Just like me.
Charles has to leave to meet his daughter. But he points us in the direction of a street full of Korean and Japanese restaurants. We pick one at random, HiBuddy. Which turns out to be Chinese. Though it looks like a Korean BBQ. And they have kimchi.
Andrew orders a beer and we both get soju. Each with our own bottle.
“So much for soju being for sharing.”
“Shut up, Dad.”
Andrew isn't hungry. I order a rice, pork and egg thing. With a side order of kimchi. Which is sweeter than the one Dolores makes. And not as spicy.
On the way back to our hotel, we get some more booze and snacks. And watch YouTube for a couple of hours.
Lion Brewery
36 Club St,
Singapore 069469.
http://www.lionbreweryco.com/
Welcome Ren Min
1 Kadayanallur St,
Unit No. 01-33
Maxwell Food Centre,
Singapore 069184.
SG Taps Restaurant
13 Duxton Hl, #01-01,
Singapore 089597.
HiBuddy BBQ
68 Tg Pagar Rd,
Singapore 088489.
https://www.hibuddy.sg/
I get up at 6:45 AM. And discover that out flight has been delayed by 40 minutes. I could have had another hour in bed.
Andrew rises about an hour after me. I'm not feeling great. One too many of the Imperial Stouts last night. But I look positively chipper compared to Andrew. He's not a great morning person at the best of times. He looks like death warmed up today.
“Feeling fresh and raring to go?”
“Fuck off, Dad.”
“Charming.”
“Just shut up, Dad.”
We leave at 8:30 AM and soon are rumbling our way down the motorway in an Uber.
Dropping off our bags is a bit of a fuss as the machine doesn't want to
accept them for some reason. We get a member of staff to help. He has
the same problem, but can get into an override screen and our bags shoot
off.
There's quite a queue at security. But it moves pretty
quickly and it doesn’t take long to get through. While immigration is a
doddle with its electronic gates.
Just two things to do now. Get some duty free and get to the lounge. Cheap whisky for me, Appleton Estate for Andrew.
“We wouldn’t want to pay Singapore prices for booze, Andrew.”
“No.”
“My bank account still hasn’t recovered from the days in Singapore on our way in.”
“Always about money, eh?”
“My money, not yours. Remember that.”
Being a health-conscious sort of chap, I get some fruit. While Andrew notices that our flight has been delayed another 45 minutes.
“More time in the lounge, then, Andrew.”
“That’s a positive way of looking at it.”
“You know me, Mr. Positive.”
“Right. Mr. Negative, more like. You’re always moaning.”
“Constructively critical, I’d call it.”
“As constructive as a neutron bomb.”
“Bugger off.”
In Sydney, the bar in the lounge didn't open until 12. So, I'm a bit surprised when I see some people getting sparkling wine. It's only 9:30.
"Is the bar open?" I ask the young lady.
"Yes."
"I'll have a whisky then. One cube of ice. And a cafe latte."
The coffee is very good. And the whisky perks me up.
Andrew gets himself a Light Beer. Which is a surprise. It's only 2.2% ABV.
"Is that all they have?"
"No."
“Feeling rough? I’ve never seen you voluntarily drink a Light Beer before.”
“Shut up, Dad.”
“Ooh, touchy.”
“Fuck off.”
After a while, this bit of the lounge closes and we're asked to move upstairs. Where they have a range of draught beers, including Coopers Original Pale Ale. I get Andrew one of those. And a whisky for myself. Along with some scrambled egg.
We can see our gate from where we're sitting. Which is handy.
When Andrew comes back from the bogs, I tell him:
"I just saw the crew getting on the plane. We must be going to board soon."
Still time for a couple more whiskies. And ice cubes.
When we see the flight starting to board, we head on down.
The on-board entertainment is done rather differently. Rather than embedded in the seat in front, they have a tablet that you plug in. It does have the downside of not being usable before or during take-off. I take advantage of the free wifi with my phone instead.
The lunch we're served isn't bad. Braised beef and mash. Followed by a timtam.
After the meal, the lights are turned down. I suppose they want people to sleep. But it's early afternoon. No sleeping for me. Instead, I watch a few films. Blockers, Spit, Another Small Favor. Spit is fairly decent. The other two pass the time.
An hour or so before landing, we're served pork and kimchi dumplings. Which are really good. And quite spicy. Some of the best food I’ve ever had on a plane. Including in business class.
When I have to stow away the tablet for landing, I check on the test match on my phone. England need 35 to win. But keep losing wickets. When we land, it's down to 20 runs. But only 2 wickets left. One of which is one-armed Woakes.
Despite it being quite a way from our gate to immigration, it doesn't take too long as they have moving walkways. Unlike in fucking Rio airport.
A taxi transports us to our hotel in Chinatown. Once checked in, I ask Andrew:
“What’s the plan now?”
“Well, there’s a 7 Eleven just over the road.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Do you think you can make it that far in the heat?”
“Very amusing.”
“So, can you make it?”
“Yes I fucking can. I’m not that bad.”
“Just making sure.”
“Fuck off, Dad.”
Ay the 7 Eleven we stock up with essentials. Mixers for our duty free, sandwiches, crisps, beer and Strong Zero. The last one for Andrew, obviously.
Feeling quite knacked, we just laze around in our room watching YouTube.
We rise at nine. Not much packing to do and by 9:30 we're in a taxi.
Once we've checked in our bags and gone airside we get on with important business. Going to the duty free. Where we get two litres of Famous Grouse.
With time left before our flight, Andrew suggests "Why don't we go to that bar for a drink?"
"Fine. Let me just check my bank account first."
Andrew gets a pint of Heineken. Which is 12 euros. I just have a coke. Which is 2 euros. Crazy pricing.
“What’s happened to you, Dad, just having a soft drink?”
“Singapore prices, that’s what. I’d like to have some money left for Australia.”
We wander over to our gate about 15 minutes before boarding. It's very busy. Lots of Australian families. Lots with small kids. Have they been on holiday in Singapore? Seems an odd place to take small children.
“It’s like that Sherlock Holmes story.”
“What do you mean, Dad?”
“The Red Headed League.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“All the people with red hair.”
“You’re weird.”
“Thank you.”
“Stop saying that at inappropriate times.”
As soon as we're airborne, the bloke in front of Andrew tries to recline his seat. Andrew tells him that he's crushing his legs. The bloke then gets into discussions with the cabin crew. I consider changing seats. But the plane is completely full.
The crew tries to persuade Andrew to stick his legs out into the aisle. Which he, quite reasonably, refuses to do. The bloke is obviously pissed off. Eventually, the crew give him a Scoot towel to placate him a bit. I can see that he’s still fuming. The selfish twat. This is a five-hour daytime flight.
He could have changed seats with his wife, who’s in front of me. But then he would have to pay attention to his two kids, sitting to her left. Whom he’s been trying really hard to ignore. Total and utter arsehole. I feel sorry for his wife and kids. They look embarrassed by his behaviour.
Scoot being a budget carrier, you have to pay for food and drinks. Out of curiosity, I look at the prices. Fuck me, the miniatures of whisky are just 10 Singapore dollars. That's cheaper than on the land. I get two. Andrew gets a Sapporo.
We're lucky to get served. Just after we've got our drinks, we hit turbulence and the service is suspended. Never to resume.
A dad sat behind Andrew is trying to explain smoking to his 4-year-old son.
"Cigarettes have this nasty stuff in them called nicotine. Once you have it, you want more and more of. Like you with chips."
What a contrast with reclining arsehole dad.
It's electronic gates again for immigration. For some reason it doesn’t like my passport and I have to go to an immigration officer. No problem for Andrew, mind.
On the drive from the airport, I remark to Andrew:
“No sign of any pubs. This isn’t the Australia I remember.”
“I’m surprised you can remember anything from that far back.”
“Very funny.”
Once checked into our hotel, we head to a 7 Eleven. Where we get sarnies, crips and drinks. I need some food. All I've eaten today is a banana. Andrew has only had two beers.
It’s raining. The sort of persistent drizzle you get in Amsterdam. Not the weather Andrew expected.
“I expected a desert.” He sounds quite disappointed.
Despite only being 18:45, the streets are almost deserted.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” I ask.
“Maybe it’s the rain?”
“It’s not that heavy.”
“Or because it’s Sunday?”
“Possibly. I forgot what day it was. And where are the pubs? I haven’t seen one yet.”
“True. They must have hidden when they heard you were coming.”
“Very funny, smartarse.”
Back in our room, we notice that there are no glasses. No mugs. No drinking vessels of any description.
“Do you want to nip over the road to get some paper cups?”
“Can’t you come as well?’
“Your poor, old knackered Dad?”
“Yes.”
“You heartless bastard.”
It’s quite a weird shop, with a seemingly random assortment of goods. But they do have paper cups. Thankfully. I don’t fancy drinking the Famous Grouse straight from the bottle. Then mixing in some cola in my gob.
We’re watching a travel programme on Aussie TV.
“I’ve been on that.”
“What?”
“That near vertical railway. It’s in Katoomba.”
“When?”
“30-odd years ago.”
“You’re so old, Dad.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“It’s not a great sign that you forget how old you are.”
“Fuck off.” Master of dazzling repartee, me.
We do some more intense empathising to while away the remainder of the evening. Sipping whisky.
I don't rise that early. I'm feeling much better after a good, long kip. Andrew is going for an even longer kip. One which may last until dusk unless I intervene.
Not much planned today. Around one we walk down the road to the 7 Eleven for some more suff. It’s very hot. Which is sort of to be expected when you’re this close to the equator.
We’re an interesting neighbourhood, built in the 1930s. With an art deco vibe. Not necessarily something you associate with the tropics. The buildings look a bit like a pre-war London blocks of council flats.
After chilling in our room for a little, we head for the hawker market again. It's pretty interesting. Mostly Chinese food. But also random European stuff, like Italian. And any Asian cuisine you can think of. And a few more than that. Quite a few more.
There are only fans and soon Andrew is overheating So much so, that we have to go in search of air-conditioning. He’s doing his turning grey, sweating and looking ready to collapse thing.
We dive into Hello Arigato, a coffeeshop, over the road to cool down. And I drink coffee. Ironically. Andrew has a beer. A real shocker, that.
"How could people live here without air-conditioning?" Andrew asks.
“No idea. I suppose those who couldn’t just died.”
“That’s a cheery thought.”
“I’m a cheery sort of bloke.”
“Self-delusion is a terrible thing, Dad.”
When we've finished our drinks, the place is starting to close. We return to the market for some takeaway food. For me, at least. Andrew isn’t hungry.
I go to the place with the enticing roast meat smells and the long queue. Roast pork and roast duck with rice. It's hideously expensive: $6.50. Which is a bit over 4 euros.
“The robbing bastards.”
“I know, Dad. How dare they charge those prices.”
“The pricing here is weird.”
"They must have a high tax on alcohol."
“They must. I can't think of any other explanation.”
I eat back in our room. My food is dead good. The roasty Chinese stuff I love. Crunchy and fatty.
“Do you want to try some?”
“No.”
Andrew isn't hungry. He must be getting all his calories from the rum.
“Dad, did you know this also operates as a love hotel?”
“Really?”
“I heard someone asking at reception how much it costs for three hours.”
“They must have needed it for a short kip. For a love stay you’d need twenty minutes, tops. Thirty if you have a shower before and after.”
“Daad.”
“What?”
“I don’t need to know that.”
It’s always fun embarrassing your kids.
What to do this evening? It's back to the Magpie. Where we sit at the bar. Rye whiskey for me. Crafty Lager for Andrew.
They're playing reggae on vinyl records. Which is pretty cool. It goes well with the heat. A waitress recognises us from yesterday and says hello. Which is nice.
We go crazy and have three rounds. 120 Singapore dollars. Or 80 euros. Fuck me, that's expensive. Even by Amsterdam standards. I hope Australia is going to be cheaper.
We’ve still duty free, luckily. Already paid for. Accompanied by some YouTube. Such cultured bastards, we are.
We don't stay up too late. Got a plane to catch tomorrow. And a wallet of limited capacity,
Hello Arigato Tiong Bahru
58 Seng Poh Rd,
#01-15,
Singapore 160058.
http://helloarigato.com/
Magpie
57 Eng Hoon St,
#01-88,
Singapore 160057.
http://www.magpie.city/
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