Doing my talking thing

No rush today. I rise at 8:00 and go for brekkie.

As there's no bacon, it's back to scrambled egg and cheese. With fruit for pudding. I sit with Michael Helzer, one of the American judges. We have a good chat.

I send the family a picture of my breakfast. It looks rather pretty, with the sunlight shining across it. Let’s see the bastards complain about that.

After breakfast, I go back to my room to chill for a while. Today there are the talks. Mine is scheduled for 14:00. As the morning ones are all in Spanish, I don't go there until midday.

Surprise, surprise: they're running late.

Hernán Testa, the Argentinian hops bloke is talking about . . . Argentinian hops. The bits I can understand are pretty interesting.

The next talk is by some people who make a hop oil. There's some beer to go with this one. Three different versions of the same beer. One dry hopped with 100% pellets, one 65% pellets and 35% hop oil and one with 35% pellets and 65% hop oil. At least it gives me something to drink.

For my talk, I speak a couple of sentences and then the interpreter translates them into Spanish. It interrupts my flow a bit. But does give me a chance to drink some beer while the interpreter is taking.

My talk is about Irish Porter and Stout. I should probably update it. I wrote it a while ago and have since got hold of a lot more Irish brewing records. In particular, examples of heading, the sort of Kräusen used in Ireland.

I get through my beer so quickly, I have to request a refill. That’s a first. Just making sure my throat doesn’t get too dry. Wouldn’t want to get hoarse. Usually, I only get to take a sip or two, as I keep rattling away.

When I'm done, I sell a few more books. Which is good. I'm nicely building up dosh in my PayPal account. Dolores will be so happy. Why have I never brought books with me to sell before? Because I’m an idiot. That’s why.

There are three talks after me, two of which are in English. One from Martin Zuber about creating Lager recipes for craft brewers. And another by Mike Hall about Bathtub Row, the cooperative brewery he helped.

I stand around and chat a bit when the last talk is done. And drink some beer. Before heading back to the hotel in an Uber with a couple of other judges.

Tonight, there's a visit to Hasta Pronto, another brewery. But I'm too tired for that. Especially as it's a 40-minute ride away. Instead, I drop by the supermarket again. For bread, milk, cheese and pisco. As my hotel whisky is all drunk. And some biscuit things for Lexxie.

On the way back to the hotel, someone says hi. It's John, an American brewer who brews further south in Chile, whom I met in Temuco a couple of years ago.

I watch some YouTube and eat a little. All very quiet and restful. Which is exactly what I need.

I turn in around 23:00.



Disclaimer: Copa ACI paid for my accommodation, some meals and some beer. 

 

You can fins a video report of my trip here: 

Best of Show

It’s an early start. I rise at 6:45. And go upstairs for breakfast.

The good news: they have bacon. And mango juice. A win-win. I slurp down coffee and mango juice with my food. I have fruit for my pudding.

I remember to send the family a snap of the glorious scrambled egg and bacon. And a second of my fruit pudding.

The family’s response is rather dispiriting.

“Why do you just send photos of boring plates of food?” Alexei messages me.

“You find my breakfasts boring?”

“Yes, it’s just the same scrambled egg and bacon.”

“That’s not true. Most days it’s been scrambled egg and cheese.”

“That’s even more boring. Just yellow stuff.”

“Excuse me.”

“Send some more interesting photos.”

“OK. I’ll send you some photos of buildings.”

“That’s not much better. Isn’t it autumn down there? Can’t you take pictures of that?”

“The trees haven’t started to change colour yet. And I’m in the middle of the city.”

“You always have an excuse.”

“It’s called a reason>”

“Yeah, whatever.”

The view from the breakfast room is pretty spectacular. That’s what you get for being on the twelfth floor. In the background, behind the high rises of the city, lurk the snow-topped Andes. 

I send my family a photo of the view. Maybe that’ll stop the fuckers complaining.

I get outside around 8:00. A few judges are chatting there. But no-one is going anywhere. It's pushing 9:00 when we get to the judging site. Where they aren't ready. Again. Partly because the local judges are all stuck in traffic. You have to get used to things starting late when you’re in South America.

It's 10:15 by the tine judging kicks off. We have four beers left over from yesterday: Three Robust Porters and one Old Ale.

Once we've got those out of the way, it's time for some homebrew judging. Weirdly, none of the homebrew beers have bad faults. Unlike quite a few of the professional beers. A couple of the Stouts are really rather good. Judging is full of surprises.

We're done by 12:45. Nothing more to do until lunch at 14:00. Which is why I'm writing this. Got to keep myself occupied. I wouldn’t like to get bored.

In the meantime, I'm shifting quite a few books. Which will please Dolores. With any luck, I'll sell all of the ones I've brought.

Lunch is a steak again. Quite a small one this time. But enough for me. I have a fascinating chat with Hernán Testa, the Argentinian hops bloke while I’m eating. And Michael Helzer, an American. Two pretty engaging and informed conversation partners.

In the afternoon, I'm judging the Best of Show. We have to wait quite a while for the stewards to sort out the beers. But I’ve had worse. I try to keep positive. No matter what my family say.

“You’re so negative, Dad.”

“Just realistic.”

“Cynical, more like.”

I’ve had some bad experiences with judging BOS in the past. Hopefully this won’t be another. 

There are five of us. And 29 beers. Which is quite a lot. Nothing I judged earlier, as we didn't award any gold medals on my table. The table is large but there’s only just about room for all the beers.

There are some excellent ones, which makes the process more difficult. Luckily, there are no opinionated twats on the panel. And we can come to an agreement on the medal winners reasonably quickly. Without any unpleasantness.

I send the family a snap of the table full of beers. It isn’t a plate of food and it isn’t all yellow. Let’s see them complain about that.

In the evening there's a pub crawl, finishing at Intrinsical. But I'm feeling totally knacked and just go back to the hotel. Only venturing out to visit the supermarket for some milk, bread and cheese. Even that 100 metre walk is a struggle. I’m so fucking exhausted.

I send the family a picture of the spirits shelves in the supermarket. Specifically, the Havana Club. I know Andrew will enjoy that.

“Looks just like how I remember it.” He replies.

He’s so sweet.

I watch some stuff on Ziggo and sip my hotel whisky. Before turning in pretty early. A good long rest is what I need. As I’ll be giving a talk tomorrow. I need to be at my best for that.

At least it won’t be an early start.



Disclaimer: Copa ACI paid for my accommodation, some meals and some beer. 

  

You can fins a video report of my trip here: 

Hanging around

I'm up early. At 7:20. Feeling fairly crap. After a shower, I feel a bit better. 

Judging is due to start at 9 AM. Right. No way that will happen. 10:30 AM is guess. At the earliest.

I go upstairs for breakfast. No bacon, sadly. There are both scrambled and fried eggs, mind. I go for the former and cheese. Followed by fruit. It’s not a bad spread. With boiled eggs, too. Pastries, cheese, salami. Not bad at all. It almost makes up for the lack of bacon. Almost.

I send the family a picture of my breakfast. I know they’re fascinated by what I eat when I’m away. And I don’t want to disappoint them. 

Surprise, surprise. The start of judging is delayed. First to 10. Then to 12:30. We are in South America, after all. At least we aren’t just hanging around at the judging venue.

I spend the time laying around in my room. Only punctuated by a quick trip to the supermarket around the corner. Where I buy bananas and milk.

At the judging location – the restaurant La Parrilla del Guatón Jerez – there’s some more hanging around. At first outside, then inside.

At 13;30, they still aren’t ready. And we have lunch. Which is a steak and potato salad. A pretty nice steak. I order a beer to go with it. A half litre. Normally, I’d never drink beer during a judging day. Just feel like a beer.

I don’t forget to send the family a picture of my steak. I’m sure that they’ll love to see what I’m eating. 

While eating, I have a chance to talk to some of the other judges. Who are a sociable bunch.

Judging is in the same place. Finally kicking off at around 15:00. Only six hours late. A record, I think. Luckily, 3.5 hours of the wait were in my hotel room. Though I could have got up 90 minutes later. Which would have been nice.

I’m table captain. With Valeria, a local I’ve judged with before, and Columbian Jose. Not sure if being the captain is a good thing. Will it mean more work? I hope not. I hate work. That’s why I retired at 63.

We start with five non-alcoholic beers. That's always fun. They’re surprisingly good. Well, surprisingly non-horrible. Mostly.

After that, it’s pretty much all UK styles. Which is par for the course, when I’m the table captain. Not sure it it’s a good or a bad thing, 

At least Irish Red isn’t on the list. A style I’ve judged six or seven times. And never had an even vaguely decent beer. It’s not just a matter of personal taste. They were technically bad beers, with serious faults. My heart always drops when I see the style on my schedule.

Most of the flights are pretty small, just a couple of beers. Which I like. Other than Scottish Export, of which there are nine examples. Probably about as many as are brewed in Scotland nowadays.

The captaincy doesn’t involve much extra work. Thankfully. Other than clicking a couple of buttons. And, after my career in IT, I’m rather good at clicking buttons.

There’s only one beer with butyric acid – baby sick – across all the flights. Which is a plus. 

Some of our scores are quite far apart. But we manage to come to a consensus without too much arguing. And keep up a pretty decent pace.

We don’t award a huge number of medals. Just a silver and a couple of bronzes.

It's getting late and we still aren't done. We finish at 20:00, with four beers unjudged. We'll do them tomorrow. Despite only judging for five hours, I feel knacked. It’s been an odd and slightly frustrating day.

The plan is to go to brewpub Mango. I decide to give it a miss and go back to the hotel. It’s just getting too late. Even if I just have a couple of beers, with travelling time, I’ll be lucky to be back in the hotel by 23:00.

I buy a sandwich in the hotel, feeling to knackered to walk around the corner to the supermarket. I watch Champions League quarter final highlights on Ziggo. While sipping a little hotel whisky. Just for medicinal purposes, obviously.

When I’ve finished my sandwich, I realise that I haven’t sent the family a photo of it. Hopefully they don’t notice. I’d hate to let them down.

I turn in at 23:00. It's an early start tomorrow. We're being picked up at 7:45. Well, that's the plan. Let's see if that actually happens.

Just a couple of sips of whisky. I’m too desperate for sleep to drink more. Andrew would be so disappointed in me.



La Parrilla del Guatón Jerez
Av. Padre Hurtado 1460, 
Vitacura,
Santiago.
http://www.laparrilladelguatonjerez.cl/


Disclaimer: Copa ACI paid for my accommadation, some meals and some beer. 

 

You can fins a video report of my trip here: 

Long journey south

 It's a late start. My flight is at 21:10. I get a cab at 18:00.

“How much Spanish do you know, Dad?” Alexei asked yesterday.

“Not quite as much as Portuguese.”

“Practically none, then”

“I know some words. Banos. Gracias.Por favor.”

“As I said, practically none”

“It’s all I really need.”

“Old people like you always need to know where the toilets are.”

“Exactly.”

“I was taking the piss, Dad.”

“I know.”

“You’re weird.”

“I know.”

The airport isn't too busy, as it's getting late. It's not long before I'm in the lounge grabbing whisky. and a little something to eat. Though I do drop by the duty free to get some hotel whisky. I’m amazed to be able to afford an Islay whisky: Bunnahabhain

I don't go crazy. As I've a long flight. A very long flight. 18 hours, all told. Too long to turn up smashed. Being deeply cynical about the food I’ll be served on the flight, I get down some food ballast.

The flight is pretty full. Almost every seat taken. Just before we take off, a flight attendant comes along and says something to the woman next to me. Who then disappears off somewhere. I assume she's been upgraded. Just after take-off, she returns. Which is a bummer. Where has she been? 

After an hour or so they feed us some slop. It's just about edible. Especially after I sharpen up my wine with some illicit whisky miniatures.

Eating done, I have a good kip. A long kip. Like seven hours. Then I doze for another couple of hours. Which is the best way to handle such a long flight. The first leg to Buenos Aires is 13.5 hours. I don't even watch anything until the last couple of hours. When we're served a breakfast. Of which I just eat the fruit.

We have the fun of deplaning in Buenos Aires. And going through security again. Before hanging around at the gate for a while. Such a joy, early in the morning.

The plane is much emptier on the second leg, with both the seats to my left empty. Which would give me a great view if the Andes. If the wing weren't in the way.

We’re served a warm, savoury pastry. I eat some of it. My stomach is playing up a bit. Just what I need.

As we start to descend into Santiago, there's a cloud layer completely obscuring the city. Or is it smog? It's hard to tell from up here. Let’s hope it’s the former. For the sake of my lungs.

I dodge the long queue for immigration with my oldie priority. Of which I'm very thankful.

All the time gained is lost as I wait ages for my bag to pop out. I thought it was supposed to have priority?

My lift is waiting for me. Thankfully. I had a couple of airport transfers not show up recently. Which was dead fucking annoying. 

We rumble along the motorway for a while. Past light industrial units and dusty hills. My hotel is on the other side of town. But tunnels makes the journey relatively short.

Soon I'm checking into my hotel. Unfortunately, my room isn't free. Luckly, Chris arranges for me to use the room of a couple of German judges while they're out exploring the city.

I'm just starting to get nicely relaxed when the phone rings. It's reception telling me that my room is ready. Great!

Despite kipping on the plane, I'm knacked. And spend most of the day dozing on the bed vaguely watching NHK English service.

My stomach isn't feeling great. Nor is my left side, where there’s a throbbing pain. And I can't get properly to sleep. I don’t even feel like drinking any of my duty-free whisky. Oh, the joys of growing old!

Chris is supposed to pick me up at 18:45 to take me to the judges' dinner at Flannery’s Irish Geo Pub. He hasn't turned up by 19:20 and I take an Uber with Mike Hall.

With my stomach turning somersaults, I can't eat or drink much. I manage a token chip and a few mouthfuls of beer before heading back to the hotel. Where I turn in almost immediately. It's only 22:00. I don’t even have a sip of hotel whisky.

With my stomach still feeling shit and the pain in my side, I have a disturbed sleep. Waking multiple times. Bum.



Flannery’s Irish Geo Pub
Encomenderos 379, 
Las Condes,
Santiago.

 

You can fins a video report of my trip here:

 

Santiago, April 2026

Another travel video. South America again. Chile, to be precise.

 

The amazing journey

I don’t sleep that well. Imagining all sorts of nightmare scenarios. This could work out very expensive. Dolores will not be happy if I have to fork out a couple of thousand euros for a stupid mistake. All of my own making.

Most of the judges have already left. Only a couple are around at breakfast. I would have my usual. Except that there’s no scrambled egg. Leaving my plate looking rather sad with just cheese. 

One of the staff brings out a plate from the kitchen for another guest. It’s scrambled egg. She notices me looking and gestures asking if I want some, too. I nod vigorously. Phew. Breakfast saved. If only that was my biggest worry.

I’m still doing some heavy-duty fretting. However I look at it, my chances of catching my Amsterdam flight don’t look great. Everything will have to run perfectly for me to be successful. Even the slightest delay could be disastrous. How often have I been on a flight that was 20 or 30 minutes late? Far too often for me to feel comfortable.

I check out at midday. And jump in an Uber to the airport.

It’s three hours until my first flight. I decide not to check in a bag. To make my exit from my arrival airport in Rio quicker. Just as well my check-in bag is small enough for hand baggage.

There are a couple of cafés and bars airside. I’m too stressed for alcohol. I want to keep a clear head, too. I get a baguette from the oddly-named Smell café. I think “aroma” is the word they were looking for.

You have to tick boxes on a form to say what fillings you want. Most of the options, I can’t understand. Which is why I end up with a boiled egg and red onion baguette.

Reassuringly, my flight is listed as on time. Now. Hopefully, that doesn’t change.

I read some Private Eye. And look at the Guardian website on my phone. I’m so modern, now. Just like one of those young people. Whose faces are permanently glued to their phones.

The flight is, indeed, on time. Even better, it’s a little early. Pulling away from the gate 10 minutes before the scheduled departure time. A good start. Still a long way to go, mind. I’m still feeling very stressed.

We arrive in Congonhas early, too. No air bridge, though. Meaning a bus ride to the terminal. My connecting flight is also out on the tarmac. Fortunately, the bus goes from the very next bay. That’s handy. My luck is holding.

I spend no time, really, between flights. And the second one also leaves early. Things are going about as well as they could. I let Jose know that I should be arriving on time. It’s still going to be tight. My heart is racing. Which is worrying.

As soon as we land in Rio, I message Jose. He’ll see me in arrivals.

With no checked-in bag, I walk straight to arrivals. It only takes us a couple of minutes to meet up. We climb into his car at 17:00. I feel relieved. Until Jose points out that the satnav estimates that it will take 53 minutes for the trip. Which is 57 minutes before my Amsterdam flight is scheduled to leave.

When does check in close for intercontinental flights? Forty minutes before departure? I hope so. If it’s an hour, I’m screwed.

The traffic is bad. We often slow almost to a standstill. The satnav estimates our arrival time at 19:53 or 19:54 for most of the journey. But as we get closer, it drops to 19:48. Which is exactly when we pull up at international departures.

I quickly find the KLM desk. It’s very quiet. And there’s a sign saying: “closed”. It doesn’t look good.

“Can I check in for the Amsterdam flight?”

“Yes, you’ve got a minute. Can I see your passport?”

Phew. As my bag rolls away on the conveyor belt relief rolls over me. That was way too fucking close. If we’d been stopped by one more red light, I’d have missed my flight. I’m glad that I didn’t know the cutoff time was 60 minutes. I’d have been worried sick the whole car ride.

That was far too much of an adventure. I get anxious enough just watching Race Around the World. I don’t want to live it.

Boarding has already started before I’m through security. It’s a long walk to my gate. With a couple of minutes’ delay at the duty free, I arrive at the gate 30 minutes before departure.

Once on board, I nip to the bogs to down a couple of miniatures I bought in the duty free. Just to calm my nerves. What a stressful day it’s been. Not one I’d like to repeat.

We take off pretty much on time. Just 10.5 hours and I’ll be back in Amsterdam.

A French-speaking couple sit next to me. They’ve brought McDonald's with them. KLM food isn’t great, but is it that bad?

The main meal – chicken with cheese on top – is surprisingly edible. One of the best meals I’ve had for a while on a KLM flight. Though that isn’t saying very much. The bar is barely at shoe-height.

I start watching some Mission Impossible nonsense. But doze off halfway.

I don’t sleep that well. I can’t really get comfortable. A couple of hours out from Amsterdam I give up and return to Mission Impossible. It hasn’t got any less ridiculous while I’ve been dozing.

The main part of breakfast is a bit weird. On the plus side, there’s some fruit. And coffee and orange juice.

When we arrive, I’m feeling pretty tired. Thankfully, I don’t have to piss around for too long in the airport.

When I roll up at home, Dolores opens the door. Of course, she has tea waiting for me. My first cup in over a week. It tastes so good.

 

Free in Uberlandia

No judging today. And no rush to get up. I rise a little after nine. Then go for brekkie. Happy enough, once more, just to have made it to another day. I no longer take waking up for granted.

Jose and a few others are there. I sit with them and chat. While eating my usual breakfast. Scrambled eggs and the white cheese. Followed by fruit. Can’t forget the fruit.

Jose offers to pick me up from the airport in Rio tomorrow. Which is nice. And take me out for some food and beer. That's dead cool. He’s such a nice bloke. It’s been great spending time with him.

Even after three coffees I feel rather knacked. I consider going back to bed. But instead fiddle on my laptop.

There is an excursion to a coffee plantation today. But, as the start time was stupid o’clock, I gave it a miss. I simply couldn’t be arsed to get up that early. The only other thing on the agenda is the awards ceremony this evening. A free day. Yippee!

My plan is to take things easy. Very easy. I could go out for lunch. What are my nearby options? Mostly buffets. I’m a bit buffeted out. Instead, I think I’ll have a wander to the supermarket and pick up some cheese and salami.

It’s an interesting walk. A bit downhill. Along some really crap and uneven pavements. You could easily do yourself an injury, if you weren’t paying attention. Especially if it’s a bit icy. Then I remember. Not much chance of ice here. Not unless there’s a nuclear war or massive meteor strike. In those cases, I’ll have more pressing worries than an icy pavement.

Not the largest of supermarkets. It does have all the stuff I need. Along with the aforementioned supplies, I buy rolls, bananas and cola. The latter I need to mix with the gut-rot cachaça I brought from Rio.

Luckily, the road only gets really steep past the supermarket. I really can’t be doing with hills anymore. That’s what decades of living surrounded by the Dutch mountains gets you. The only inclined surfaces at home are the approaches to bridges. A rise of no more than a couple of metres.

I play around on my laptop. Doing a bit of writing. And lots of looking at crap on the internet. It's so cold in the room, that I'm wearing my jacket. I can't seem to turn the ac up. Or is it down? Make it fucking warmer in here, that's what I mean.

The gut-rot cachaça is, er, rotting my gut. That’s annoying. Typical that I feel crap on my day off.

It doesn’t get better as evening rolls around. Think I’ll give the awards ceremony a miss. They’re quite stressful – lots of standing up and deafening noise – at the best of times.

Looking at my email, I notice one from KLM. Asking if I want to check in. That’s a bit early. It’s 48 hours until I fly.

At least, that’s what I thought. It seems my flight is booked for tomorrow, 4th March. Didn’t I book it for the 5th? That’s what it says in the document with all my trip details. I originally planned to return on the 4th. But when I changed my departure date to a day later, the KLM site automatically shifted my return to a day later, too. Or that’s what I thought.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. Fuck. How on earth could I get that so wrong?

Will I be even able to make it? My Amsterdam flight leaves at 20:50. And I don’t get into Rio until 18:50. At the other airport. The domestic one. Two hours for the transfer is really tight. Any sort of delay will completely bugger me.

To make matters worse, I have two flights to get to Rio. With quite a tight connection in Sao Paolo. Lots of room for delays. One of as little as ten minutes could ruin everything.

I message Jose that I won’t be able to meet him for drinks tomorrow. Kindly, He offers to give me a lift between the airports.

According to Google maps, it takes twenty minutes by car between the airports. Even if it’s half an hour, I should be OK. Should be.

I start to do some industrial scale worrying. What the fuck do I do if I miss my flight to Holland? Would I be able to rebook onto the next day’s flight? How much would that cost me? Where would I stay in Rio? As I’ve already cancelled my hotel.

Maybe I could change my flight from Uberlandia to an earlier one. No. GOL only have the one flight a day. Maybe another airline.

I look at Azul. They want around 500 euros for a single. And the times are no better. A Latam flight would be earlier. However, they want 1,200 euros. What the fuck? That’s more than I paid to fly from Amsterdam to Rio and back.

I do some more worrying. Then go to bed. 

 

 

A video report about my time in Uberlandia.

Still judging

I rise at 6:30 feeling much better than yesterday. After a solid eight hours of kip. It’s amazing what a good sleep can do. Just waking up is a positive at my age. You never know when it may not happen. I’m downstairs by 7:15.

I have my usual breakfast. Call me Mr. Boring. I don’t care. It’s what I want to eat. And I’ll fucking eat it. That’s the great thing about being old. Not really having to give a fuck what anyone thinks.

I’m sitting with Jose. The chat turns to yeast with the bloke on the next table who has a yeast company. I meet such interesting people at these things. And learn interesting stuff. In the Anglosphere, the discussion rarely turns to South American beer. A shame.

For me, it’s one of the most interesting regions of the beer world. Lots of very enthusiastic people trying out lots of stuff. Some of which works. Like Catherina Sour, which I think is a wonderful style. So drinkable. And so lovable.

Back over at Überbräu, I’m on the same judging table as yesterday, with Suzanne and Alan. I’m happy with that. We rattled through the flights yesterday. Coming to a consensus without much argument. Which saves much time. And annoyance. Especially annoyance. The last thing I need is extra stress.

In charge of beer service is Matteo. A livelily friendly young man. With whom I chatted a bit at the barbecue yesterday.

Lots of flights this morning. Fortunately, mostly very small flights.

We start with fruited wheat. Just two samples. Both pretty good.

Scotch Ale. One sample. Pretty nice. A perfect breakfast beer. 

American Pale Ale. Six samples. Loads of hops.

Session IPA Not the greatest flight. Lots of oxidation. One or two decent ones.

Dorada Pampeana. One Sample. A type of beer from Argentina. Lucky that we have an Argentinian on the table to explain it to us.

Dutch-style Koyt. One sample. Pretty decent.

German-style Rye Ale. One sample. Tastes right to me. Quite similar to the Thurm und Taxis Roggebier.

We finish at 11:00. Or, rather, we think we do. Matteo gets us one more flight.

Wood and Barrel-aged beers. Six samples, three of which are based on Wee Heavy. The Wee Heavies are so good, I finish all of them. Just to get me in the mood for lunch. My plan works.

We finish at 11:42. A victory for common sense.

Lunch isn’t at the judging location today. We’re whisked off to a restaurant, Boca e Uva, in taxis. At first, I think we’re going back to the hotel, when we pull into the street it’s on. In fact, we’re headed to a place just a little past it. 

It’s a buffet, obviously. This is Brazil and it is lunchtime. A bit more choice than on other days. It’s OK. I get some meat and some salad. Which pretty much describes what I always collect from a buffet. And an orange juice to wash it down.

After lunch, there’s a real treat. Non-alcoholic beers. Six samples. All three sour styles are pretty good. With the Catharina Sour the pick of the bunch. The best non-alcoholic beer I’ve ever drunk. Which may be quite a low bar. Or was. It’s been raised considerably now.

That was much better than expected. Some flights of alcoholic beers were far worse. Not sure what that tells us.

There’s then a long wait for the pre-BOS. Like two fucking hours. Such fun sitting and sweating. Watching Match of the Day helps pass a little time.

I’m doing the pre-BOS of English styles with fellow Dutchman Ferry Wijnhoven. At 16:50. Just four beers arrive:

British-style IPA
Special Bitter
Dark Mild
Robust Porter.

This should be nice and quick. Oh no, that was a mistake. It's actually 14 beers. Fuck.

It does turn out to be fairly painless. Only complicated by the fact that most of the beers are excellent. I quite like the English IPA and the Dark Mild. Though we settle on the Imperial Stout as the winner. It’s a lovely beer.

We’re done at 17:18. And I can fuck off back to the hotel. Totally knacked again.

I have some time to relax in my room. Which I really fucking need. Excuse the swearing. I’m feeling stressed. Weirdly, the hanging around seems to take more out of me than the judging. 

That should be the last stress of the trip. No more judging. Just a couple of days relaxing to come.

Some judges are going to the Madero steakhouse tonight. I decide to tag along.  I could do with some more meat. Can’t remember the last time I ate some. It’s so hard to get hold of here in Brazil.

I bump into Tina Rogers outside the hotel. She’s headed the same way. We share an Uber. 

The restaurant is in a shopping centre. Most of the others haven't arrived when we get there. It’s fairly spacious. Reasonably posh. And not very full.

For a while just Tina and me sit on a large table. Drinking caipirinhas, as they don't have any decent beer. And I like drinking caipirinhas. Who doesn’t? Weirdos, that’s who.  Anyway, I’ve had enough of beer after the last couple of days.

There are ten of us eventually. A very international bunch, a mix of South Americans and Europeans. Which is always fun. One of the reasons I enjoy judging so much, mixing with people from diverse locations. The main reason I love it, now I come to think of it. The actual judging can be as much fun as sandpapering your bollocks.

I order a picanha steak and chips. Medium rare, of course. It's very tasty. And goes well with a caipirinha. Well, anything goes well with a caipirinha. Even better with two caipirinhas. Or three. Or four. Any number, really.

We stay until around 10:15, then get Ubers back to the hotel.

I don't stay up long. Even though I can sleep in tomorrow. Just a quick draught of gut-rot cachaça to push me down the hill to unconsciousness.



Madero Steak House Uberlândia
Av. João Naves de Ávila, 1331
Tibery, Uberlândia
MG, 38408-902.
https://www.restaurantemadero.com.br/pt/restaurante



Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia. 

Lots more judging

I rise at 6:30 after a shit sleep. A shower livens me up a little. A little.

A coffee helps some, too. But I only get the one before the coffee machine breaks. Bum.

My breakfast main course is scrambled egg and cheese once more. I’m sitting with Jose again.

“I see you’re trying the white cheese. Do you like it?” He asks.

“Yes. Much better than the yellow stuff.”

Which it is.  Like cottage cheese formed into a solid lump. Still very soft. The yellow cheese is very plasticy. And pretty tasteless.

The judges’ bus is at 8:00 again. Sort of. It’s close enough. We’re in South America, after all. No point in getting hung up on exact timings.

I’m on table 7 today. Where Suzanne Schalow is captain. The other judge is Alan Iglesias, a brewer from Argentina.

We start with a mini-BOS of American Malt Liquor. A couple of OK ones. Quite an alcoholic start to the day. Not totally sure about what a Malt Liquor is. Other than a strongish Pale Lager.

Our scores are quite a long way apart. With mine being particularly low. I’m rather a mean scorer. If beers have faults, which many do I’m pretty ruthless.

More Lager next. Slightly weaker stuff: Dortmunder Export. There are a couple of pretty good ones. Rather surprisingly. Pale Lagers are difficult to get right. And quite fragile. Which isn’t great when beer isn’t kept refrigerated the whole time.

We jump up in strength again. With Double IPA. Pretty good generally. With a couple of outstanding beers. Though they’re quite hard on my tastebuds.

There’s no letting up on the strength: English Barley Wine. A couple of real crackers in this set. As I can’t stand wasting good beer, I finish off the best samples.

American Imperial Porter. Another really good flight.

Lunch. I’m not particularly hungry. Not surprising, given all the big, chewy beers I’ve tasted this morning. At least we kept up a good pace. We got through five decent-sized flights. Have we caught up yet? Probably not. I eat some stuff simply as ballast rather than with any great joy.

Back to judging. Fuck. It’s Irish Red Ale. Even less fun to judge than non-alcoholic beers. The six or seven times I’ve judged them, I’ve never had one that was even half decent. This lot aren’t quite as terrible as usual. A couple are almost drinkable. Almost. Out of twelve samples.

Czech Dark Lager. four samples, one quite good.

Followed by an hour wait. Then more flights in quick succession.

Belgian style Witbier. six samples. Some OK ones.

Wild Beer. five samples. Mostly with Brettanomyces. Quite a difficult flight to judge.

West Coast IPA. Eleven samples. Eleven fucking samples! After all the strong beers we’ve judged today. My palate has gone. They all taste the same. Which I hate. I always want to do justice to the beers I’m judging. I defer to the other judges.

I've already packed away my laptop, when we're asked to judge another flight. Aargh. I thought I'd escaped. Fuck. Luckily, it’s a very small flight. Of a style so obscure, even I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like.

Breslau-Style Schoeps. Two samples.

And we’re really done. Just to make sure, I pack up quickly and head for the exit. Don’t want them dragging me into judging yet another flight.

I'm so fucking knacked. We’ve judged so many beers today. And lots of strong ones. I never want to drink beer again. I’m so done with it. I just want to drink some cachaça and sleep.

Back at the hotel, I'm tempted to skip the barbecue at Captain Brew and just get some food from the supermarket. Then I see that it isn't open. I'd forgotten it was Sunday. Barbecue it is, then.

I'm half way through arranging an Uber when another judge asks me if I want a lift. That's handy.

There's the lovely smell of cooking meat when I enter. That perks me up a bit. I get myself an IPA. One brewed here. It’s perfectly fine. Hitting the spot without pummelling it to death. With enough alcohol to keep my interest.

I’m offered a taste of Einbecker Maibock which a German judge has brought over. Then a Bayerischer Bahnhof Gose. 

"It's not sour enough." I complain. As usual. I can be a real pain in the arse. I should learn to keep my gob shut. Particularly when people are giving me beer.

I find myself a seat. because, well, I'm well knacked. Platters of meat appear. And are quickly consumed.

I get chatting to Matteo, who’s been organising the beers for our judging table. A really nice bloke, full of energy. As young people tend to be.

Someone brings around Paraguayan rum. Which is very nice. And nicely alcoholic.

I leave a little after 21:00. Back in the hotel, I sip dodgy cachaça and watch the rest of Match of the Day. And crash out not much after 10. I need sleep.



Captain Brew
R. Marieta de Castro Santos, 135
Altamira, Uberlândia
MG, 38411-004.



Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia. 

 

A video of my time in Uberlandia. 

Judging day

I rise at 6:30. Feeling just about human. And quickly head downstairs. As I want to have a leisurely breakfast. At my age, everything takes a long time. The bus to the judging is scheduled for 8:00.

I sit with Jose. No bacon, so it's scrambled egg and cheese. Which fills a hole. And three cups of coffee wake me up. A bit. 

“Have you tried the white cheese?” Jose asks.

“Do you mean this?” I reply, pointing at the rather anaemic yellow squares on my plate.

“No, the really white cheese. It’s local. Very fresh.”

I check the cheeses when fetching my fruit. There is, indeed, some very white stuff. I’ll have to try that tomorrow. Always good to expand my cheese horizons. Melon and watermelon provide all the fruity goodness I need. Along with orange juice.

The buffet selection isn’t that bad. Other than the absence of bacon. Lots for the cake-eater.

The bus leaves fairly well on time. To Überbräu, another brewery taproom. This time on an industrial estate.

I’m on table 13. That’s lucky. With table captain Tedesko Almeida (from Brazil) and Lisa Matzeu (from Italy).

After a short introduction from Doug Merlot, including a stern reminder not to throw bog paper into the bogs, we’re ready to rock. And rock we immediately do. This is great. No pointless hanging around without beer to judge.

We kick off with American-style Light Lager. Now there’s a style to cheer the soul. The examples vary between fatally flawed and just about acceptable. I'm glad when we're done.

Looking forward to the next set, which is Catherina Sour. Except they don't seem to have them ready. We have a wait. Which becomes a long wait. So frustrating. And likely to leave us finishing rather late. We have to judge 50-60 beers today. After two hours, we've only judged eight. I have visions of us judging into the night.

We wait so long, that lunch rolls around. Which is, surprisingly, a buffet. Quite a small one Not particularly great for the vegetarians. Who have a choice of stodge or salad. Even some of the vegetable dishes seem to contain meat.

Not long after lunch, a second flight appears. Not Catherina Sour, as promised. Instead, it’s Belgian-style Dubbel. A type of beer I’ve drunk quite a bit of. All are a bit sweet for me, but there are a couple of really decent beers. With enough alcohol to rouse my spirits.

There’s a bit more waiting before the next flight arrives. Catharina Sour. One I’d been looking forward to. As usual, some lovely beers. And all are pretty decent. It’s a wonderful style. So drinkable, while still being packed with vibrant flavours.

After lots more doing nothing, it’s announced that we’re done for the day. At 16:00, after only judging three of our scheduled six flights. While it’s nice to finish early, it just means more work tomorrow. As we try to catch up.

I rest a bit in my room, before heading downstairs at 18:00. The plan is to go to the Trema brewery. But a group of people are going first to Bar do Rone for some meat. I decide to tag along. Good Brazilian meat isn’t to be missed.

When I arrive, the others are already there. It’s an unpretentious Brazilian neighbourhood restaurant, very simply decked out. And pretty busy. Which is a good sign. I pull up a chair.

The meat is delicious pork. With a wonderfully crunchy crust. It comes in a big lump which is sliced by a waiter at the table. Yum, yum, yum. I accompany it with a passion fruit caipirinha. Which is also yummy.

There’s a bottle of posh cachaça on the table. Not sure where it came from. However, it would be impolite to refuse a shot. It’s very nice. As I knew it would be. Don’t ask me describe it. Other than that it’s full of cachaça-ey goodness.

The plan is to continue on to Trema. But I'm feeling knacked. Instead, I return to the hotel. Where I chug some cheapo cachaça. And start watching Match of the Day.

After 20 minutes, I'm done and turn in. Tomorrow will be a long day. Lots of beers to judge.


Überbräu Microcervejaria
Av. Espanha, 391
Tibery, Uberlândia
MG, 38405-048.
https://uberbrau.com.br/


Bar do Rone
Av. Seme Simão, 1399
Laranjeiras, Uberlândia
MG, 38410-327.


Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia.

 

A video of my time in Uberlandia. 

Another video of Brazil

 Me in Uberlandia in Minas Gerais, Brazil, , where I judged the Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas.

Uberlandia bound

I rise just after 7:00. And, after my morning ablutions, go downstairs for breakfast.

It's the same as yesterday: scrambled egg and bacon. Along with coffee and orange juice. Plus fruit, of course. Wouldn’t want to skimp on the vitamins. Or the bacon. It may be the last I get on this trip. Best double up.

The other guests all seem to be Brazilian. Beach bound most of them, based on their dress. This is a handy spot. For the beach and everything else.  A really nice spot. Which is why I’m here and not wasting my money on a Copacabana beachfront room. Probably their motivation, too. Not a lot of business travellers, by the look of it. Just me. Sort of.

Just after 9:00 I get an Uber to the airport. Santos Dumont, not the international airport where I arrived. I’m off to Uberlandia. Weird name, I know. Strangely German. Sort of. In Minas Gerais. A new state for me.

Once out of Ipanema, we skirt Copacabana beach for a while. Hunking hotels looming over the beach. Which doesn’t look that inviting in this weather. Overcast and rather blustery. Like midsummer in Mablethorpe. But double the temperature.

On the way to departures, I notice that the bloke in front of me looks familiar. It's one of Brazilian judges, Jose Padilha. We’ve been at competitions together a few times. We sit together while waiting for our flight to board. 

I spotted someone in a Cantillon top earlier. After Jose posts a photo of me and him on the judges’ WharsApp group, Cantillon bloke comes over with his wife and introduces himself. He’s from Italy. Later a Mexican judge also joins us.

Our connecting flight in Sao Paulo leaves the gate on time, but then queues on the tarmac for ages. We take off twenty minutes late. The flight itself is uneventful.

Once we’ve picked up our bags, me, Jose and the Italian judge and his wife share an Uber to the hotel.

“Uberlandia is very different to Rio.” Jose remarks as we make our way along bumpy roads, flanked by random buildings of random heights.

That’s very true. Much more modern. And rambling. A lot less charming, too. With a busy four-lane road right through the middle of it.

The hotel is a bit grotty. And has a brown toilet. How weird is that? I suppose it hides shit stains well. There is a fridge. Where I stash what’s left of my cheese.

I have a few hours to myself. Warming myself up for the evening with the last of my hotel whisky. There are no glasses in the room. Another sign that it’s not the poshest of hotels. I have to mix in a coke bottle and drink from that. I feel so classy.

The bus for the judges’ dinners leaves at 19:00. Supposedly. This is Brazil. No way it will leave before 19:20.

Lots of familiar faces are waiting in the lobby. Which is cool. Plenty of people to chat to. And I’m a pretty chatty bloke. When the topic is beer. Then it’s hard to shut me up. Especially if I get going on the colour of Mild Ale. You’ll be lucky f I pause in the next three hours. Such a enthralling subject..

The dinner is at Captain Brew, a taproom. In quite a plush neighbourhood. The interior is fairly cavernous. As these places tend to be. With the brewhouse at the rear behind glass.

There’s a buffet. What a surprise. They so rarely have buffets in Brazil. Not really. I’d best get used to it. The first of many, I’m sure. I get myself some beef and cheese. Seems like a balanced meal. Colour-wise, at least. 

I have an IPA. There’s original. Not that there are loads of options. Rather an IPA than a Lager. Hops will cover up some nastiness that’s totally exposed in a Pils. And it’s stronger. Just love me those ABVs.

More cheese is eaten And IPA is drunk. It’s very good. The cheese, I mean. The IPA is OK. The cheese is something special. A cheese corner is home to several different types. Local artisanal stuff. Easily the best cheese I’ve had in Brazil. And, as everyone knows, you can never have too much cheese.

There’s plenty of chat, obviously. I talk to the Silvia de Tomas, from Peru, about writing, A topic I know a little about. I hope. I’ve written a lot of books. Volume counts for something, surely? Best not mention that. If number of words were the sole criterion, I’d be the best beer writer in the world.

I sit next to Suzanne and Kate, whom I’ve met a few times over the years. More than I’ve been able to forget. Back during my first trip to Boston, when Pretty Things held an event in their bottle shop. My biggest memory being how fucking expensive the Starbucks Dann bought for me was. The price of 3 Abts in Ton Overmars. 

Thankfully, the bus back to the hotel isn’t too late. I can’t be doing with late nights. Especially when I need to be up early in the morning. And need a clear head for judging.

I do have a small nightcap. Of gut-rot cachaça. I have to get someone at reception to open the bottle for me. It doesn’t have a screw top, as you might expect. Instead, a plastic top that needs to be cut off with a knife.

Soon slumber summons me. How can I refuse?


Captain Brew
R. Marieta de Castro Santos, 135
Altamira, Uberlândia
MG, 38411-004.


Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia.
 

Rio relaxing

I rise at 8:30. Potter around a bit, then nip downstairs for breakfast.

It's not a bad buffet. I go for bacon and scrambled egg. Followed by fruit. I'm such a healthy chap.

I wander to the supermarket to stock up on essentials: salami and cachaca. Two litres. I'll be needing that in Uberlandia. And am not quite sure where I could pick up some there. Or when I’ll have the chance. It’s not exactly the best stuff. Far from it. Not a cachaca you’d want to drink straight.

The weather isn’t great. It’s cloudy and threatening to rain. Not really beach weather. And only around 25º C.

I laze around in my room for a while. I'm in no rush. Around 13:30 grab an Uber and head for Copacabana and Colarinho. A bar that I rather like.

We roll through leafy Ipanema streets. Bustling businesses and apartment blocks. Chemists. So many chemists. Almost as many as in Paris.

I always try to drop by Colarinho when I’m in Rio. Grabbing a table outside. Where I’ve a good view of the street. There aren’t quite as many beautiful people walking past as usual. Though some still wander by in beachwear. 

What to start with? I think I’ll go for an IPA.

Colarinho IPA Maracuja, 7.5%, R$23.90
A bit hazy, but not too bad. Quite nicely fruity and not too bitter. Quite dank and quite alcoholic. Just like me (I keep making that joke.)

They’re still building opposite. How long have they been doing that? At least a couple of years. I doesn’t seem to have progressed at all since I was here with the kids in 2024.

This is my only real rest day. I did consider going to the beach. Then I saw what the weather was like. I don’t really fancy sitting on the sand in the rain.

I first came here with Martyn Cornell in 2020. On my first trip to Brazil. I’ve visited pretty much every time I’ve been in Rio since. It reminds me of Martyn, which brings up mixed emotions. Still hard to believe that he’s been gone almost a year.

Time for another beer. Maybe an IPA, for a change?

Noi Amara IPA, 10.5% ABV, 100 IBU, R$30.90 (450 ml)
Pretty sure I’ve had this before. I wonder what attracted me to it? I remember: the high ABV. Funny that. It’s quite dark and caramelly. Also, pretty bitter. As you’d expect from the name. 

Not bad. And very alcoholic. Did I mention that? Probably not. I don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing.

It’s not that warm. Did I already mention that, too? Barely warm enough to wear shorts. Which I’m obviously wearing. As I will be all the time I’m in Brazil.

The bloke on the next table is getting stuck into caipirinhas. He’s knocked back three or four since I’ve been here. I’ll be moving onto them later.

I’m feeling all relaxed now. Can’t think why. I just ordered a 57 real steak. Bargain. I don’t get anything to go with it. It’s a 100% meat meal.

A woman just walked past wearing a Nottingham Forest shirt. How strange. Most people are in Flamengo tops.

The steak is excellent. As they always are in Brazil. The beef is so good here. Just a shame about all the rainforest. Time for a caipirinha now. My first of the trip. I’m sure it won’t be my last.

You know what a caipirinha puts me in the mood for? Another caipirinha. Which is what I order. This is my idea of fun. Sitting in a Rio bar, drinking caipirinhas and with absolutely fuck all I need to do.

Still a bit hungry, I order a cod ball. Because I know from previous visits how nice they are. Full of coddy goodness. It doesn’t disappoint.

A French family, on their way back from the beach, order takeaway hamburgers. The adults drinking a Pils while they wait for their order.

I leave around 17:30. Before it gets dark. And when I’ve had enough caipirinhas to warm me up. I have nothing planned for the evening. Other than attacking my hotel whisky and fiddling on my laptop. 

I find that the maid has left the TV on. A bit odd. As there must be a reason, I don’t switch it off.

I turn in around 23:00. As I have to be up fairly early tomorrow for my flight. After I’m urged unconscious by whisky.


Boteco Colarinho Escondido
R. Francisco Otaviano, 30
Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro
RJ, 22080-040