Back from my holidays

I recently returned from a trip to Bangkok and Saigon. I would write the trip up. Except that it wasn't really a beery trip. And it was with Mikey.

Just so you aren't disappointed, I am going to post pictures of my breakfasts. As I know you always look forward to those. Quite a diverse set of breakfasts compared to those on my South American trips. 

I would also post photos of all the beers I drank. Except there weren't that many of them And most of them were crap. Just boring, industrial Pale Lager. I mostly drank cocktails. Why? Because I'm a decadent bastard.

Anyway, here are the breakfasts. In chronological order.

 

 

 

Breakfast update

 I'm out in the wild breakfasting again. I thought you'd like to see what I ate.

Back from Brazil again

I just got back from Brazil. Yes, I've been there again. Judging and generally hanging around with fellow beer-obsessives. Lots of fun, but totally knackering

I didn't do a whole load of travelling around. One night in Rio, the rest in Florianopolis. Home to some stunningly beautiful beaches.

Too knacked to write much, you'll have to make do with some photos. For now. 

Exciting, eh?  Yum. Just the sort of breakfast to kick its foot right up your arse to start your day.

Have you sensed any sort of theme yet? I'll soon be beating you over the head with it in another interminable series of travel blog post. Where you'll learn the details of every single breakfast I nibbled at apathetically, while reminding myself I needed vitamins and sugar for the gruelling day ahead. Though I need eat much the same before days of lounging around.

My only regret is not snapping every breakfast so I could truly share them with you. Well, not in the sense of eating along, that would be impossible.

Breakfast today

Brunch, really, as I ate it well after noon. 

This is what it looked like, just after I started tucking in.

Before anyone starts slagging my breakfast off, the potatoes are a leftover from yesterday's tea. No toast, as our toaster died a couple of days ago. You can see how Dutch I've become: I'm drinking milk with it. Can't get more Dutch than that.

I don't make a habit of eating meals like this. Just once every few weeks. Except when I'm on holiday.

That's all for today. Nothing about beer. OK, then. I'll probably drink a St. Bernardus Abt later. Not had one in a while. It's been mostly Black Eagle No. 1 Barley Wine this week.

That’s my country!

My joy at awaking every morning grows as the years are grated off my life’s cheese. Why do I like grilled sandwiches so much?

Disillusioned by yesterday’s breakfast fiasco, I choose the lazy option. And smash my fast with a huge hammer in the hotel. A bacon and egg hammer.

Posh, but near empty is the dining room. I check the menu. No nasty orange-shaped shocks today.

My charming waitress has an unnerving nametag: Nookie. Carry On films can’t be big over here. It’s only when the women’s footie comes on in the bar that I understand.

“That’s my country!” she tells the barman when she hears the anthem. Norway vs. Thailand is the match. I hope she isn’t too disappointed by the result. Thailand gets thumped four nil.

The eggy bacony stuff I stuff in my stuffing hole is dead good stuff. What’s on the dominoes today? Another expensive taxi ride.

Antsy doesn’t do justice to my mood. I even had the location wrong until 5 minutes ago. It’s not on hippy heaven Haight. But way out in the nobdocks. Taxi time.

American cities are a doddle to navigate. A simple grid pattern of numbered streets. I’m headed for 2505 3rd St. We pass 1st Street. 2nd. 3rd. 10th. 16th. Is it me, or are we going in totally the wrong direction? I’m tempted to say something. But I wouldn’t say goo to a boose. Taxi paranoia is kicking in big time.

Overcoming my Englishness, I mention the strange streeting to my driver. Third is a mutant, twisting off 90 degrees from its brothers. Right. I think. But we do arrive on an improbable 3rd intersecting with 20th. Where I make my next mistake.

Spotting something called Dogpatch I tell the driver we’ve arrived. Mmmm… Something doesn’t look right. The total lack of beer and a coffee theme suggest this might not be the right spot. Fuck. Where is it I’m heading again? I consult my trip document.

Bum. It has the wrong address. It has the Haight location. I’ve scribbled down an address. But it doesn’t seem to right.

I wander off down the street, hoping to stumble across it. Most people would just look it up on their phone. But I don’t have one that works in the US. I catch a group of young blokes coming out of a building. If they know where Magnolia is. They don’t. But do have working phones. A few ticks later I’m much wiser. I need to walk another block.

Magnolia Smokestack is, as you could probably guess, a combination of brewery and BBQ place. I can see how that could work.

Owner Dave McLean hasn’t arrived yet. I get a beer and my books out out back. In the brewery part of the building. As everywhere oak casks are stacked up against a wall. Oddly, most are from a distillery in Utah.

Dave arrives and we chat a little. It’s pretty quiet. And the people out the front look more interested in smoked meat that beer history. But I’ve a pint of cask Mild in my hand. The sun is shining outside and there are free sausages. Things could be a lot worse.

Eventually two people turn up. They’re late because they’d first gone to the Haight Magnolia. I wonder if there is anyone still at the wrong location.

The event is so low key, it’s subsonic. The worst turnout I can recall.

When Dave needs to leave, I hang around for some more cask and some BBQ. They give a month’s worth of meat of various delicious kinds. I’d look pregnant if I ate that lot. Luckily, this is the US. There’s a fridge in my hotel, too. I ask for a doggy bag.

The waitress looks at my tray and says “Death by barbecue.” She’s not far wrong.

Had a pretty nice nerdy chat about beer, even if my rucksack is still as full of books as when I arrived. After several pints of cask Mild and Porter, I’ve now moved on to the IPA. Mmm . . . cask IPA. My favourite sort. IPA flavour without all the fucking burping.

Proving Ground IPA
Pretty clear, a cask-style head. All that citrusy hop thing and low carbonation. Demonstrates why IPA works so well on cask. Hop flavour + drinkability.  I had a couple of keg Imperial Stouts earlier. The cask IPA is definitely going down more easily. With less burping. Go cask!

It’s getting dark by the time I ask them to call me a cab. I’m slightly disappointed no-one has answered: “OK, you’re a cab.”

It’s a long wait. A very long wait. After 30 minutes - and the third PCC car - I get bored. I go back inside and ask them to ring the cab company again.

“Are you headed for the city? I’m just finishing, I can take you.” A very friendly waitress says. That’s another $35 saved.

It’s too late to head anywhere else for a beer when I get back to my hotel. Instead a pick up a couple of bombers of Racer 5 in the nearest convenience store. That should keep me going until sleepytime time.

I’ve a free day tomorrow. One dedicated to fun, fun, fun. And dinner with an old friend.





Magnolia Smokestack
2505 3rd St,
San Francisco, CA 94107.
Tel:+1 415-864-7468
http://www.magnoliasmokestack.com/

The infamous breakfast

I wake at 8. AM. Waking up is always a good start to the day.

I’ve only one thing on my mind: brekkie. The fried things on a plate with bacon kind. I need fuel for what threatens to be a long day.

I don’t fancy eating in the hotel, but have spotted a diner on the map. Not too far away. And not up any hills. It’s even on the same street as my hotel. The sun is shining and my appetite rising as I trundle down the hill.

Damn. They’re shut. Don’t open until 11:00. Pardon me? What’s the point of a diner that doesn’t open at breakfast time?

Time for some random hopeful wandering. What about the kitsch palace that’s Tommy’s Joynt? Maybe they do a fry up. It’s not far. And not uphill, another important consideration.

It looks open. Staff are scurrying around inside.

“Are you open?”

“Yes, but just for drinks. We don’t serve food until eleven.”

I could hang around for a bit, a drink assuaging my hunger.

“Do you do breakfast?”

“No.”

I’m tempted to say “Well do the trouser press, baby.” But just turn and leave instead. Bum, bum, bum. Where to go now? There must be a breakfast somewhere nearby. Mustn’t there?

Hang on. What’s that over the road? Mel's Drive-in. Sounds like it could acquaint the spot with a damn good thrashing.

It certainly looks the part inside. Classic diner décor, even down to the staff’s uniforms.

You’d think after ordering as many breakfasts in the US as I have that I’d be confident of the fried egg terminology. But there’s always a nagging doubt before I order: what’s the order of the words “easy” and “over”? I could wimp out and ask for sunny side up, but that’s not how I want my eggs. I go with “over easy” and get no weird look. Did I get it right or is tip anxiety at play?

There’s only one thing that can go walking out with breakfast eggs: bacon. But I have to think of my health, too. I order an orange juice.

Breakfast is decent. Though a slice of black pudding would have cheered it up. And me. You need iron.

I’ve a bit of a thirst thing going on. Because of the drought, you don’t automatically get a glass of iced water any more. The orange juice was dead good, mind.

“Can I get another orange juice and the check?”

I go all American when I’m in the US. At least in a few terms. Nothing conscious. It just sort of happens.

The bill is a shock. $25. WTF? The food wasn’t more than $10. Taking a closer look, I’ve paid $11 for two orange juices. That’ll teach me to order without looking at the price on the menu. It was a nice breakfast which would have only been marginally less nice without the orange juice.

Lesson learned, older but wiser and several other clichés heavier, I climb the hill to my hotel. For a bit of a lie down, if I’m honest.

The sort of lying down watching crap TV that fills my time in hotel rooms. Occasionally spiced up with a dram of Laphroaig. Medicinal whisky – does anyone still prescribe that? I’d take them as my GP like a shot. And hopefully I’d have plenty of shots after I’d picked up my prescription.

Discovering doctors had continued to prescribe whiskey during Prohibition was – how can I put this? – mildly surprising.

At three I’m doing a California Mild tasting at The Hog's Apothecary. In Oakland. It seems a waste to waste all the time until then. But there aren’t that many beer places close by. My taxi bill is already demanding its own apartment. Don’t want it growing any more. Once it sprouts facial hair, I’m done.

Time constraints rule out anything further than 20 minutes on foot. Unless I return to Amsterdam, that leaves one possibility. One that leaves me as equivocal as the backing singers on Equi’s first album.

No time to grow facial hair. A temporary tattoo is the only solution.






Slider's Diner
1202 Sutter St,
San Francisco,
CA 94109.s
Tel: +1 415-885-3288


Tommy's Joynt
1101 Geary Blvd,
San Francisco, CA 94109.
http://www.tommysjoynt.com/


Mel's Drive-in
1050 Van Ness Ave,
San Francisco, CA 94109.
http://www.melsdrive-in.com/

Breakfast

I love a proper fried breakfast. Did myself one this morning. No chips.Not like at eggbaconchipsandbeans