Next year

I'm starting to think seriously about my travel in 2024. I've a couple of things pencilled in. But the same was true last year and pretty much everything fell through.

One US trip does look fairly firm: North Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia in late May or early June. I've events set up with a couple of breweries, but others are welcome to get in touch. I'm always up for giving talks on a wide variety of beery topics. Especially if it will help sell some of my books.

I'm open to offers to talk anywhere in the world, pretty much. In particular, countries I haven't yet visited.

In the summer, I plan to go to South America with the kids. Brazil, Uruguay and Chile are probable destinations.

Other than a couple of things I can't talk about, that's it for next year. And how many days holiday do I have? 366. Plenty of time for more travelling.

How I write my travel posts

You may have wondered how I can get so much detail into my travel posts. Simple: I make most of it up.

No, that's not true. I won't pretend that I can remember everything precisely after I return and start writing the blog posts. I'm too old and my brain too alcohol riddled for that. So I've developed a few techniques to help my faulty recollection.

I take lots of photos
Just shy of 400 on my last trip with the kids to Japan and South Korea. I use photos both to jog my memory about events, but also as a lazy way of taking notes. For example, by photographing a menu or a meal. Then there's a vague chance that I might remember what I ate and drank. Photos are also good for keeping events is sequence, as they're date and time stamped.

Of course, I also need photos to illustrate the posts. The more I take, the better. But I still usually return wishing I’d taken more. It doesn’t help when the kids keep telling me off for snapping away.

I write notes by hand
I have to admit that this is pretty erratic. Not wanting to be a twat and spoil a good time with friends, I usually only put pen to paper when I’m on my own. Mostly sitting at a bar somewhere. Often in an airport. I just scribble down any old crap that comes into my head and hope that I’ll be able to read it later.

Quite often, I’ll transcribe and use it exactly as written. Because, rather than notes in the true sense, it tends to be my observations of what I see around me. Or impressions of the trip so far. Occasionally I will note something down that I don’t want to forget. But that’s more the exception.

I write electronic notes
At the start or the end of the day, while I’m in my hotel, I’ll dash off some notes about what I’ve been up to on my travel laptop. Mostly this is just in the form of notes. A few sentences about places and events. Though sometimes I’ll write whole paragraphs that end up pretty much intact on the blog.

Some of my electronic notes were copied from emails to Dolores. I was sending her reasonably long reports on what the kids were up to as the holiday progressed. Quite big chunks of these emails, in slightly modified form, ended up in the blog posts.

I returned from Asia with a couple of thousand words in a text document. This formed the skeleton of the blog posts.

I write in parallel
Once I’ve returned, I try and flesh out each post with as much detail as I can remember. As I recall stuff, I quickly write it down. Which usually entails jumping around the timeline of the trip as events from different days pop into my head.

It’s quite an anarchic way to write, but I find that it works well for me. Obviously, the emphasis is on getting the early days of a trip completed first. But sometimes I have finished the beginning and end of a trip before I’ve done the middle.

This travel writing takes up a lot of my time. Yesterday I returned to my current book project for the first time in five weeks. Just as well I’m not working to a deadline.

Amsterdam to Chicago

The day starts with a doctor's appointment. Bit bizarre. But I planned it before the trip. That's how my life works. All sorts of shit arranged at short notice. I nip back home for a quick cup of tea and to kiss Dolores goodbye, then I’m off.

All the public transport at our square is currently buggered by heavy duty tram works. Meaning my normal route of No. 15 bus followed by the No. 397 doesn’t work. It’s not such a drama. I just need to kick off with the No. 2 tram instead.

Dolores has been threatening, like a private equity investor, to pull the plug on my beer business if I don’t reduce costs. I can see her point, however much it pissed me off the first time she mentioned it.

So no bar visit before the flight. Instead a quick visit to the Albert Heijn landside for a sarnie. Then a couple of miniatures from the duty free airside. That’s about 50 euros saved. What a good boy I am. A sense of smug satisfaction washes over me. Or maybe that’s the whisky miniatures. I even bought the cheaper Glen Grant rather than Laphroiag for my hotel whisky.

Dolores finds this another insane trip: ”All that way for just a weekend.”

“I’m there for four nights.”

“Just two days, then.”

“Its four nights.”

“Whatever. A stupid amount of time for all that travelling.”

I genuinely don’t find it that bad. Seven or eight hours in a plane I can cope with fine. As long as I have enough legroom. I just watch some shit films and have a few drinks.

Not rushing, not stressing. That’s the main thing. Silver KLM status really helps de-stress my travel. Dolores was impressed when we travelled to Dublin earlier this year. It almost made her keen on air travel again. Almost.

The flight is a little delayed. No biggie. I’ve no connecting flight or any crap like that. And my first appointment is three hours after we’re scheduled to land.

I down my last miniature while I’m waiting for the first food service. That’s warmed me up nicely. And relaxed me out a treat. Handy, as the meal is shit. I still force it down. Trying not to spill too much on my shirt.

One thing I learnt from my last US trip: On KLM flights you can go to the galley and ask for drinks. Whenever you want. "Mag ik en rooie wijn, alsjeblift?" So that’s exactly what I do. A couple of times.

I only watch the one shit film this time. Some Mission Impossible bollocks. Then finish off series 9 of Peep Show. I only got as far as episode 4 on my last trip. After that, Modern Life is Goodish until the laptop's battery gives out.

Been a bit tiring, but all is going OK so far.

Then there’s the horror of getting through the fucking airport.

On the upside, the immigration machine accepts my fingerprints this time. I don't get the dreaded slip with a cross on it. But it takes 45 minutes to get to the machine. Then another 20 minutes after getting the happy slip until I get past the physically checking bloke. I think I’m done then. No such luck.

Dolores is a wonderful woman. The love of my life. But not someone to be ignored. She's been very clear on the topic of my expenses when travelling. No taxi from the airport then. Not such a biggie. The Blue Line metro stops literally at the doorstep of my hotel. Dead easy trip then. Une piece d'urine as they say in France.

Like bollocks.

Because the metro stop isn't in the international terminal where I arrive. And the usual shuttle train between terminals isn't running. Instead there's a bus. Substitute bus service. One of the most chilling phrases known to man. Bum.

"The line for terminals 1, 2 and 3 is there." I'm fairly aggressively told by a security guard. Proper aggressive, none of that passive stuff. I understand his brusqueness. Stacks of impatient travellers are trying to jump the queue. I just don’t know where the fuck I’m going.

OK. I get into the queue, as we call lines in the UK. Queueing - that's what we do best, us Brits. It's only when I get to the front that I realise it's a queue for another queue. It's almost 2 hours since I moved my sorry arse off the plane. I've really had enough of pissing around.

But, being English, I quietly wait my turn. Mumbling obscenities under my breath. While my piss slowly comes to the boil.

At least it's saving me 60 dollars on the taxi fare. I keep telling myself that, as I feel my blood pressure mounting and bopping around in my ears. This isn't doing my health any good. I can feel a knot of stress in my chest. That’s bad.

Finally, I'm in terminal 2 where the Blue Line station is located. Oh look - there's the Hilton Hotel I stayed in a couple of years ago. When I had a ridiculously early flight to Toronto. When did I get up? I think 5 AM. Or was it even earlier?

The signs to the station direct me under the road and past the Hilton. But the station isn't there. Oh no, it's not that fucking simple. There's a long corridor. There are moving walkways. But none are working. Bum, bum, bum. I'm really not up for this.

I've had enough of walking. At least I'm at the end now.

Oh fuckity, fuckity fuck. There's another fucking corridor, at right angles to the first, so it was cunningly hidden. With another non-working fucking moving walkway. This shit is going to be the death of me.

Getting a ticket is a piece of piss. I have my 5-dollar bill ready. The machine spits out a ticket. “Just think of the money you’re saving.” I keep telling myself.

Thankfully, I get a seat on the train. It trundles along reassuringly beside the motorway, as my heart slowly stops flapping around under my shirt like a fish caught in a net. No thrombie today. I'll live to see another dawn.

The hotel is just around the corner from the station. Thank fuck. Soon I’m in my room taking stock. It’s one bottle of whisky.

The view isn’t bad.

I've arranged to see Mike Siegel from Goose Island in the lobby at 5. Had O’Hare not been hell, I’d have a couple of hours to chill. As it is, I only have 45 minutes to check the quality of the hotel whisky I picked up at Schiphol.

Slightly strange seeing Mike. We spoke at length on the phone just yesterday. But he's always fun to chat with. After years of collaboration we’re old chums.

Mike has two bottles of Obadiah Poundage with him. "Would you like to try it now?" he asks. "Sure. Let's nip up to my room. There are two glasses."

Maybe I’d best explain exactly what Obadiah Poundage is: a blend of a Keeping and a Running Porter. Both Truman’s recipes from 1840. The Keeper has had a year in an oak vat. The Runner was brewed just a few weeks ago.

That first sip of a new collaboration beer is always a bit anxious. I needn’t have worried. 

Wow. The Brettanomyces character of the Keeper adds a trace of acidity and a stack of underlying complexity. While the Runner contributes a surprising freshness and lightness. It’s dead good. Complex, yet at the same time highly drinkable.

It’s only taken 2.5 years from the first time me and Mike kicked the concept around to actually getting to taste the finished beer. A good job I’ve learnt to be patient. In six years of collaboration we’ve manged to get just two beers done.

"What would you like to eat?" Mike asks.

"I'm easy. What would you recommend?"

"What about Costa Rican?"

"That'll do me. Never had that before."

"It's BYO, so we'll need to stop off for some beer."

Handily, there's a liquor store on the way. Mike talks me through the impressive Bourbon selection in the offie. This will come in handy when it comes to buying the kids some booze. I can get them something cool for under 20 dollars. Me, Dolores and the boys, all happy. Triple win.

We get a four-pack of Daisy Cutter to go with our food.

Irazu is rustic and already getting busy. The food looks dead good. We share a ceviche starter. I order casado for the main event. Which is a very Costa Rican dish. It's a mix of rice, meat, vegetables and beans. And rather nice.

Sated - what's next? "How about Map Room?” Mike suggests. That’ll do me. Been there before and it was pretty good. It's also within walking distance.

Map Room is quite busy, but we find a space to park ourselves in. And order some beers, obviously.  3 Floyds Alpha King for me and a Schlenkerla Fastenbier for Mike. Fastenbier is lovely, but I’m not going to drink a German beer here in the US. In the same way I don’t usually drink American beer in Europe.

No lengthy lingering. It’s getting late and I’ve been up how many hours? Mike has his family to get back to.

“Do you want to finish with an Abt?” Mike asks.

“OK.” I say, ditching my imported beer principles. It is on draught, I reason.

Back in my room, I check the Glen Grant is still OK.

It is. And sings a sweet lullaby to ease me into oblivion.





Full disclosure
Goose Island paid for most of my trip - flight, hotel and quite a bit of food and drink. Not everything, but a hefty chunk.





Garfield's Beverage Express
1704 N Milwaukee Ave Ste A,
Chicago,
IL 60647.
Tel: +1 773-666-5747
https://garfieldsbeverage.com/


Irazu Costa Rican Restaurant & Catering
1865 N Milwaukee Ave,
Chicago,
IL 60647.
Tel: +1 773-252-5687
http://irazuchicago.com


Map Room
1949 N Hoyne Ave,
Chicago,
IL 60647.
Tel: +1 773-252-7636
http://www.maproom.com/

Sunday dinner

Just finished my Sunday dinner.

Isn't it Saturday?

That's true. I had to cook it today. Off to Paris tomorrow. Again. No time to cook on Sunday.

Never imagined I'd get fed up of travelling.

Drinking keg again

You could be mistaken for thinking that my life consists of endless travel. Dolores does. She thinks I've got way too much planned this year. She may well be right.

But my latest trip wasn't a mad dash around several cities to be at various events. No, nothing as demanding and knackering as that. More a leisurely long weekend. A weekend-long pub crawl. Because I was back in Gibraltar with Mikey again.

I'm starting to feel quite at home there, especially in a couple of the pubs. Nothing odd about that, gien the amount of time I've spent in the Horseshoe and Fresh. The former is relatively pub-like, the latter more like a bar. It doesn't even have draught beer, so I have to drink bottled London Pride. I can live with that.

With age, I've learned to discard my beer-snobbery at the pub door. Why make life difficult for myself? I could go all casky or crafty, but what would be the point? It would only strip out all the fun. Going down the pub isn't all about the beer. It's as much about companionship, comradeship and banter.

They seem a friendly bunch in Gibraltar. We got chatting with people pretty much everywhere we went. That's what makes hanging around in the city's pubs so much fun. The most depressing comment I ever read on BeerAdvocate was by someone who explained why he liked bars with lots of TV's and really loud music. It meant people couldn't strike up a conversation with him. Why bother going out at all if you don't want to interact with anyone?

What did I drink apart from London Pride? Lots of old-fashioned keg Bitter. John Smiths Smooth, Pedigree and Old Speckled Hen. I avoided the Tetley's. I just can't bring myself to touch it since the bastards pulled down the brewery. Was it great? Not really. Pedigree was the pick of the bunch, with a hint of Burton snatch. John Smiths was just incredibly bland.

We did nothing even vaguely cultural or touristy. Except walk over the border into Spain and have a few beers and some tapas in La Linea. Thankfully the Spanish border guards weren't playing silly buggers and there were no queues. There is something special about walking over an international border.

There's lots to like about Gibraltar. Especially the mix of Spain and Britain. Most of the older buildings look Spanish, but many contain shops from British chains. And while the pubs mostly sell British-type stuff like pies and fish and chips, there's also a smattering of Spanish dishes like paella.

My biggest problem was where to have breakfast on the Sunday we left. Most pubs don't open until 10:00 or 11:00 on Sunday. Too late for us to able to catch our flight. Thankfully, someone told us that the Gibraltar Arms opens at 08:00 (despite what it says on their website). And a full English is a reasonable £5.50. A great way to finish off my stay.

The trip wasn't without some decent beer. We went via Gatwick, which has a couple of Wetherspoons. The one airside at the North Terminal had an interesting range of beer, all of which seemed to be collaborations of UK and foreign brewers. The Siren's Song Session IPA (a collaboration of Cigar City and Wychwood Brewery) I tried was in lovely condition. The cask-conditioning really brings out the citrusy hops. And means that it's easier to slurp back. I really can't understand those who say hoppy beers are better in keg form. Total bollocks, in my opinion.

I only had time for one, sadly.



The Horseshoe
193 Main Street,
Gibraltar.


Fresh
Add to trip
5 Waterport Plaza,
Public Market,
Gibraltar.


Gibraltar Arms
184 Main Street,
Gibraltar.
http://www.gibraltararms.com/


The Lord Nelson
Casemates Square,
Gibraltar.
http://www.lordnelson.gi/

Leeds

I'm in Leeds for a few days with the family. A chance to wallow in nostalgia, or so I thought*. I'm a decade or two too late.

We're staying in an apartment just south of the river. Opposite the Tetley's brewery, of what was it. From my bed I can watch heavy machinery chopping and grinding the last pieces of the brewery into dust. There's some sort of metaphor there.

It's much the same in town with Tetley's beer. Some run-down or derelict pubs still bear Tetley's signage, but the majority of their former tied houses have no sign of the Tetley name. Only one pub I've been in sold Tetley. OK, there's a much wider range of beer available now, but it still makes me feel sad.

On a happier note, Andrew's had his first pint in a British pub. A pint of Guinness:

He could have startede with something worse. Much worse.

Guess what I've got planned this morning? An archive visit. Not to actually look at anything. I've an appointment for that Thursday morning. Hopefully to continue the Tetley theme of the trip.








* I lived in Leeds for seven years as a young man. I drank almost exclusively Tetley's Mild all that time.

Leeds suggestions (part two)

While I'm asking, what about curry houses? I'm a fan of the ethnic, chapati-driven type of curry. At least when I'm in curry's northern heartlands. Think of Nafees or Chakwal in the 1970's.

Leeds suggestions

I'll be in Leeds next week for a few days. Anyone have any suggestions as to pubs I shouldn't miss?

Lyon again

Rather beautiful, the old town of Lyon. With lots of those medievally stone bits I love. But this is a beer not an architecture blog.

I plan hitting a beer pub in the old part of town. But we get there four hours before it opens. Instead we eat in a bouchon close by. Very nice. And pretty cheap for what it is. No beer, though. We drink wine with the meal.

Wandering back through the old town, I spot a small beer shop. All its beers come from the region. I've not heard of any of the breweries which makes choosing something a challenge, until the owner gives me a hand. And points me in the direction of some good dark beers. The prices in France are bizarre. I could get 5 or 6 bottles of cheap wine for the price of one 75cl bottle of beer. The beer averages around 7 euros.

In the evening we leave the kids watching American Dad on Alexei's laptop and head north. Croix Rousse is our destination. it requires two changes. The final metro line seems odd. "This is a bit steep isn't it?" I remark to Dolores. It seems as steep as the funicular we took to the Roman theatre earlier in the day. I notice something when we get off: a line of teeth running between the rails. It's a funicular underground line.

Our destination is Ninkasi Croix Rousse. Ninkasi is a chain of pubs, with a brewery in (I think) one of them. we're lucky enough to get a seat outside. Bit sweaty inside. They've no Porter so I get a Tripel and Dolores a Witbier. The Tripel is pretty good. Pleasantly spicy with lots of coriander, clove and orange flavours. I'm glad I ordered half a litre. So glad that I order a second to watch the sun go down with. I try not to think about the price. Two rounds of a pint and a half have cost more than any of the meals we ordered at lunch.

Like I said, weird pricing in France.



Ninkasi Croix-Rousse
159 Boulevard de la Croix-Rousse
Lyon.
Tel: 04 78 28 00 17 60
http://www.ninkasi.fr/fr/ninkasi/croix-rousse.html

Lyon

"Dad, this restaurant looks too expensive."

"Don't worry Alexei, we're on holiday." Plus it isn't as pricey as it looks.

I'll give Lexie his due, Brasserie Georges does look quite posh. Inside at least. Over the road is a piece of town planning to rival Birmingham's New Street Station. A motorway and car park make Georges virtually inaccessible to pedestrians. Other than through a scary, urine-scented underpass.

Georges must have been dead impressive whenbuilt in the 1830's. The room is enormous. "It's like a football pitch" was Lexie's view. Again, he's not far wrong.

I've always found the French use of the word "brasserie" deceptive and inaccurate. It really means brewery, yet is often used to describe places that are just restaurants. Georges is a brasserie in both sense of the word, being both a restaurant and a brewery.

As if to prove they're a real brewery, the smell of mashing permeates the grand dining room. I'd try to describe, but I learned long ago how poor my powers of description are. And I bought a camera. No need to strain my arse coming up with fancy words when I can just throw a photo at you.

I order a brune. I know, it's like I've not left germany, still ordering Dunkles. It smells of chocolate. Tastes of it, too. Pleasant enough in a bizarrely unexpected way.

Despite dressing like the archetypal snotty French waiter, the staff are friendly, polite and attentive. I order a steak. Saignant. I would have ordered mediom, but I can only remember the Frech for rare and well done. And I definitely don't want it well done.

In the evening we give the kids the slip. I give Alexei instructions for if thing go wrong: "Ring reception and say 'J'ai tué mon frere. Appelez la police, s'il vous plait.'" Always best to remain polite in moments of crisis.

Leaving the kids to an evening of quiet fratricide, me and Dolores jump on the metro and head for De l’autre côté du pont. It's the nearest beery place I found in my, frankly, half-hearted research. I just looked up Lyon on RateBeer. I know. You'll never look at me the same way again.

The pub (I won't repeat the name because it's way too fugging long) isn't what I expected. I'd imagined a classic French bar. It looked like that from Streetview. Inreality it's a studenty haunt with an air of a squat. Funnily enough, right down my rue. Did I ever tell you about the time I lived in asquat in the East End of London? No? I'lll save that one for another time.

They've a range of Grihete beers on draught: blonde, blanche, ambree. No dark one, so I go for the next best thing, ambree. Only 4.50 euros for a half litre. Actually not that bad for France. It's a bit fizzy. And rather bland. But not positively horrible. Good enough for a quiet hour or two with the missus.

I've  time to long at the walls. It's one of my hobbies, looking at walls. They're covered in posters. Mostly anarchist posters in Catalan. Except for one. That's for the 4th annual Goat Cheese Festival. How very French.

They're playing some groovy Cuban music. Sounds like Ruben Gonzalez on the piano. Cool.






Brasserie Georges
30, cours de Verdun Perrache
Lyon.
Tel: 0472 565-454 60
http://www.brasseriegeorges.com


De l’autre côté du pont
25 cours Gambetta
Lyon.
Tel: 04 78 95 14 93 66
http://www.delautrecotedupont.fr/

The end

The final day dawns with me feeling a little shaky. That's what you get for drinking litres. A leisurely breakfast helps. And a lie down until 5 minutes before checkout. Checked out, I leave my bag and head in the direction of the Viktualienmarkt.

Just like in Salzburg, there's lots of tempting meaty stuff. I ignore it. My mission is simple: get some nice bread for Dolores.

"What do you want me to bring back from Germany, darling?"

"Bread."

In many ways she's the perfect wife.

I buy half loaf of a rusticy brown round thing. It's quite big. A whole one would have been the size of a wagon wheel. And I mean the wooden things wagons roll on, not the chocolate biscuit.

I'd considered hitting a few more beer gardens today. The persistent rain has ruled that out. Looks like I'll be inside most of the day. It's still quite early, so I wander up and down Munich's main shopping drag a bit. I nip into the Hugendubel book shop on Marienplatz. You never know. They might have a beer book I've not seen before.

I try the two most likely sections to find one. First, the shelves devoted to books about Munich. There is a book about the Oktoberfest I don't have. But it doesn't look like it contains anything of much use to me. Next I try the cooking department. There is a section devoted to beer. It has all of four books in it. Two are dedicated to homebrewing. One of the others is the German translation of a book I contributed to. It's weird seeing my words converted into German. Yet another disappointing visit to a German book shop. I don't know why I bother.

It's just before the hour when I emerge. There's a crowd in Marienplatz, despite the rain, to watch clockwork figures around the clock dance. May as well handg around to take a look myself. It takes forever. There's 5 minutes of discordant chiming before any of the figures move. Then a few more minutes of seriously out of tune clanking while the figures circle enough times to make it really tedious. The whole performance takes nearly 10 minutes. It's badly in need of editing down to two minutes, tops.

A chemist has an unusual display in its window. One that's fascinating and creepy in about equal measures. A glass jar full of leeches. The way they move makes my skin crawl. I'm glad there are two layers of glass between me and the little monsters. I'm sure they're eyeing me up, imagining sinking their teeth into my lilly-white flesh. You wouldn't want my blood lads. You'd be pissed for a month.

Oh look! There's Augustiner Großgaststätte. Not been in there yet. And it's open. I'm soon sitting with a Dunkles in front of me. I've not had an Augustiner Dunkles for ages. Because it's always either Helles of Edelstoff that's served Bayerischer Anstich. It's sweetish and malty in a throwing itself down my neck sort of way. A real Lager Dark Mild. Or is the correct term Dark Lager Mild?

There's something else I realise I've not had yet. Weisswurst. One of my favourite sausages. This could be my last chance to get some. I order a pair with potato salad. The sausages are pretty good. The potato salad is too acidic and mustardy for my taste. Dolores's is much better.

Not yet noon, but there are plenty of customers. British and American tourists. An old German couple who eat and drink beer in silence. A young German couple who get litres of Weissbier and feed each other with a touchingly innocent intimacy. Hang on. What's that I see in the corridor?

I was surprised by the number of Arab women in town. Some fully veiled and covered. Others not far off. Three in the latter category are sitting in the corridor drinking tea. What an odd sight, in this palace of pork and beer.

Tell you somewhere else I've not been in ages, Bayerischer Donisl. Let's give it a try. It's on the way to Nürnberger Bratwurstglöckl, anyway. I sit down and order a Dunkles without even looking at the menu. I only check it after the waitress has gone. That's when I notice two things: the high prices and what their only dark beer is. It's Salvator.

Looking around, I remember why I've not been here in ages. The interior is weirdly cramped, walking a line between blandly kitsch and kitschily bland. Around me are mostly Italian tourists eating sausagey saurkrauty stuff. I don't linger. As soon as my stickily sweet Salvator is finished, I fuck off.

I hurry to Nürnberger Bratwurstglöckl. The weather has improved enough for me to sit outside. It's much more pleasant here. A dirndled waitress soon has me supplied with a glass of Augustiner Helles. Fresh, soft, deeply satisfying. Here's a beer that wants to be drunk. And I'm not going to go against its wishes.

I'm starting to feel peckish again. There's a sausage-shaped hole opening up in my stomach. Best fill it. Nürnberger Bratwurst seems the obvious choice. I get a few pairs with potato salad. They really do the bratwurst properly here. There's a wood-fired grill at the back. The sausages are delightfully smoky. I wish I'd ordered more.

The clock is ticking. Not long until my flight. Bag retrieved from my hotel, there's just enough time to drop by Weisses Bräuhaus for a Schneider Eisbock. I can't leave Munich without having one. Almost time to catch the S-Bahn. That's it for another year.






Augustiner Großgaststätte
Neuhauserstr 27,
80331 München
Tel. 089 - 231 83257
Fax: 089 - 260 5379
Website: http://www.augustiner-restaurant.com/



Bayerischer Donisl
Weinstraße 1,
80333 München (Munich).
Tel. 089 - 2908410
Fax 089 - 2285884
Email: Donisl.Muenchen@t-online.de
http://www.bayerischer-donisl.de/



Nürnberger Bratwurstglöckl
Frauenplatz 9,
80331 München (Munich).
Tel. 089 - 220385
Fax: 089 - 2904736
Email: info@bratwurst-gloeckl.de
http://www.bratwurst-gloeckl.de/



Weisses Bräuhaus
Tal 7,
80331 München.
Tel. 089 - 299 875
Fax: 089 - 290 13815
http://www.weisses-brauhaus.de/

More Munich

Football. There's a game on tonight. The quarter final between England and Italy. I can't face the torment of watching England play without anaesthetic. What better place to find it than Augustinerkeller?

Did I mention how much I like Augustiner? It's lovely stuff served Bayerischer Anstich. Both the Helles and Edelstoff. I can't understand the hate some have for Edelstoff. Subtly delicious is how I find it. Doubtless if you've been abusing your tastebuds with clumsy hop bombs, you'll find it bland. But that's your porblem, not mine.

Despite the slightly iffy weather there's a good crowd. I fetch myself a litre from the beer shed and set about demolishing it. At least I would do if my first long draught didn't reveal my terrible mistake: I've picked up a Radler. No way I'm drinking that. I pour it into the gravel at my feet and fecth a proper beer. That's better. Don't want to drink any of that sugary poison. No knowing what it might do to my delicate system.

I'm halfway down my second litre when the game starts. Luckily there's a giant screen close to where I'm sitting. To be honest, I could do with some smack. Something to mellow me out and dull the inevitable pain. But I'm going to have to make do with beer.

Pretty much all of the EU is represented in the group watching the game. It's easy to spot the English. They're the ones swearing and shouting and holding their heads in their hands. The Italians are much more restrained. It's our fiery English temperament, you know. That and the fact we all turn into frothing maniacs as soon as someone starts kicking a footbal.

The crowd is distracting my attention from the game. Which is no bad thing. Following it attently would only make the agony more acute. When the inevitable penalties come around, I'm dying for a leak. I'm in the bog for the first two England penalties. Just as well. I do make it back in time to catch the downcast looks of the England players as they head out on penalties yet again.

I don't feel like any more beer. Less might be a better idea. But I don't feel like vomitting. More like crying. I can't be arsed to work out which tram to take and walk back to my hotel. I'm feeling a bit peckish when I get to Hauptbahnhof and nip inside for a bratwurst. Very nice. Why aren't there sausage stands in Dutch stations?

It's about midnight when I get back. Time to kick out some z's.






Augustinerkeller
Arnulfstr.52, Ecke Zirkus-Krone-Str.
80335 München-Neuhausen.
Tel. 089 - 594393
Fax 089 - 5504415
Email: arnulfstrasse@augustinerkeller.de
http://www.augustinerkeller.de/

Munich

It's boiling hot again. And Salzburg station is still a mess. Taking the rickety staircase over the tracks again, I spot something on top of the old glass canopy: a two-headed Austro-Hungarian eagle. You don't see those every day.

As I said before, I'm sure the station will be very nice when it's finished. One bit that is ready is a big Spar supermarket. Now that's handy. And it's open on Sunday, which is what today is. Best stock up for the journey. The beer selection isn't great, Eggenberg Urbock excepted.. But there is a good choice of 20 cl bottles of impulse schnaps. I'm soon sorted. Shit. What about food?

Not to worry. I'm bound to find something in Munich.

The air conditioning isn't working in the first carriage I sit in. Yet there's a girl with a blanket over her legs. And she's  sitting on the sunny side. Must be some sort of reptile.

The next carriage is much cooler. And has vacant seats. Just in front are two thirtyish heavy metal couples. One of the blokes is wearing headphones but I can hear the beat: chucka-chucka-chuck-chuck-chucka-chucka-chung-chucka-chucka-chuck-chuck. Sounds like a real toe-tapping tune.

Just over the German border the view is spectacular. The railway line hugs the edge of the Alps. Big, bulky rocky masses, like a row of crumbling office towers. This is fun. Especially as I've opened my schnaps. The spirity goodness is running through my veins and doing my spirit good. I'm not even sweating.

The countryside gets flatter and the mountains recede to the horizon as the train approaches Munich. I know exactly what I want to do once I hit town. Go to several pubs, drink lots of beer and eat loads of sausages. It's a simple plan. And one with a good chance of success. Pubs, beer and sausages aren't exactly rare in Munich.

My hotel not being far from Weisses Brauhaus, that seems the obvious place to start. It's busy, but not full. What beer do I want? I'm tempted to get an Eisbock. That's what I normally get. And an Aventinus schnaps to keep it company. Feeling adventurous, I choose a Hopfen Weisse instead. It's good. Shockingly good, with a mix of citrussy hops and wheat beer spiciness that I would never have expected to work.

Remember the sausage part of my plan? Weisses Brauhaus is the perfect place to implement it. They a have a sausage plate that's, er, a plate full of sausages. Exactly what I need.

I love Weisses Brauhaus. The feel, the look, the smell, the dirndls. I'll always pick a place with didndled waitresses above one where they wear normal clothes. Usually in Weisses Brauhaus you get waitresses the wrong side of fifty. Motherly women, who may frown when you order that fifth schnaps in half an hour. This time it's a young black woman who brings my food and beer. Very different.

There's an oompah band playing in the corner. Never seen that here before. All the musicians are drinking beer like sensible people. Being on the next table, they're difficult to ignore.

Next stop is a recent addition to my Munich circuit: Der Pschorr. It's a massive, modern, slightly trendy boozer in the Viktualienmarkt. It looks like it used to be a covered market. Yes, it's that big. Modern, trendy - doesn't sound like my sort of place, does it? There's one feature I haven't mentioned yet that makes it very definitely my sort of place: Bayerischer Anstich. There, sitting on the bar is a pot-bellied barrel from which Hacker-Pschorr Helles flows.

It's the afternoon lull between eating shifts. I take up a place inside close to the lovely barrel. All the other customers are ouside. Here it's just me and the staff. It being quiet, they're in a relaxed mood and having fun. As they evening shift arrives, they banter with the staff already on duty.

"We've 300 reservations for tonight, haven't we?"

"No. Only 284."

A third waiter says "All upstairs." He must be the downstairs waiter.

The barrel is smaller than when I've been here in the evening. Then it looks hogshead-sized, something like 200 litres. This one looks more like a firkin. The beer is soft, süffig and beautifully carbonated. It looks great in the glass. The way it tumbles and swirls from the tap reminds me of Ally Pally. And how Dunkirk Pale Ale looked as it was served by gravity. How can you get such a good head on beer served such a simple way.

While I'm hoovering up my beer the barrel finishses and a new one is rolled in. The theatre is another great thing about Bayerischer Anstich. The cermonial bringing in and lifting of the barrel. Then the ring of the tap as it's hammered home. It brings a tear to my eye and a lump to my wallet. Throat. That's what I mean. I'm always confusing wallet and throat. Or is it trousers?

I keep singing "Kinder an der Macht" to myself. They played it in Kachelofen in Pottenstein the other night. It literally brought tears to my eye. "Die Welt gehört in Kinderhände." Can't argue with that. Just let me dry my eyes a bit. Must have got some dust in them.

Next I head over towards the Hofbräuhaus. I'm not going in the Hofbräuhaus. I'd rather stick needles in my eyes. Or pull off my fingernails with pliers. I'm going somewhere much nicer. Where I'll get the only view of the Hofbräuhaus I like: from the outside. The terrace of Ayingers Speis und Trank is the perfect spot for that.

I order, just for a change, a Dunkles. It smells very milky. Like baby sick, but without the acidity. It doesn't taste like they sell very much. It's OK, apart from a slight acidity.

A large family of Spanish speakers are sitting opposite. I'd take a photo, but the father looks like a Columbian drugs baron. He might not take too kindly to being snapped. I quite like my lungs where they are inside my ribcage. Cute teenage daughter, too. Which is why I'm looking anywhere but her direction. I'd like to keep my dangly bits attached to my body.

My afternoon crawl ends in Nürnberger Bratwurstglöckl. Tongue-twister of a name, but a lovely little pub. I had to come back. Twelve months ago I drank one of the year's most satisfying and enjoyable beers here. An unpretentious Augustiner Helles that hit the spot so hard it spent three months recovering in hospital. Mmm . . . Bayerischer Anstich. Not quite as orgasmic as last year. Still a lovely drop. Subtle without being bland. Best have a second to make sure it wasn't a one-off.

Time now for a quick lie down to recharge my batteries for the evening session. And to think about exactly which pubs I feel like hitting.













Weisses Bräuhaus
Tal 7,
80331 München.
Tel. 089 - 299 875
Fax: 089 - 290 13815
http://www.weisses-brauhaus.de/


Der Pschorr
Viktualienmarkt 15,
80331 München.
Tel. +49 (0)89 / 5 18 18 500
Fax: +49 (0)89 / 5 18 18 545
Email: info@der-pschorr.de
http://www.derpschorr.de


Ayingers Speis und Trank
Am Platzl 1A,
80331 München.
Tel. 089 - 23 703 666
Fax: 089 - 23 703 800
http://www.platzl.de/gastronomie/wirtshaus-ayingers/wirtshaus-ayingers.html


Nürnberger Bratwurstglöckl
Frauenplatz 9,
80331 München (Munich).
Tel. 089 - 220385
Fax: 089 - 2904736
Email: info@bratwurst-gloeckl.de
http://www.bratwurst-gloeckl.de/