Goethean the troll

There's an argument going on in the wikipedia beer pages. Sorry, discussion. Seems like there's always an argument about something. This time it's about . . . . no, I can't be bothered to go into it here. These disputes are dull to an outsider. To an insider like me, they're still dull, but with a large order of annoyance on the side.

Whenever such arguments start, a charming chap with the handle of Goethean always crawls out of the woodwork. A troll with the manners of a warthog and the social grace of a hyena. Maybe I'm being a little unfair on the animal kingdom. Goethean is set on the removal of anything that disagrees with his homebrewer/BJCP brainwashee view of the beer world. And he's prepared to kill (figuratively) to get his own way.

Goethean is the main reason I no longer actively contribute to wikipedia. Unfortunately, he's typical of the type of sociopathic loner that bullies more reasonable contributors into submission or departure.


I'm pleased to welcome creepy Goethean as a reader of my blog. Look forward to entertaining you over the coming months, creepy Goethean.

Happy birthday, Andrew

My son Andrew is 12 today. Next week he starts secondary school. He's become quite a little adult. (Cue "Sunrise, sunset" music.) Is it really 12 years since I first held him in my arms? It seems like yesterday. On the other hand, it's hard to remember what life was like when he wasn't around.

I've been making use of his services during the long summer holidays. He's set up a Paypal account for me, built my shop blog and created a pdf of my Amsterdam Pub Guide. In return, I've been starting to train him up in beer tasting. "That funny grapefruit taste is from American hops, Andrew. See how it jars with the coffee-like roastiness." A couple more years and I can teach him about jenever.

For someone still several years away from his first legal drink, he has an impressive number of beer festivals under his belt: Peterborough, Bokbier, Meibok, Essen Kerstbierfestival, ZBF, Berlin, Bruxellensis, Hasselt (and the Hasselt Jenever Festival, too), Annafest and probably a few more I've forgotten. Why do I take him along so often? Because he likes travelling. It gives me someone to talk to. He can guide me home if I have a beer or twenty too many.

I demonstrated to Andrew how a hydrometer works on Tuesday. I still have one lying around from my homebrewing days. First we measured water, which, irritatingly, came out to 1005. After adding a teaspoon of sugar, it was 1025. Lexie's orange juice was 1045. Then I had an idea. "I wonder what the gravity of St. Bernardus Abt is? My guess was 1020-1025, something like that. Guess what it really was? Just 1010. Not much more than Amsterdam tap water.

What will Andrew be like after his next birthday? That's when he becomes a teenager. I have a fear that, like Harry Enfield's character, he'll turn into a surly, mumbling, lazy, uncooperative, little git at the stroke of midnight. You never know for sure what's going to happen when the hormones kick in.

I suppose I'll just have to appreciate Andrew's good nature while I can. Before he says "I don't want to sit in a smelly old pub all day, dad." There's bound to be a point where hanging around with his old dad is too embarrassing or dull. Let's hope we get another four or five years together.

Happy birthday, Andrew.

Amsterdam Pub Guide in pdf format

Yes, finally. It's here. My Important Announcement. My definitive Amsterdam Pub Guide is now available in pdf format. Yippee!

You can see a preview here.

Now for the bad news. It's not for free. Should you want to own all 167 pages in this deluxe, easily-printable format, you'll have to pay. A measly 5 euros is all it costs. A bargain considering the time I've invested in its compilation. And the time Andrew has spent converting my html files to pdf format.

Buy it now!

You won't regret it.

Nor will Andrew. The euro he earns per sale will be financing his university education. Though I haven't told him that yet.

Royal Brewhouse Dinner

Hello. Welcome to the first installment of my new thread of posts. Major London breweries. Or something like that. The title may need a little work.

On June 7th 1807, one of the partners in Combe and Co. held a Royal Brewhouse Dinner in the Woodyard Brewery on Longacre. This is a newspaper report of the event.

"On Friday, Alderman Combe gave his annual dinner of beef-steaks to several of the Royal Family, at his Brewhouse in Castle Street, Long Acre, commonly termed Gyfford's Brewhouse. The Prince of Wales, the Duke and Duchess of York, and the Duke of Cambridge were invited. About half past the hour of six o' clock the Duke and Duchess of York and the Duke of Cambridge arrived. The Alderman, Mrs. Combe, Mr. Combe and the Misses Combe, were in readiness to receive them. They were conducted upstairs to the stage of the Brewhouse, into a corner on the right side, where a table was laid for their reception, principally composed of the materials that the brewhouse affords. The table cloth was only a hop sack nailed to the table; and it was laid for dinner with wooden trenchers, wooden bowls for the sallads, wooden salt sellers, with bone spoons and Tunbridge-ware pepper-castors. The only articles of a superior kind were good horn-handle knives, and silver three-pronged forks. The Royal Party were joined by the Earl of Lauderdale, Lord Erskine, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Stepney and several others. The company, after viewing the Brewhouse, took their seats on wooden chairs. To prevent the Royal Party from feeling any inconvenience from wind, or the heat of the copper fire, which was only about ten yards from the table, it was inclosed by a temporary screen, made of hopsacks; this shut out the light, but three patent lamps were introduced. Five capital rumps of beef were provided, and a butcher attended to cut the prime steaks; who afterwards handed them, on a wooden malt shovel, to the stoker of the Brewhouse, who is always cook upon these occasions. The stoker placed them on an iron plate, and turned them with an iron instrument in the shape of a horse-shoe. When he thought the steaks sufficiently done, in the Brewhouse style, he put them into a new malt-shovel, covered with a tin lid, made very hot: it was taken to the table by a brewer, with a clean white apron on, and placed upon the table. The Alderman and his son helped the distuinguised guests to the prime peices. Porter was the only beverage; and the clerks, with white aprons, acted as waiters. About a quarter before eight 0' clock, the company left the Brewhouse, highly gratified with their beef-steaks, on which the Duchess of York was lavish in her praise, for the Alderman's house in Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury, where they were joined by several other Noblemen and Gentlemen, and sat down to a second course and desert of every delicacy the season could afford, and the choicest of wines. At a late hour the company departed highly pleased with their worthy host's hospitality."

A couple of things struck me about this event. Firstly, that royals should eat in such modest surroundings, with a hop sack for tablecloth. Secodly, that they drank Porter. "Porter was the only beverage". I wonder if you could get any of the current lot to just drink Porter with their dinner?

I found the story in Barnard's "Noted Breweries of Great Britain and Ireland" (Volume I, pages 277-278) . There will be more to follow. I can say this with certainty. The next couple of installments are already written.

Who will be the first to buy Lexie vodka?

This post is pretty self-explanatory. Who will be the first to buy Lexie vodka?

I assume you haven't noticed the donation button I've added. Top left of this page. You have seen it? Then there's just one thing I have to say to you. Tight bastard.

A sad, young boy asks for money to buy vodka. And what do you say to him? "Bugger off, hippy!"

Every day he looks. "Has anyone bought me a vodka today, dad?" "No, Lexie. My readers must be Nazis."

You aren't really a Nazi, are you? Would you deprive a 9-year-old child of vodka? Would you? Would you? Really? Then maybe you are a Nazi, after all.

Announcement

I'm going to make an announcement. An important announcement. It will change your lives.

Tomorrow. I'll make the announcement tomorrow. Note it in your diary now. In big red letters:

!!!!!!!!!!!! IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT TODAY !!!!!!!!!!!!

It's day you'll literally never forget. Tomorrow. Unless you have some nasty brain disease. In which case you probably don't even realise this is the internet. THIS IS THE INTERNET. Shouting doesn't really help, does it?

Important announcement tomorrow. (Did you see that, Andrew? You have to get it finished now, otherwise you'll make dad look like a twat.)

Output of major London breweries 1750-1910

Some more random statistics from my statistics pile. Showing the output of the major London breweries between 1750 and 1910. But the title's already told you that. Well, not completely random. Barclay Perkins is in there.


The first table illustrates the rapid expansion of Porter breweries in the second half of the 18th century. In 1750 the largest brewery was making just 57,000 barrels a year. By 1800, there were 5 breweries producing more than 100,000 barrels annually.


In the second table you can see the plateau reached by the Porter breweries around the middle of the 19th century. Here the rapid growth belongs to what was principally an Ale brewer, namely Mann, Crossman & Paulin. Towards the end of this table is the first time for over a hundred years that the largest brewery in the world hadn't been in London.

Armed with Barnard's "Noted Breweries of Britain and Ireland" and various brewery histories, I'll be fleshing out these bare figures over the next few weeks. Major London breweries 1750 - 1990. That's my autumn theme. Combe, Whitbread, Watney, Charrington, Mann, Truman, Courage. And, of course, Barclay Perkins.

I have 21 friends

I have 21 friends. That's what Facebook tells me. You have 21 friends. What should I make of that?

Scary stuff. Even scarier because I don't even know who all my 21 friends are. I've seen their details. All 21 of them. A few of the names, I don't recognise. But I don't want to appear unpopular or snobbish; I accept all friend requests.

Counting friends. It's a funny concept. Almost as sad as collecting beers. But, hang on. I do that. Must be cool.



Barclay Perkins, Barclay Perkins.

Tax, gravity and production of UK beer 1880-1945

I have a way with snappy titles, don't I? I've just been browsing my tables of statistics and chanced upon this one. I lead such an interesting life. Sometimes I think numbers are my only real friends. Usually when that voice in my head is saying "Kill them all!".

The Brewers' Almanack is a delight for numbers freaks like me. For normal people, it's just a dull collection of statistics and legislation. I could sit and read it all day. Most of the stuff I present here comes from the 1928 edition. It's the first one I acquired, a birthday present from Henry (thanks Henry).

The full table goes back to 1643, when the first tax was imposed on beer. As usual, the tax was to pay for a war. The English Civil War. That's the sort of saddoe I am. I know the tax on, and the price of a pint of, beer back to 1643. I knew it would come in useful one day. That day is today.

I've listed both Standard and Bulk Barrels. Bulk Barrels are the actual number of physical barrels of beer. A Standard Barrel, which was the basis for taxation, was 36 gallons of beer at 1055. Before WW I, there was little difference between the two, as average OG was close to 1055. You can find a longer explanation here.

1915. That's the year when British beer became highly taxed. Beer duty was trebled. Tax went from being 10-13% of the retail price of a pint to 30%. You can see the effect this had beer gravity.

You'll not the peak in beer tax came a couple of years after WW I and WW II had finished. 1921 and 1949, to be precise. During the 1950's, tax on beer actually went down. Not something that happens often. It wasn't until 1968 that it was raised above the 1949 level.

The effect of WW I was to raise beer tax from 7s 9d a standard barrel to 25s (93d to 300d). But the tax increases in the immediate postwar years were even more extreme, hitting a peak of 100s in 1921. The level tax eventually settled to (80s a barrel) was roughly 10 times higher than in 1914.

At the beginning of WW II, tax was still at 80s per standard barrel. By 1945, it was 286s 5.5d., or about 3.5 times higher. The 1949 peak of 364s 4.5d was 4.5 times higher than the 1939 level. The 321s per barrel tax remained at throughout the 1950's was about four times the prewar level.

After 1951, the average gravity hovered between a half point above or below 1037 for 30 years.

American Stouts

No foreign travel last weekend. A chance to finally relax. In theory, at least.

I'd really looked forward to the smoking ban in Dutch pubs, yet I've hardly been in one since it was introduced in July. Andrew hadn't been in one at all since the ban. At least that's what he told me as we sat in the tram on Saturday. We were on our way to Wildeman. Where it's irrelevant, anyway. The smoking ban.

Andrew was confused as to which side to sit. Out of force of habit, I chose the no smoking room. The room formerly known as no smoking I suppose I should call it now. But that's too much of a mouthful. Smaller room. That's simpler.

Wildeman has begun stocking a wider range of American beers. Including the odd one on draught. This weekend they had two very different Stouts.

I'm not quite sure what Left Hand Milk Stout is supposed to be. According to the glass, it's won several awards. Doesn't taste anything like a Milk Stout, that's for sure. More like a Stout that's had milk added to it. Which, tell me if I'm wrong, isn't what A Milk Stout is about. "It smells like buttermilk." Andrew said. Just about right. A definite hint of sour milk. Isn't adding lactose meant to make the finished beer sweet, not taste like milk? I just about managed to drink the whole glass, but without any pleasure.

Great Divide Yeti was the other one. A strong Stout. It certainly looked the part, pitch black with a brown head. But the aroma. Pure grapefruit. Call me old-fashioned, but I find citrus hops and roast malt just don't go together. The effect is a like double espresso topped up with grapefruit juice. Jarring. I won't deny a certain morbid fascination with the resulting car crash. I did order a second. In many ways it's not a bad beer at all. Just seriously misguided.

Mike suggested we see what Café Belgique was like smoke-free. Very pleasant, was the answer. As was the St. Bernardus Abt we ordered. If a little too cold for perfect appreciation. You can't have everything. I'm happy with just four out of five.

British beer gravities 1805 - 2005

I don't think I've published this table yet. But you know what it's like when you get older. You start to forget things. Like your middle name. (Tarquin, isn't it?) What street you live on. (Stalinlaan, I think. Something to do with a great world leader. I remember that.) That sort of thing.

Warning: these numbers are for amusement purposes only. They haven't been compiled in any wonderfully scientific way. I've just averaged up the entries in my Mega-Gravity Table. So it isn't a real average strength by style, just an approximation based on a number of real examples.


To give you an idea of the accuracy of the number, I've included the average of my numbers and the real average OG of the period (where I had them to hand). You can see that some of mine come out too high, probably dragged up by Stout. It's stronger than the other beers, but was quite a small percentage of total output.

Berlin (part five)

For the total obsessive, here's a special, extra post about my Berlin trip. My notes. I doubt you'll be able to read them. Even I struggle.

Berlin (part four)

My drinking in Berlin is done. In theory, I could squeeze in a quick couple at the festival. It opens at 11:00 and our train leaves Hauptbahnhof at 12:46. But I don't want to take any chances. And Andrew wants to check out the first class lounge.


Berlin Hauptbahnhof
I think how responsible I've become when we arrive in Hauptbahnhof at 11:30. Now where's that lounge? There's a map in the station hall. The lounge is conveniently right next to our platform, lucky 13. But I spot something else on the map. Hopfingerbräu. That sounds like a brewery to me.

Making only a slight detour, our route to the lounge takes us past the promising-sounding Hopfingerbräu. "Do you mind if I go in and take some photos?" "Be quick. And no beer." Dolores can be so strict. It's like a modern Brauhaus inside, but I can't see any brewing kit. I look a menu. Now I understand. It has the same owner as Lindenbräu and sells that brewpub's Weissbier. And a couple of others from parent brewery Hofbräu Traunstein. Snap, snap, snap, and I'm done.

The lounge is very different to the one in Amsterdam Centraal. The staff are polite and friendly, for one thing. We sit down and are approached by a waitress, immaculately dressed in black and white. "What would you like to drink?" "A beer." "Would you like a snack?". This is more like it.

"Is it OK if I try the beer in Hopfingerbräu? We've still plenty of time." "OK, but don't be late." "Don't worry. I'm responsible Ronald now." Dolores still looks dubious. I still haven't quite convinced her of my new, responsible nature.

Hopfingerbräu has an excuse for looking quite modern. The whole station is brand, spanking new. How could it be anything but modern? Inside a pensioner couple are eating. Other than that, it's totally empty. Except for the barman and waiters en route to the terrace. I go outside, too.

There are still a few spare tables. I pick one by the door to give me plenty of opportunities for catching a waiter's eye. From our first-floor location, we have a great view of the nothing that surrounds the station. Apart from where it's obstructed by an enormous, and very shiny, statue that's half horse, half wheel. What the hell does that mean?

Despite my prime position, it takes a while to place my order, a Weissbier. It's appropriately spicy. Cloves, basil, cinnamon. That sort of stuff. Some banana, too. Not bad at all. 65 out of 100.

For a station boozer, it's pretty impressive. Decent beer, a real pub atmosphere. I love Germany. Dutch stations just have things that look like cafeterias, as cosy as motorway service stations.

Back in the lounge Dolores and the kids are the image of contentment. "We've had a second drink. They offered us more food as well." Quite a contrast with the jobsworth in the Amsterdam lounge shouting at the kids for daring to open a second cola.


The train
Our platform is mobbed. Lucky we have seat reservations. Even first class is totally full.

We haven't left the Berlin suburbs when Lexie asks "Can we go to the bar, dad?" I don't know where he gets it from. Dolores makes us wait another half hour. I consume a Kindl Dunkler Bock while I'm waiting. A bit caramelly, but OK.

The bar is crowded. I have to stand for my first Franziskaner. Then the bloke who looks like a midget weightlifter leaves. We grab his table. Or at least me and Andrew do. Lexie has already returned to his seat, disgusted at the lack of Fanta. He doesn't care for the Apfelschorle he gets instead.

Journeys are miraculously shorter when you're sat in the bar. I don't know why, but it's true. Andrew and I chat and watch the flat landscape ease effortlessly past. He likes Berlin and wants to return. He hasn't worked through all the sites in his Nazi Berlin book yet.

An American backpacker on the next table tells his mates how sweet our English accents are, seemingly unaware we can understand him. He looks little older than Andrew, despite his attempted beard.

In Hannover station I look for the little bars on each platform. The ones Johnny Ash tried to crawl around while we waited for our connection to Düsseldorf in 1982. They're gone. I feel a twinge of sadness mixed with nostalgia. Come on emotions, sort yourselves out. One at a time, I said.

A steady, sad line of passengers loaded with luggage and in search of a seat trails through the bar. Like refugees. God, this train is packed. I haven't the heart to tell them that ahead lies a single, full, first-class carriage.

Lexie comes to fetch us before I have chance to order a third Franziskaner. Oh well. Have to make do with the bottles I brought with me. Dolores isn't worried I've drunk too much. She's fed up of being asked if mine and Andrew's seats are free. The train is so full, even people with first-class tickets have to stand. We hear them complaining to the conductor.

I manage to complete neither the sudoku nor my book before we reach Amsterdam. That's three holidays I've taken that novel on. Still 80 pages to go. Maybe I'll finally finish it during September's Copenhagen trip.


Hopfingerbräu
Europaplatz 1
10557 Berlin
Tel: +49 (0)30 - 2062 4624
Fax: +49 (0)30 - 2062 4626
Email: info@hopfingerbraeu-berlin.de
Homepage: http://www.hopfingerbraeu-berlin.de
Opening times: April-September 09:00 - 22:30, October-March 11:00 - 22:30

Samuel Smith's

Ever so occasionally, I come across a brewery in the Whitbread Gravity Book that's still going strong. Like Samuel Smith's. I thought you might like to see some of their old beers.


You'll note that their Brown Ales in the 1940's and 1950's were quite unlike their current version. They were "Southern style", while today's is "Northern style". I wonder when and why they changed?

I drank quite a bit of Old Brewery Bitter in 1975/76. That was my first year at Leeds University. It was just 18p a pint in the Student Union bar. Then they had a disaster with their yeast. It took a while to sort out and I believe they had to change yeast strain. Old Brewery Bitter became a completely different beer. And one I wasn't that keen on.

I hardly touched a drop until I moved to London in 1983. Then I used to drink Sam's on a semi-regular basis. Mostly because their pubs were cheap and pleasant. I still wasn't that keen on Old Brewery Bitter, but at least it was cheap. And Sam's pubs usually looked after the beer reasonably well.

Back during WW II, who would have dreamed that in 2008 Sam Smith's would be the best brewery in Britain and the 76th best in the whole world? I certainly wouldn't have just 25 years ago.

Scottish IPA

It's two birds with one stone time. Scottish Ales and IPA. And maybe some other things. Oh yes, the shilling system. Make that three birds with one stone.

Let's start with Scottish Ales and their lack of hopping. What's often overlooked is that Edinburgh was a major producer and exporter of IPA, second only to Burton. So was Scottish IPA heavily hopped? Because aren't Scottish Ales supposed to be lightly hopped? I suppose it depends what you mean by Scottish Ales.

The lightly-hopped bit refers, I assume, to Scotch Ale. A type of very strong beer, fermented at low temperatures and with quite poor attenuation. But that wasn't the only type of beer being brewed North of the border. Porter, Stout and IPA were also brewed in Scotland. To extend the lightly hopped assertion to these styles is much more dubious. And, as I've shown in a previous post, the hopping levels of the strongest Mild Ales in London weren't much different from those in Scotch Ales.

The postwar convention of 60/- for Light (Mild), 70/- for Heavy , 80/- for Export and 90/- for Wee Heavy doesn't apply further back in history. In the 19th century, 90/-, for example, meant nothing more than the wholesale price per hogshead (54 gallon barrel). You could have a 90/- Scotch Ale, but you could also have a 90/- IPA. As you can see in the tables. The number of shillings tells you the price and thus a general indication of the strength, but nothing else.

Now for IPA. People have told me that IPA was a "tightly-defined" style in the 19th century and always pretty similar in composition. And that it was a strong beer. But this isn't a view based on facts, but belief and supposition. The Scottish IPA's listed in the table vary from 1045 to 1070 and average 1059. Quite a considerable spread. By the standards of the day, 1045 is little more than a table beer. Even 1070 isn't much over average strength for the period. Look in the Scotch Ales table to see what strong beers of the time were like. The weakest in the table is 1075.

There is one thing all the IPA's in the table have in common. They're all pretty highly attenuated. Only two are below 80% and the average is 88.26%. In total contrast to the Scotch Ales, where the highest is just 75% and the average 64%.



And for those who think modern British IPA's aren't worthy of the name, I've included a table of more recent Scottish examples. All except one particularly weak entry are within the range of those from the 1840's. Who would have expected that?


The Scotch Ales listed are certainly strong, with the average OG a massive 1105 and average ABV 8.2%. That they are less attenuated than the IPA's must at least partly be due to the very high OG. The lowest OG is still a respectable 1075, the highest an eye-watering 1131. With finishing gravities sometimes over 1060, they must have been pretty sweet, whatever the hopping rate.



Shame they don't still sell beers like those in British pubs.

Just had a thought. I should have included tables for 20th century Scotch Ales. Sorry about that. I'll remedy the situation tomorrow. If I remember. Mind like a sieve.

Martyn Cornell's new book

I don't read many newly-published books on beer styles. They aren't good for my blood pressure. "Stop shouting, Ronald." is what Dolores says when I attempt to read one.

For Martyn Cornell, I make an exception. His books are well-researched and well-written. The latest, "Amber, Gold & Black", a comprehensive attempt to trace the origin and development of British styles, is no disappointment.

Each major style gets a chapter to itself. Even lager, which many writers would ignore. Taken as a whole, the book gives an unique insight into the course of British brewing over the last 200 years. I'd recommend it to anyone who wants to gain a greater understanding of the history of British beer. Especially as it avoids all the common errors, lazily copied from book to book. Like the origin of Porter or the story behind IPA. Backed by his copious research, Martyn tells a rather different - and more believable - tale than other beer historians.

Now here's the good news. This 200-odd page book is available for just a fiver in pdf form. That's great value. And the money is going directly to the author. Even better news.

Before you ask:

• I received a copy of the book for free
• I know Martyn Cornell personally
• the book makes reference to my research

You decide if I'm shallow and unprinicpled enough to let these facts influence my recommendation. Personally, I think "Amber, Gold & Black" is worth a fiver of anyone's money.

Berlin (part three)

It's still raining in the morning, so Dolores lets us lie in until 09:00. No point trying to breakfast al fresco in a downpour.

When it's dry enough for al fresco dining, we head downstairs. It's the same drill as yesterday. Gather provisions in the supermarket, pseudo-ctoffee from reception, plates from the kitchen.

Volkspark Friedrichshain
Andrew has been poring over his Nazi Berlin book. He discovers there's a bunker in Volkspark Friedrichshain. That Volkspark bit sounds a quite Nazi. Either that or socialist. It's hard to tell, sometimes. Our hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") is in Friedrichshain. The park can't be that far, can it? We set out on foot.

Volkspark Friedrichshain is cleverly situated well away from any U- or S-Bahn lines. We have little choice but to walk. At least it isn't hot. The overnight rain has cooled the city down a treat. After about 20 minutes we get to the edge of the park. There's a map right by the entrance. Handy. I don't fancy trying to search it all. Grosser Bunkerberg and Kleiner Bunkerberg. That sounds about right. We choose the big one. Just to be on the safe side, I photograph the map. In case we get lost. Even though we have Andrew with us. He has the orientational skills of a homing pigeon.

They weren't joking calling it a berg. A path snakes around the wooded hill. "It's like Wartburg" Dolores comments. She's right. It's very like the forest that wraps the hill on which the castle stands. I remember the walk up that bloody hill well. It was so much fun.

"Look, there's a shortcut." Lexie says helpfully, pointing at a near-vertical strip of mud. "No thanks. One broken bone at a time is my limit." Climbing isn't my forte, even with a full set of working toes. Two joggers run past, heading uphill. We're still plodding upwards when they run back down. After circling the hill two or three times, we come upon a staircase. That's a shortcut I can use.

We finally reach the summit. There's a three metre stretch of concrete wall, covered in graffiti. Andrew looks for the rest of the bunker. But there is no more. We've walked all the way up that hill for this. Great. "At least it isn't hot." I keep telling myself. Dolores says "At least it isn't hot." Though beads of perspiration are strung across our faces. We eat a couple of the plums we've brought with us. "Why are they green inside, dad?" Lexie asks. "Because that's the way they are." Try asking me an answerable question for once.

Andrew hides his disappointment well. "Why don't we go to the Flakturm in Humboltshain? That's right next to an S-Bahn station." I suggest. The Flakturm had been Andrew's original preference. Until he noticed the closer bunker in the park. That smaller distance was illusory. Getting to the park entailed much more walking.

We soon have An Amended Plan. We've noticed trams running alongside the park, heading towards Alexanderplatz. So, tram to Hackischer Markt and lunch in Lemke's. S-Bahn to Gesundbrunnen to see the Flakturm. Then S-bahn the other way to Potsdamer Platz. That was to search for a toyshop for Lexie. He's nothing if not consistent. And for me to photograph a couple of pubs. he must get the consistency (or obsessive behaviour) from me.

It's good to add a tram to our collection of Berlin public transport. And good to finally get to a pub. It's 1 PM. Way too late for the first beer of the day. Lemke's is built into a railway arch just by Hackischer Markt station. Unusually for a German brewpub, it ventures off the Dunkles, Helles, Weizen path. They makes Ales. Or at least things they call Ales. This has garnered them a degree of praise. I hadn't been that impressed on my last Berlin visit. Time to give them another try.


Lunch at Lemke's
Me and Andrew had picked Lemke's as a possible lunch destination for one reason. The "Sausages of the World" section on the menu. The "world" is stretching it a bit. Bavarian varieties are as exotic as it gets. While everyone works out their food requirements, I get on with beer drinking. I know what I want to eat. Schweinehaxe. Haven't had that for years. Last time was in the Paulaner pub in Stuttgart. The day I broke my first ankle. Maybe that's why I haven't had it since. I should be safe. I already have a broken bone.

Lemke Amber Ale. Hazy amber colour, little head. A little caramel in the aroma. In the mouth, there's no discernible malt, just tobacco, grass and resin from the hops. Not quite sure what they were aiming for with this. It doesn't taste particularly Ale-like. 47 out of 100.

We're in the beer garden. It's very pleasant, except for when an S-Bahn rumbles by overhead. That's about every 60 seconds. It soon gets to Lexie. "I hate that stupid noise." Screech, screech, screech. A train takes the corner. "Make it stop, dad." "You know I can't do that. Not until I'm made Stalin. Then I can do what I like."

A man at the next table tells his companions that the train wheels regularly shoot stones out into the beer garden. The rest of the family hasn't heard. I'm not about to pass on something so worrying. Just like I didn't tell Dolores about the mouse I spotted scurrying around the hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") garden the first evening. I'd never have got her to sit there again.

The kids have been given colour-in placemats and crayons. Lexie draws the Death Star blowing up a planet. How sweet. I'm sure the Empire's spin-doctors would have thought of a more user-friendly name. Life Star. Regeneration Star. Freedom Star. Something like that.

My Schweinehaxe has nice crackling on it. The fried spuds are pretty good, too. Andrew is enthusiastically tucking into his gourmet sausage. Some sort of bratwurst filled with cheese. He's getting as bad as Wallace.

Time for another beer.

Lemke Original. Hazy, pale brown colour. Nuts and chocolate aroma. I won't bother going into much detail for the rest. It has the half-rotten vegetables flavour of a fermentation problem. I score it 15 out of 100. And I'm being generous. I just about manage to force most of it down. I only gag five or six times.

I'm losing the will to visit any more brewpubs. At least Berliner Pilsener doesn't taste off.


Flakturm
We need to take the S1, S2 or S25 from Friedrichstrasse to get to Gesundbrunnen. I don't recall there being underground S-Bahn platforms at Friedrichstrasse. We jump on an S25. Oranienbergerstrasse, Nord Bahnhof. I can't remember these stations. Their names are written in strange, old-fashioned, gothic-like script.

Gesundbrunnen is a surprisingly large station. We make a big mistake and take the northern exit. The Flakturm lies to the South. At the entrance to the park are a great pair of signs. You don't often see the words "Rosengarten" and "Bunker" next to each other.

We're soon climbing another hill. But the Flakturm is so massive (even half buried) that we can see there's plenty left to look at when we reach the top. The path loops around for a while, then we're presented with a choice. Several flights of stairs or the relatively gently inclined spiralling path. The kids go for the former, me and Dolores the latter. Andrew must be excited. He hasn't complained of his knees hurting yet. He usually starts moaning after about 5 minutes of walking. At least it isn't hot.

A wonderful panorama of Berlin is our reward for the climb. The Flakturm itself is pretty impressive. Like a Norman castle keep in concrete. There's even a tower in each corner. It's pock-marked, not with bullet holes but two foot wide gashes where Soviet artillery shells have struck. The surface is uneven elsewhere, too. Probably where earlier scars have been filled.

After the war they tried demolishing it, but gave up because it was too much effort. Repeated dynamiting only managed to bring down one wall. And that only partially. The next plan was to bury it with tons of rubble. (The hill is totally artificial. The area was flat as a pancake before the war.) They had plenty of rubble after the war. But even that was only a partial success because of the nearby railway line. Too much chance of something falling onto the tracks to finish the job.

The Flakturm will doubtless be standing when the rest of Berlin has crumbled into dust. It's that tough. Quite an impressive feat of engineering. Though the slave labourers who helped build it might have thought otherwise.

Walking back to the station, I consult my map. I've noticed the ethnic mix is very different to in Friedrichshain. No Vietnamese, loads of Turks. The map confirms my suspicion. This was a spit of West Berlin reaching into Berlin, Hauptstadt der DDR. Despite being just a few hundred metres from East Berlin, it's strikingly different here. Though there are some crappy 1970's concrete flats that equal the worst East Berlin can manage.


Potsdamer Platz
As we ride towards Potsdamer Platz I consult my map again. I see why these stations look weird and I couldn't remember underground platforms at Friedrichstrasse. This section of S-Bahn only has a handful of stations in the East. It must have just been sealed up and left unused.

Last time I was down this end of Berlin, it was the biggest bomb site left in Europe. Now it's built shut. Shiny new buildings sprout from the once barren no-man's-land. We wander into the Sony Center. "Are we inside or outside, dad"? Not quite sure, either. That tarpualin-like roof stretched between the office towers provides shelter, but there are still big openings in the side walls to the open air.

This was one of the things on my list for the day. Photograph Lindenbräu, the brewpub in the Sony Centre. "There's the breWery" Dolores says helpfully. "Where?" "Right in front of us. Where it says Brauhaus." I'm losing my touch. Usually, I can spot breweries from miles away.

Lexie needs a wee. That's a good reason to go inside. In addition to the snapping, I want to take a look at the silver-plated kettles. I can't think of any reason for silver-plating brewing kettles, other than being flash. If I hadn't known, I would just have assumed they were enthusiastic polishers of their stainless steel.

"This is rubbish." Andrew says. He's right. The Sony Center is rubbish. It's made out to be the eighth wonder of the world. Really it's just dull office blocks, a tarpaulin and a few pubs. OK, there's an Imax cinema as well. And a poncey Sony shop. I'm still not impressed.

On the way, out we spot a giant lego giraffe. It marks the entrance to Lego World. We approach to investigate further. Lexie is excited. How much does it cost to get in? 14.75 for adults and 11.75 for kids. That's just 53 euros for all of us. Even Lexie is disgusted at the expense and makes no fuss when we walk away.

I cunningly guide the family along Alte Potsdamer Strasse, in the pretence of looking for shops. "Oh look. There's Mommseneck." I say innocently. "And over there shops. Do you mind if I wait in the pub while you look around them? My toe's hurting." I'm such a sly bastard.


Mommenseneck
Mommenseneck am Potsdamer Platz, to give it it's full title, is a specialist beer pub. The first Mommenseneck is somewhere in West Berlin. This one only opened recently. It doesn't look like much from the street, but opens out inside to a sizable pub with a beer garden. There are engravings and photos of old Berlin town everywhere. Some are larger than my bed. They're going for the nostalgia look, which is rather at odds with the building itself. That's new and shiny. With lots of glass. You know the type of thing.

I sit at the bar and take a look at the beer menu. They have 100 bottled. As they're listed in no particular order, it takes a while to make sense of it. A few Belgians are scattered around it, including a couple of Trappists. Fair enough. Though 4.80 for Westmalle Tripel is a bit steep. But there's also some real shit: Miller Genuine Daft, Castlemaine XXXX, Red Stripe.

I'm not going to drink a Belgian beer in Berlin. Something German. Not Aventinus, either. I can get that in Holland. I know, Andechs Spezial Hell. Never had that.

Andechs Spezial Hell. Pale yellow and fizzy. Grass, vanilla and pepper flavours skip across my tongue. Is it trudge dejectedly? It's OK, but tastes a bit old. Though the sell by date is in 2009. 49 out of 100.

I wasn't totally taking the piss complaining of my aching toe. We've made two death mmarches already today. That's three too many.

Twenty minutes and the family aren't back. Time for another beer. Oh look. They have traditional Berlin schnapps. I fancy a Kummel. Best be quick before Dolores gets back. What to go with it? Riedenburger Urbier. Don't think I've tried that before. The family arrives just as my two drinks are placed in front of me. Shit. "What's that?" Dolores points at my Kummel schnapps accusingly. "Vodka!" guesses Lexie. "Do you want to drink my beer?" I try to distract Dolores. "Did you find a toyshop?" "No. It's all clothes. Except for one bookshop."


Galeria
We decide to return to Galeria department store. We haven't found another toyshop. I prepare myself for a long wait while Lexie makes up his mind.

One of the stimulating aspects of kids is their unpredictability. That's one way of looking at it. You could also say that inconsistency is their most frustrating feature. Lexie walked straight over to the lego and grabbed another Indiana Jones box that was within his budget.

It was Andrew's turn to be indecisive. But actively indecisive. We lose sight of him for a while when he wanders off to the books. It takes him 30 minutes to realise he doesn't want anything. That's 15 minutes quicker than Lexie yesterday.


Beer festival again
When we hit the festival at 19:00, it's too crowded for extended strolling. We settle in a beer garden in the former DDR section. Seems fitting on Stalin-Allee.

Call me boring and predictable, but I start with a beer I tried yesterday. Döllnitzer Rittergutsgose. When will I get another chance to drink this great beer on draught? Next time I visit Leipzig. It's still excellent. Dolores has the Kirsch Gose. Tastes a bit syrupy, to me. It's not crap, but clearly made with syrup.

I'm a quicker drinker than Dolores so I've time to try Bauer Keller Pils. It's soft and grassy and very drinkable. Unfiltricious fun. (Going into didactic mode, this is a good example of a Kellerbier that is clearly an unfiltered version of another beer. Yet many still are under the illusion that Kellerbier is a specific style. It's like claiming Real Ale is a style in its own right. I blame the BJCP.)

Next I try Einsiedler Naturtrüb, another unfiltered pale lager. It's slightly bitter and inoffensive.

When the blue clouds wafting over from the chain smokers sitting next to us get too annoying, we move on. From Saxony to Thuringen. Very appropriate, as that's where Dolores is from. Thuringen. Not quite sure why, but on the Thuringian stalls all the barmaids are wearing nurses uniforms. "That's sweet." I say. "Harumph" says Dolores. I guess it's a man thing ("who knows fear burns at the Man Thing's touch." Or was that Swamp Thing? I always get those two confused.)

"Braugold was one of my favourites." I tell Dolores, "Do you remember drinking it in a pub opposite Erfurt cathedral before our wedding?" She doesn't. Funny how different her memories are from mine. Between the two of us, we remember just about everything. But with minimal overlap. We complement each other. "Lovely hair today, Dolores." "That shirt goes really well with those trousers, Ronald." No, that's compliment, isn't it?

Revisiting Braugold Pils seems a good idea. Until I see the signs advertising their new Porter. The style seems to be staging a mini-revival in Germany, if the festival is anything to go by.

Braugold Porter. It has a nice tight head. That's a good start. But the taste. Incredibly sweet and just about roasty. Like very weak coffee with ten sugars. I'm glad I just got a small one. "It tastes like artificial sweetener." Dolores says when I let her try it. I begin a lecture about the use of saccharine in German beer in the 1890's. I'm so romantic. "Just throw it away if you don't like it." Dolores comments, as she watches me force the Porter down through gritted teeth. "I hate throwing beer away." She snatches the glass out of my hand and pours the contents onto the grass. "There. Why waste your time on rubbish?" She has a point.

"Dingslebener? I've never heard of Dingsleben." I assure Dolores it is in Thuringen. I've heard of it. But I have compiled a guide to Thuringian breweries. I order a Dingslebener Schwarzbier. It's not what I would call schwarz. Even brown is stretching things a bit. At least it isn't sacchariny like the last one. A bit roasty, but not much else.

Tired of the smoke and crowds, we return to the hotel ("It's a hostel, dad."). There's still time for a bottle of wine in the garden. And a bottle of Bürgerbräu Heller Bock. Tonight with neither scurrying mouse nor spattering rain.

There's a slight commotion when water, presumably thrown from an upper window, splatters onto a young bloke on the next table. He takes it remarkably good-naturedly. "That was water, wasn't it?" Lexie sniffs. He has the sharpest senses. "No, it doesn't smell like wee, dad." What higher praise is there than that? That's what I hope others say of me. Doesn't smell like wee.



Lemkes Spezialitätenbrauerei
Dircksenstr.,
S-Bahnbogen 143,
10178 Berlin (Mitte)
Tel.: (030) 247 28 727
Fax: (030) 247 28 728
Email: lemkes-spezialitaeten-brauerei@t-online.de
Homepage: http://www.brauerei-lemke.de/


Mommseneck-Am Potsdamer Platz
Alte Potsdamer Straße,
10785 Berlin.
Tel: 030 - 2529 6635
Fax: 030 - 2529 6609
http://www.mommseneck.de