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

World's best brewer

You might expect that the recipients of a best brewer award would need to own a kettle or two. But that's not how things work at RateBeer. This year they've given the top award to Struise.

I could argue that it's ridiculous to call a company "the best brewer in the world" when they own no brewery. But I'm not so churlish. I'm just pleased Westvleteren weren't winners. After RateBeer announced Westvleteren 12 was the best beer in the world a couple of years back, its availability plummeted. Then the price soared. I used to be able to get it relatively easily and at a decent price. Will those days ever return? I fear not.

Struise is another matter. Availability is already crap. They basically brew for the US and Scandinavian geek market. So that's where most of their beer goes. Not that it worries me. Apart from Aardmonnik, I don't get that excited about their beers.

If this next statement sounds selfish, it's because it is. Picking Struise as the world's best will have no impact on me personally. So I think it's great. I hope they do the same next year and the year after. And the year after that. Then the availability of beers I do really care about won't be impacted.

Well done RateBeer! And keep up the good work.

Berlin (part two)

Friday is our first full day in Berlin. There's quite a bit in The Plan about today. (See yesterday's post for The Plan in full.) Will we get through it all? Probably not.

Breakfast is a do-it-yourself affair. The hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") has a kitchen for the use of guests. We just borrow knives and plates. The supermarket over the road provides the food. Lexie brings a ravenous appetite to the table. Where does he put it all? A machine by reception spits out a coffee-like substance. "This doesn't taste like real coffee." Dolores states suspiciously. "I thought the war was over." I reply.


Brandenburger Tor
When we said we were coming to Berlin, Andrew immediately said "I want to see the Brandenburger Tor." No problem. It's easy and it's free. A winning combination. It's another short trip combining U- and S-Bahn. Any train is a form of cheap entertainment for the kids. We get off at Friedrichstrasse. I point out the gantry where once border guards stood, AK 47's at the ready. "Somewhere around here was border control" I say vaguely, hoping Lexie doesn't pick up the achy fortyseven reference and run with it right to the end of my tether. The space is filled with shiny, new shops. It bears no resemblance to my memories.

We head off down Friedrichstrasse. Where was that Cuban restaurant? I try to work out which buildings are new. Most of them, it appears. But I can't be sure. Is that the wall where there used to be an advert for the East German CDU?

The Grand Hotel still stands at the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden. That I remember. Used to have the most expensive draught beer in the DDR. We don't go in. It doesn't look like it's got any cheaper. And I doubt they take Ostmarks any more.

Today was meant to be hot. Over 30º C. It feels like it is already. And it's not even 11 AM. I can't remember Unter den Linden being this long. Maybe that's because the last 50 metres used to be fenced off. The border used to run about 6 inches behind the Bradenburg Gate. No way you would be allowed that close.

The kids are ready for an ice cream. I do my photographer bit while Lexie smears his shirt with chocolate ice cream. "I'm not getting you chocolate again. Look at Andrew. His shirt's still clean." It really is quite freaky being able to go up and touch the Gate. But as I move in I notice something to my right. No, it can't be. A Tucher pub? Here in Berlin? I take a closer look.

Yup, it really is a Tucher pub. Tucher am Tor, to be precise. I round up the family and sit them down. Chocolate stains and all. We've all got a bit of a thirst. It's a Tucher Alfränkisch Dunkel for me. 40 cl is 3.80. Not too bad. Same size of fanta and cola for the kids costs 4.40. The moral is simple: make your kids drink beer. "What about a Dunkles, Andrew? It looks just like cola." "Daad, I'm too young to drink beer."

Tucher Altfränkisch Dunkel. A bit heavy on the caramel. Sorry about the curtness. That's all my notes say.

This is very pleasant. Apart from the prices. We're in the shade and have cold drinks in our sweaty, little hands. In the next corner of Pariser Platz is a Kennedy Museum. "I am a doughnut." I say to the kids. "I want a doughnut, too." Lexie replies.

Inside, the pub is larger than I expect. Chic and comfortable, I'm sure Stonch would love it. It's cool in a heat sense, too. Maybe we should have sat inside


Pergamon
Andrew noticed Unter den Linden S-Bahn station on the way down. He suggests we get the S-Bahn there to take us towards the museum. It would just be one stop and save us maybe 200 metres of walking. But the "Everything about Berlin" shop is beyond the station. We noticed that on the way down, too. Both me and Andrew want to take a look. I'm hoping it has something on beer or pubs.

The shop is mostly stuffed with books on Berlin history. But just a couple of bits of it: the DDR period and the Nazis. Nothing that I'm looking for. Andrew has more luck. He finds a book on Nazi remnants. He's interested in it for the bunkers. It has a full list of them. And handy maps. Only 13 euros it costs me. I get myself a book on Germania, Hitler's loony scheme for rebuilding Berlin.

I persuade everyone it's pointless retracing our steps to Unter den Linden S-Bahn. We continue to the Pergamon on foot. We're soon so hot that no-one pays much attention when I point out all the sights along the way. What's that pile of bare concrete in the distance? Looks like what's left of Balast der Republik. No great loss as a piece of architecture.

At the Pergamon we're confronted with a long queue, sweltering in the sun. None of us fancy joining it. Hey, look over there. It's a pub. Aptly called Pergamonkeller. There's no queue there. Plenty of empty seats in the shade. "what about an early lunch?" The food is very reasonably priced. Bratwurst and either chips of potato salad for just 5 euros. We order three sasuages and one salad. The latter is for me. I have to maintain my boyish figure.

They've got Berliner Pilsenser on draught. That'll do. It's from the only industrial-sized independent left in Berlin, Bürgerbräu.

Berliner Pilsenser. It's pale yellow and fizzy. There are some hop flavours there. Pepper, tobacco, resin. Not overcomplex. Drinkable. And cold. 45 out of 100.

By the time we've finished eating, the queue is considerably shorter. Or at least the others join it while I pay. The bill is just 26.10 euros for all of us. Great value.

The Pergamon is from another age. One when archeologists were happy to cart big lumps of ancient monuments back home. Greek, Babylonian, Roman, Islamic. As long as it was old and big enough to look impressive.

The tiled Babylonian gate is certainly that. Impressive, I mean. And I suppose most of it had just been a pile of rubble. I wonder why you can photograph the Pergamon altar, but not this?

We like the Islamic rooms best. They're properly air-conditioned. Some pretty stuff, too. We lie on the benches until the guards move us on. On to rooms filled with Greek sculptures. Many of the male nudes have had their dangly bits crudely hacked off. Lexie is fascinated by the bollocks of the ones that haven't. Outside S-Bahns rattle by, just a couple of metres from the window. Can't think of another museum with a railway line running through it.

After and hour and a half we've had enough. Andrew has a quick look in the shop. They have the book he's just bought on Nazi Berlin. It costs three euros more here. Discouraged from browsing further, we leave for who knows where.


Weihenstephaner
I remember my way around this bit of Berlin quite well. As we step off Museum Insel I spot a sign for the DDR Museum. Sounds fun, but we're museumed out. Hackischer Markt is the closest S-Bahn station. At least that's what I claim. I've a printout of my Berlin Pub Guide with me. (The East Berlin part. I didn't bother with the West Berlin part. No desire to go there.) There are a couple of pubs by Hackischer Markt I wouldn't mind giving the once over. I don't mention this to the rest. A bit more walking and they should be too desperate to resist.

"Look what's over there." I say as we get to the S-Bahn. "Is it some stupid pub, dad?" "You don't want a drink then, Andrew?" "I want vodka!" Oh no, Lexie's back on that one.

The big Munich breweries all used to have pubs in Berlin. They seem to be gradually moving back into the capital. Paulaner have one. By Hackischer Markt is a Weihenstephaner pub. Literally opposite the entrance to the station. We find a well-shaded table and sit down.

They sell something like the full set of Weihenstaphaner beers. I like to do the unexpected, so I order a Dunkles.

Weihenstaphaner Tradition. Red brown. Caramel, toffee, nuts. These are words. They could be used to describe this beer. Liquorice and cream are other words. They came into my head will I was sipping this and swilling it round my gob, trying to look like an expert. 57 out of 100.

I'm disappointed that only one waitress is wearing a dirndl. Not ours. Don't they relaise what pulling power dirndls have?

"Hey, daaad" Lexies says that about 3,00 times a day. He's looking over my shoulder as I make notes. "Hey, daaad. You've spelled my name wrong. It's A-L-E-X-E-I, not L-E-X-I-E." He corrects my notes for me.

Galeria
Lexie chooses our next destination. Predicatably, it's a toy shop. Well the toy department of the Galeria department store on Alexanderplatz. Lexie heads straight for the Star Wars lego. His limit is 13 euros, the cost of Andrew's Nazi Berlin book. Star Wars lego starts at 60 euros and spirals up to giddy heights of ridiculousness. Who can afford to spend more than 150 euros on a lego model? Someone, clearly, or this stuff wouldn't be on the shelves.

He goes through the whole eye-wateringly expensive collection of Start Wars lego, asking if he can have it. "Can I have an imperial star destroyer, dad?" "No, look at the price." "Can I have a Death Star?" "That costs even more." "Can I have an AT-AT walker?" "No. It must be solid gold at that price."

I lose patience on his third time through the most expensive boxes. "You can't afford any of the Star Wars lego. Why don't you look at something else?" At least the air-conditioning is functioning well. After just 45 minutes, Lexie finds something within his price range. Some Indiana Jones lego. He's definitely getting quicker. I used to budget 2 hours for a toy shop visit.


Beer Festival
I can't wait to get to the festival. As soon as we've dumped off our stuff in the hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") in the late afternoon I want to get out there. Dolores wants to rest. Andre is up for it, surprisingly.

The Berlin Festival is unique. It's held along a couple of kilometres of Karl-Marx-Allee. You wouldn't find many streets wide enough to be able to do that. But Karl-Marx-Allee is dead wide. It was built in the early 1950's as East Berlin's big architectural statement. In concept, it's not a million miles from Germania. A wide new avenue, flanked by monumental blocks of flats. Sounds awful, doesn't it?

But it isn't awful. It's wonderful. One of my favourite bits of postwar architecture. Anywhere. One of my Polish mates calls the style Stalinist. You see similar stuff in the Soviet Union and Poland. Sorry, Russia and Poland. A sort of human neo-classicism. It's hard to describe. But it looks great. I shut my trap and let you see for yourselves.

The street our hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") crosses the festival exactly in its middle. Very handy. I stop at the first stall and order a beer. It's muddy brown and not very enticing. "I wonder where I can get a festival glass?" The system of glasses is also unique. You have two choices. Get your beer in a branded glass and pay a two euro deposit. Of buy a festival glass.

The advantage of the former is that you have a choice of sizes, usually 30 and 50 cl. But you have to take the glass back if you want to try beer from a different brewery. No need to keep fiddling around with deposits with the festival glass. But it only holds 20 cl.

"I wonder where I can get a festival glass?" I find out when we move on. At the very next stand. I buy one and get a festival map. That could be handy. I've promised Dolores that I'll be back at our room by 17:30. To her surprise, I am. "Axe murderer for Mrs. Pattinson" I say as I knock on the door. "Is that you, Ronald?" She's so shocked at my punctuality she suspects I really could be an axe murderer.

Typically, Roman has called in the short time I've been out. Let me explain. Both Dolores and I have appointments for later. I'm meeting Roman to pick up a bottle of Wöllnitzer. I've got a bottle of SSS for him. It's the least I can do. Wöllnitzer, the world's only Lichtenhainer, is the beer I most want to try. A short, confused call later and we've arranged a meeting.

Roman and a couple of other Beertest people are at the Czech beer garden. "It's about in the middle." he tells me. Great. That's where we are, too. Shouldn't take long to get there.

As disadvantage of having a festival strung out along a street is that it's an awfully long walk from one end to the other. The Czech beer garden is pretty central. But it's still quite a walk. And the festival is starting to fill up. Threading our way through the punters is hard work. Especially with the kids.

Dolores's appointment is for 18:30. She's meeting university friends. By the time we find Roman and chums it's 18:20. Which means I don't have time for a beer and a chat with Roman. I hope he doesn't think I'm being impolite. (We English worry constantly about appearing impolite.)

I like Dolores's chums from uni. Full of ideas and with a critical, sometimes even cynical, eye. The three we meet are real Berliners. Jörg used to live just around the corner, but is now in Prenzlauer Berg. Stefan currently lives in Kreuzberg. "You've moved to the West", I tease. "Aber Kreuzberg ist Schön! Und immer proletarisch."

Yes, I'm speaking German. It's my first proper conversation in the language for a couple of years. Amazingly, the Dutch content of my sentences is just two or three words. This is going well.

The kids might well disagree. They're starting to get bored. Time for food. Have I mentioned the festival food yet? It's very good. Lots of cakes and sausages. Not together, obviously. All very traditional. I get Andrew calamari rings. I know, that's neither cake nor sausage. But he's already had one sausage. Lexie has a rollmop sandwich.

The food doesn't hold them for long. Lexie hadn't realised the rollmop was pickled herring. After one bite he passes it on to his mum. The calamari soon disappears in the direction of Andrew's belly. The kids look restless. "What about a game of spoof?" I suggest.

You know what I like about spoof? You need almost nothing to play it. Just nine coins. Nine stones would do. And the kids enjoy it. Lexie wins a string of games. When I win one, he gets pissed off and will play no further.

These are the beers I've had so far:

Radigk's Dunkles - pretty good.
Bürgerbrä Rotkehlchen - OK.
Ettaler Curator - good.
Ritterguts Gose - excellent.

And a couple of others. But I've forgotten what they were.

We don't stay that late. It's crowded and smoky. Back at the hotel ("It's a hostel, dad."), we decide to split another bottle of wine in the garden. Me and Dolores. The kids should buy their own wine if they want to drink some. As rain turns from a few spots into a steady stream, we hunch under the table's umbrella. Lightning cracks nearby. I'm so happy. This is just what we need after such a sauna of a day.

We fall asleep to the sound of a downpour. In happy expectation of a cool day to follow.


Tucher am Tor
Pariser Platz 6a
10117 Berlin
Tel: 030 - 2248 9464
Fax: 030 - 2248 9465
http://www.thementeam.de/neu/tucher/index.php
Opening times: Mon – Sun 09.00 - 01:00


Pergamonkeller am Kupfergraben
Am Kupfergraben 6,
10117 Berlin.
Tel: 030 - 2062 3757
Fax: 030 - 2062 3757
http://www.pergamonkeller-berlin.de/
Email: info@pergamonkeller.de


Weihenstephaner
Neue Promenade 5,
10178 Berlin-Mitte.
Tel: 030 - 2576 2871
Fax: Fax 030 - 2576 2869
Email: info@weihenstephaner-berlin.de
http://www.weihenstephaner-berlin.de

Berlin (part one)

It's holiday season. Part two of my summer break has just finished. Four days in Berlin.

Unusually, we travelled first class. Not because we're flash bastards. All the cheap second class had been sold when we booked. Not that mattered to Andrew. He loves travelling first class. He'd done his research and learned of the location of the first class lounge in Amsterdam Centraal.

We arrived well before our train for that reason. A visit to the lounge. Andrew was very excited. "Have you been here before?" the lady on the door asked. "No" "Help yourselves to drinks. No eating is allowed." OK. I settled down with a Bavaria 8.6 and the Financial Times.

When the kids when for a second drink after 25 minutes, the lady on the door rushed over. "Only one drink per person!" Very friendly. She contemplated putting the crown cork back onto a cola Andrew had just opened. She could have told us about the one drink limit when we came in. Andrew had been so looking forward to it. Bloody jobsworth.

Five minutes after departure Lexie asked for the first time "Can we go to the bar, dad?" I relented after thirty minutes. It was handily placed in the carriage next to ours. German trains are so civlised. They have a bar. One that even sells half-decent beer. Franziskaner Hefeweizen. In a proper glass. I ordered one. The kids went for the healthfood choice: sweets. (Though Lexie did initiailly say "I want vodka!")

After a while, we even got a seat. About halfway down my second Franziskaner. We watched the countryside race by. Well, not exactly race. we were still in Holland. The countryside never really races in Holland. 160 kph maximum.

Three Poles were sitting in a corner. I don't want to indulge in steroetyping, but they did have a shocking amount of drink on their table. Of various sorts. Beer, wine, vodka. About half the bottles were empty. The woman of the party, smartly dressed, middle-aged, occasionally engaged in loud, laughing conversation with passing passengers. I say conversation. It was more a monologue, with just embarrassed foot-shuffling on the other side. One of her male companions had a great tash. Lech Walensa style. You never see a western European with a tash like that.

Lexie always gets fed up after half an hour. Me and Andrew had been happily sitting in the bar for 90 minutes when Lexie appeared. "Mum says you have to come back." "When I've finished this beer." "Mum says now." "Tell her I'll be 5 minutes."

One advantage of first class seats is the presence of normal mains sockets. Lexie's portable DVD player's batteries only last two hours. With a socket to plug it into it was good for the whole 6.5 hour journey. He watched Star Wars 6 for about the seven hundred and twentieth time. I filled in Sudoku. I even finished the 3 star one.

I'd never been to Hauptbahnhof before. (Trains from Amsterdam used to stop at Bahnhof Zoo and Friedrichstrasse.) A brand, spanking new station, close to the Reichstag and governent buildings. And bugger all else. It's just on the western side of where the Anti-fascist Protection Barrier* once ran. Luckily Berlin has an excellent public transport system. Our hotel was just half a dozen stops way on the S- and U-Bahn.

I say hotel. Hostel** is the correct term, as Andrew kept reminding me every time I mentioned our hotel. "It's a hostel, dad." I know, I know. Just a slip of the tongue. We'd got a luxury 4-bed room. It had a rather nice ensuite bathroom. And homemade bunk beds. Mine squeaked like crazy at the at the mere twitch of a toe. But what do you expect for 60 euros a night? And it was only 50 metres away from the very centre of the beer festival.

Handy for the supermarket, too. That's just on the other side of the road. We stocked up there on essentials. Beer, wine, more beer, rolls, cheese, more beer. The selection wasn't bad. Mostly pale lager, of course. And German. But they did stock pale Bock from Bürgerbräu and pale and dark Kindl Bock. They seemed like a good choice.

We had A Plan. I'd even written it down on paper. For Thursday evening it was "Eat in Brauhaus Mitte." Before you comment, I know that it doesn't have the best of reputations. But, after comparing menus on the internet, it seemed to offer what we wanted at the right price. And eating, not drinking, was our priority.

It's a funny old place. The front is normal enough. Steps up to a terrace and the main entrance. But at the rear it just ends and a shopping centre begins. With no intervening wall. It's as if the back of the building has been demolished and replaced by shops. It being hot, we sat on the terrace. Great view of Alexanderplatz station and the trains and S-Bahns scurrying through it.

I ordered liver and mash and a Dunkles. I've been a bit reluctant to order mash since getting packet stuff in Sion in Cologne. Surely it couldn't happen again? Well it did. Why do they do it? Andrew's fried potatoes were freshly made and excellent "Do you want to swap spuds, Andrew?" "No, dad. Yours look crap."

The Dunkles was a hazy pale brown with a vague flavour of caramel and hops. Though they struggled against the dulling effect of loads of yeast. There may have been a touch of liquorice,too. But that could have been wishful thinking. I gave it 40 out of 100. Dolores's Hefeweizen beer was significantly better. You know something? The best Dunkles I've had from a German-style brewpub in the last 5 years was in Golfbräu. And that's in Tunisia.

We didn't linger after eating. Back at our hotel ("Hostel, dad"), we finished the evening in the garden, drinking a bottle of wine. Just me and Dolores, not the kids. They had soft drinks. Next to us, a group of Swiss youths got stuck into a bottle of schnapps. They even had ice. Now there's organisation.

And that was it for day one. Not much beer-drinking, I know. But the festival didn't start until the next day.

* The official DDR name for the wall.

** Pegasus Hostel
Str. der Pariser Kommune 35,
10243 Berlin.
hostel@pegasushostel.de
Telefon: 0049 (0) 3029 7736 0

Brauhaus Mitte
Karl-Liebknecht-Str. 13,
10178 Berlin.
Tel. 030 - 3087 8989
Fax: 030 - 3087 8988
Email: info@brauhaus-mitte.de
Homepage: http://www.brauhaus-mitte.de/

James Hole & Co.

First brewery I looked up in Barnard's "Noted Breweries of Britain and Ireland" (1889-1891) was James Hole. It's the one I worked in. I thought I'd share some of it with you.

This, given that the town now has neither has a working brewery, nor a maltsters, is quite poignant:

"Other towns in the county may be more picturesque, and more famous for their manufactures, but none can vie with Newark in its malthouses and kilns, or beat the quality of the malt manufactured or the beer brewed in that historic Trentside town."
Volume II, page 347.

The Clinton Arms, where Barnard stayed, is no longer a pub. Nostalgia is nothing new, as you can see from this description of it.

"Arriving at Newark, we drove to the Clinton Arms, the most important hotel in the place, situated in the market square, and one of those old inns which are gradually being effaced and superseded by new ones. The Clinton Arms dates centuries back; and its sign is a brief epitome of its history. One admires its principal entrance (beneath a colonnade), which is also a gateway to the inn stables, reminding us of the days when jolly farmers were hard drinkers, and sang their pastoral songs.

To those travellers like ourselves, who are sick of the palatial embellishments called grand hotels, where one is never known except by a number, we commend this cosy old-fashioned hostelry. We appreciated its comfortable old rooms, old furniture, old ways. Its cooking is all that one could desire, and its old-fashioned four-posters and feather beds are only just a little too luxurious. The Clinton Arms carries our thoughts back to the days when the old parlours of the inns were the meeting-places for the farmers and and tradesmen to discuss the affairs of the district and the politics of the nation. Those gatherings, as well as the coaching days, with their merry incidents, red-nosed drivers, and splendid teams, have long since gone."
Page 348

The Clinton closed a few years back. In my youth is was a rather run-down Home Ales tied house. The public bar was inhabited by many of the town's characters. I recall one, who always sat at one end of the bar, had his tongue permanently hanging out due to some injury. Every few minutes he'd dab it with a handkerchief to hold back the flow of drool. As ight that really helped you relish your pint. Today the types who would have gone to the Clinton now make the town's Weatherspoon's their home.

Now on to Hole's beers. AK was their flagship. It's also one of my obsessions. Here's what Barnard has to say about it:

"The "AK" luncheon ale has earned for Messrs. Hole a very wide reputation; they describe it a s a light sparkling dinner ale , it is exceedingly palatable with tonic properties, and is evidently, as we are assured, brewed from the very finest malt and hops procurable. We believe it is due, in a great extent, to the increasing demand for this and family ale, to supply their requirements, that he old premises were found inadequate. We have met with but few breweries where so large a portion of its output is sold for family consumption. At the Paris Exhibition, last year, the firm gained the Gold Medal, and special mention was made of their "AK" luncheon ale. As to their mild ales, we can only add that they have a rich smooth flavour, tasting as they should do, in such a centre, full of malt."
Pages 356-357

Sadly, he doesn't mention what the flip the name means, nor what it tastes like.

Here's a little about Hole's strong ale. It sounds like a proper old-fashioned beer, stored for a year before sale:

"We cannot, however, passs by Messrs. Hole's BB strong ale, which is stored twelve months before being sent out; of this ale one of our companions facetiously remarked that it would make his hair curl. Next in order of our visit came the celllars beneath the brewery, and afterwards those in St. Mark's Lane, which hold together 2,00 barrels. The latter is used principally for storing strong and India pale ales; the former is a full-bodied, nourishing beverage, pure and wholesome, and, like all the rest, brewed from malt and hops only."
Page 357

Being about my home town, I find all of this fascinating. I'm sure at least one of my readers will, too. Won't you, John?

Belgian coast (part three)

Sunday morning, I realised just how brief this holiday had been. Only one full day, really. Time to say mazzel and trek back to Mokum.

Overenthusiasm in the supermarket on Saturday had left me with a couple of bottles of Rochefort 8 I didn't want to try drinking on the journey. No option but to guzzle them down after breakfast. It was already boiling hot. Sitting next to hot plates during breakfast hadn't helped my state of cool. Reason enough to have a bit of a thirst. Purely for liquid, naturally.


Rockaway beach
Once again, we just missed a tram. At least the walk had been down the death hill. "It doesn't matter. There'll be another along in 10 minutes." Dolores reassured me. After half an hour of standing in the baking sun, there was still no sign of another tram. Great.

Eventually, a tram did turn up. It was almost completely empty and the air-conditioning was working so well it was like stepping into a fridge. That's a good example of irony. I'm trying to teach Andrew about humour. In reality the tram was an overcrowded sauna.

After a couple of stops, the driver announced that there were two nearly-empty trams behind us. Things were looking up. We all got seats on the shady side. After a while the air-conditioning was even turned on. This was travelling in sytle. For us. Obviously for most other people sitting in a chauffeur-driven stretch limo sipping champagne would be travelling in style. We're more modest.

Andrew filmed as we flitted along the coast. He got some pretty good footage of the beach. Rockaway Beach by the Ramones will be the musical background when he edits it.


The Plan
I forgot to mention The Plan. We had a plan. Standing in the sun hanging about for a tram hadn't been part of it. Just in case you were wondering. It was a small plan. Dump the luggage at Oostende station, walk into town, find somewhere to eat. That was it. Of course, we also had to retrieve the luggage and jump on a train heading north. But that's too obvious to be worth mentioning. So I won't.

We stumbled along the seafront for a while before stumbling on somewhere that looked decent. Dolores and Andrew wanted mussels. With chips. Very Belgian. The place we'd chosen had a two-course menu for 17 euros. Not a bad price. The food was pretty good, too. My prawn salad was made with the small, but tasty, brown North Sea type.

Following the advice of colleagues who commute between Belgium and Amsterdam, were avoiding the five o' clock train from Antwerp. That gave us a little longer in Oostende. After eating, we had enough time to wander around in search of ice cream for the kids. Vainly, as it happens. And for me to drink a Westmalle Tripel in the station bar. (It's time for Tandleman to look away again). Dolores got me two tins of Jupiler to drink on the train from a machine.

Air-conditioning and seats for us all. The Oostende - Antwerp had both. There were those Jupilers, too. Pretty much a perfect journey. See what boring stories you get when things go right?


Wrong way
We had time in Antwerp station as well. Time enough to climb between its many levels. And drop by the Spar. It stocks Guinness Special Export. A great train beer, because it isn't bottle-conditioned. (That's sacrilege, I know. Preferring an unreal beer.) A four-pack was just right for the two and a bit hours of the remaining journey.

We followed our normal procedure and positioned ourselves on the platform where we expected the front of the train to be. It worked perfectly. except that the train came in the other way so we were at the rear. Four seats together were found, so what did it matter?

And that's about it for our trip. We sang, we danced, we juggled. No that was dream, wasn't it? We sat, we bickered, I took some strange video footage and fell asleep. Then we got home. The end.

Momentous

Today has had its moments. Berlinisaplacewithdepthsandbreadthsandheights.

I`m not being all avant garde. That`s how things come out on this crappy hostel keyboard. The space bar is bollocks. Experiments are all very well. but punctuation and spaces between words were invented for a reason. Me. And those milliards of others who can`t make sense out of free flow text.

Internet cafes are great. You can keep in touch while fu ked off. (Sorry about the near square word.The C is malfunctioning. ) That's how I discovered my job has fallen into the great bit bucket of life. Probably.

Thanks internet. I could have lived in delightful, ignorant bliss for two more days.

I haven`t forgotten my beer theme. I had Döllnitzer Rittergutsgose today. Who caresabout a fucking job?

British Stouts 1959

I recall mentioning a load of Stout entries in the Whitbread Gravity Book, all dated 3rd September 1959. Well, here they finally are. All 77 of them. They come from all over the country an provide a useful snapshot of Stout in the late 1950's.

Included are many breweries from the East Midlands, where I grew upp. Shipstone, Kinberley, Hole, Warwick's, Hewitt. The entries are arranged in descending order of OG, as they were in the Whitbread Gravity Book.


Take a look and you'll see what a diverse bunch they are, with attenuation ranging from the low 40's to the high 80's.

Today in Berlin

The wonders of delayed posting mean that I can hide by absences. It' s Friday morning. We've just had an al fresco breakfast in the garden of our hostel. And I'm struggling with the German keyboard in the internet cafe.

There should be loads of fun today. Bandenburger Tor, Flakturm (Andrew's choices); Pergamon Museum (Andrew and Alexei); the former Kaufhaus des Ostens (Dolores); Berlin Beer Festival (Dolores. No, just kidding, me).

The hostel we're staying in is just 100 metres from the festival. Well, part of it. The thing is a kilometre or two long. I think we're about in the middle. It kicks off some time today. Should be groovy. Though I couldn't be arsed to prepare properly this year. I always say 'Study the beer list before you go and note where the beers are you want to try. Otherwise you'll just wander around aimlessly and miss the best beers.' It's excellent advice. I wish I'd taken it.

My broken toe is holding up well. The only slight scare was when Lexie tried to stamp on it. I just got it out of the way in time. 'Sorry, dad. I'd forgotten about your toe.' Yeah, sure. I think he just wanted to see me scream.

Maybe you'll get another 'live' post tomorrow. If Lexie hasn't caught me off-guard and I'm having emergency surgery. And I can be arsed.

Here's a good Lexie quote from yesterday: 'Everything tastes better with vodka!' He's wise beyond his tender years.