Berlin day three (part two)

It’s not a long walk to the history museum. But it’s still a sweaty one. The bits where we have to dart across shadeless expanses are the worst.

Alexei looks hot. Uncomfortably hot. But it isn’t stopping him talking.

“Daad, Why did Trotsky have to leave Russia?”

“He fell out with Stalin.” What is this with Alexei and Soviet leaders?

“Daad, didn’t he build the Red Army?”

“Yes, that’s why he was a threat to Stalin.”

I never imagined back in 1987 that one day I’d be standing in the centre of Berlin discussing Soviet politics with my son. The thought would probably have pleased me. Though the reality isn’t quite as much fun.

We have a chance to look at the Royal Palace being constructed opposite the cathedral. Dolores is disappointed.

“They’re just building it out of concrete. That’s cheating.”

I can’t argue with her on that point. It looks weird. In some sections they’ve already added the brick facing which doesn’t fit at all with the concrete structure behind it.

Like most museums nowadays, the entrance is through a shop. Once we pass through that and paid we linger a while in the hallway, cooling down a little. I’m relieved to discover that the air conditioning is top class.

It’s a fascinating museum, full of all sorts of stuff. Lots of maps, which I like. Good for Alexei, too, with his Holy Roman Empire obsession.

“Daad, what happened to the Holy Roman Empire?”

“Everyone got bored. Anyway, it was wrong on all three counts, Lexie. It wasn’t holy, it wasn’t Roman and it wasn’t even really an empire.”

We spend a long time – a couple of hours – patiently pacing around the building. The different spots we hang around in say much about our differing interests. I spend much time in the WW I exhibit which has a good collection of propaganda posters and proclamations.

I find Andrew admiring a flak 88.

“It’s much smaller than I imagined, Andrew.”

By the time we’re finished, it’s almost closing time. We have – or rather Andrew and Dolores do – another discussion about the most suitable route back. Eventually deciding Hausvogteiplatz U-Bahn station is the place to start. It’s a little cooler and the sun has gone in. Despite those advantages, still not what I’d call a pleasant walk.

It’s getting close to 6 PM and we’re not far from Gendarmenmarkt.

“They’ll have cask Edelstoff in a few minutes, Dolores.”

“You can go if you want. I’m too tired.”

Unfortunately we have a single group ticket for all of us. I can’t be arsed to get myself a new one and head back with the others.

“Do you fancy going to the beer festival, Ronald?”

Amazingly, I don’t. I’m too knacked. On the way back, we pick up more supplies at Kaiser. Vintage Fanta for Alexei, a Jägermeister-like thing for Andrew and some more Andechs for me. Dolores wastes her time getting food.

I spot this in a U-Bahn station on the way back:

We laze around in the hotel until it’s dark. Then Dolores and I stumble off to Jägerklause for a beer or two. It’s pleasant sitting outside in the cool(er) night air. Especially with a cool beer in your hand.

Tomorrow we really will be going to the beer festival.



Deutsches Historisches Museum
Unter den Linden 2,
10117 Berlin.
http://www.dhm.de/



Jägerklause
Grünberger Str. 1
10243 Berlin
http://www.jaegerklause-berlin.de/

Berlin day three

It’s not going to be as hot as yesterday. Somehow it’s going to hotter than midsummer Sahara. A skin-melting 39º C. Lovely.

Yesterday Alexei noticed that there’s a second breakfast room. Worried on possibly missing out on some goodies, he suggests we dine there today.

I follow him to the fried and congealed section of the buffet. In addition to yesterday’s grease, they’ve also little Nürnberger sausages. I pile a few pairs on my plate next to some scrambled egg. Breakfast like a brickie, lunch like lady, dine like a dinosaur. Isn’t that what they say? Something about getting your serious eating done early in the day.

“Daad, . . . .

It’s started already. Lexie asked 3 million questions yesterday. Literally. I counted them. More than 3 million. 3,119,327 to be precise. Looks like he plans on setting a new record.

At least his questions distract me from the wasp first buzzing around my breakfast, then my face. I fucking hate wasps. They put the willies up me.

Today is our total tourist time. First we have to work out our route into town. Dolores and Andrew discuss at length various tram/S-Bahn combination routes. While I keep an eye on the bloody wasp.

Dolores has developed a deep dislike of Warschauer Strasse S-Bahn station. Instead we start our journey on an M 10 tram. Having spotted machines inside trams Dolores suggest: “We can get our tickets on the tram.”

Yes, you can buy a ticket on board. If you have enough coins to pay for it. No notes and no cards. Daring a short ticketless ride, we continue to Frankfurter Tor, where we change to the U-Bahn. And buy tickets. Exciting stuff.

We change again at Alexanderplatz, which seems to have become a beer garden and street food place. We only take the tram one stop. But anything to avoid walking in the damn heat. We’re headed to the DDR museum, which is just over the river from the Dom.

“I don’t remember this being here in the 1980’s.” I quip pathetically. “They should make you queue up for an hour or two while people in cheap polyester uniforms scowl at you over submachine guns. An authentic DDR welcome.” Dolores ignores me, as usual.

The museum is packed. So packed that the air conditioning can’t keep pace. Lexie finds a cool spot under an airco vent and stands there for a while as the crowd flows around him. I do something similar and for a few moments forget what a hot, sweaty lump I am.

It’s a bit weird seeing everyday objects in a museum. I recognise lots of the stuff. An F6 fag packet. Who would have thought that would end up on a display shelf? But I’m most surprised by the hen egg cups. We’ve some of those in our kitchen cupboard. Didn’t realise I was dining from a museum exhibit.

We come across one of the ticket machines they used to have in Berlin trams. Dolores explains to the kids how you could put any amount in and you'd still get a ticket out. Buttons even. Which I can remember doing. A Dutch couple is listening in. Assuming we can't understand Dutch, they pass comments. Thankfully nothing too insulting. Or I'd have to headbut them. Chav's code.

Alexei pulls me over to an interactive exhibit. He pushes a big red button and a mushroom cloud appears on the screen. “Cool.” He says. Where did he get his fascination with nuclear weapons?

On the way out we pick up a few things in the shop. I get a 1960’s map of East Berlin. It’s a replacement, really. I used to have a very similar one I picked up in the 1980’s. It’s wonderful because West Berlin, the odd major road excepted, is completely blank.

Next is lunch. I’ve already got a location planned: Weihenstepahner on Häckesches Markt. It’s a short walk away, which is definitely preferable in this heat. And it ticks all our requirement boxes: non-geeky beer for Andrew and Dolores, sausages for Lexie and  . . . what’s in it for me? The warm glow of knowing I’ve chosen a pub selflessly. That and Dunkles and Weisswurst.

We sit outside like everyone else. Inside is deserted, except for the occasional waitress passing through and a bloke behind the bar. It’s even hotter than earlier and yesterday. Really unpleasantly hot, especially in the sun. Which is why I’m surprised at the number of Schweinehaxe floating by. I like one as much as the next man, but not in this heat. Instead I, perhaps subconsciously, pick something I associate with cold weather: a christmasy pair of Weisswurst. As do Andrew and Alexei.

Andrew’s stomach is playing up again. He orders a Jägermeister to help settle it.

“My stomach doesn’t feel quite right either. Maybe I . . . . “

Dolores gives me a look. One of those looks. Clearly I’m not going to get away with this one and should stop now. Before more damage is done.

“Oh look, they’ve got draught Vitus.”

“What’s that, Ronald?”

“A Weizenbock. It’s really nice.”  And also pretty strong.

As I’m getting stuck into it, a man walks past shouting loudly at no-one in particular. And quite aggressively. I’m not surprised someone’s cracked in the heat. The shock is more that there aren’t rampaging mobs.

“Daad, what happened to Trotsky?”

“Stalin had him murdered.”

“That can’t be true. Stalin was too nice to do that.”

Andrew almost chokes on his sausage when he hears that. Then explains some of Stalin’s less attractive character traits.

We’ve the German Historical Museum pencilled in for this afternoon. I hope it’s properly air conditioned.

Manchester next week

Me doing that talking thing I do. Some people seem to like it. I do, but then I'm biased. Always loved the sound of my own voice. Apart from when I'm screaming in pain, obviously.

Saturday 29th August at 19:30, I'll be making a rare UK appearance. Discussing the brewing of vintage beer. A topic I can bollock on about pretty much indefinitely. And do. Quite often. I think to good effect, But come along and form your own opinion.

You can learn more here:

http://beermoth.co.uk/ron-pattinson-talk-on-brewing-vintage-ales/


My excellent book will be available for purchase and signing. Though, if you don't buy the book on the day, there will be a £100 signing fee*.

I've been promised Mild, but feel free to bring along your own to ply me with.








The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer
http://www.amazon.com/Home-Brewers-Guide-Vintage-Beer/dp/1592538827












* I need to keep my children supplied with rum and vodka.

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1955 Flowers GL

As you can see, the 1950’s theme continues. I’m enjoying it, even if you aren’t. It’s another Flowers recipe. Doubtless you can see where this is leading. Yes, I’ll be dragging you through the full Flowers range. So exciting.

No idea whatsoever. About what GL stands for, before you ask. It’s some sort of Pale Ale, I know that.

Forget that. I now know exactly what it stands for.  A quick search in the newspaper archive came up with an advert for Flowers Green Label:

Leamington Spa Courier - Friday 21 August 1953, page 9.

Looks like it was a posh bottled beer.  Funny thing, that name. I always think of Websters when I hear Green Label. It was the name of the Light Mild back in the 1970’s. Though in adverts they usually forgot to mention it was a Mild.

But there’s another association between Flowers and Green. Because right at this time they merged with JW Green of Luton:

“Brewery merger approved
At an extraordinary general meeting of the shareholders in J. W Green, the brewers, held at Luton today, a large attendance unanimously approved the resolution dealing with the increase of capital, etc., in order to implement the amalgamation with Flower and Sons, of Stratford-on-Avon. Mr. Bernard Dixon, chairman J. W. Green, thanked the shareholders on behalf the board for the wholehearted support and approval which they had given to this matter.

He further expressed the appreciation his board of the manner in which the shareholders in Flower and Sons had responded to the offer. The target of 91 per cent was reached the latter part of last week, the position being that acceptances had come in amounting to 99 per cent, of both Ordinary and Preference capital in Flower and Sons.”
Yorkshire Post and Leeds Intelligencer - Thursday 25 March 1954, page 7.

The combined company eventually fell prey to Whitbread. Who built a new keg brewery in Luton and close Flowers brewery in Stratford-upon-Avon.

I think it’s time to get on with the beer itself. Continuing with the theme of their other beers, it has a very simple grist: pale malt, sugar with a touch of wheat malt and malt extract. Though there must be some colour adjustment going on as the colour is quite dark for a Bitter. If you want to go 100% authentic, you’ll need to add some caramel.

The youngsters amongst you will doubtless be pleased to learn that Green Label was quite heavily hopped, coming in at over 40 IBUs, according to BeerSmith. With its relatively high FG and generous hopping, that must have been a very full, bitter beer. Looks quite interesting to me.

Funnily enough, this is the one Flowers beer that wasn’t dropped. Though that could just be the particular example I have.



That’s all I have to say, so over to me for the recipe . . . .

1955 Flowers GL
pale malt	8.25 lb	82.50%
wheat malt	0.50 lb	5.00%
no. 1 invert sugar	1.00 lb	10.00%
malt extract	0.25 lb	2.50%
Fuggles 90 min	1.00 oz
Goldings 60 min	1.00 oz
Goldings 30 min	1.00 oz
OG	1047
FG	1015
ABV	4.23
Apparent attenuation	68.09%
IBU	42
SRM	7.5
Mash at	152º F
Sparge at	160º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	WLP007 Dry English Ale

Bottled Stout in the 1950's - Standard Stouts 65-70% attenuation

Here we go again with another dull and pointless table. Sell your piece in the first sentence, they advise. I think I’ve achieved that goal admirably.

The sport will be to see if I do ever get to the end. I’d put the chances at around 50-50. There are always new shiny things to distract me. Though in my case the shiny things usually aren’t very shiny. Dusty, more like. I’ve still an absolute stack of 19th-century Lager analyses to harvest. And there’s that Which report on beer from 1960 Boak & Bailey sent me. It’s hard not to get drawn away by that.

Anyway, will I can still be arsed to continue, let’s crack on. I was just about to say how they came from all pars pf the UK when I noticed something: two examples of Mercer’s Stout. Is that the fabled Mercer’s Meat Stout? If it is, it looks remarkably ordinary. Though I guess you wouldn’t spot its potential oddness from the bare stats.

I just spotted something odd: a lot of the FG’s are very similar. 33 of the 47 have an FG between 1014 and 1015.9. Looks like customers expected a certain amount of body in their Stout.

It’s surprising that in these reasonably-attenuated set that there should be four Stouts containing lactose. Five, really. It isn’t mentioned in the Whitbread Gravity Book entry, but Mackeson definitely contained it. Less surprising is that these examples are all towards the bottom of the table.

Despite not really being in tooth-rotting country yet, five have the words “sweet” of “glucose” in their name. Looks to me like sweetness was becoming a selling point for Stout. Quite a change from its 18th-century classification as a beer and hence heavily hopped.

Of this set, Mackeson and Sam Smiths Extra Stout are the only two that still exist. Not such a shock as only Hydes, Sam Smiths and Thwaites are still around.

One final point. How exactly is Mc Ewan’s Stout Imperial at just 3.7% ABV? That’s a Table Beer by 19th-century standards.

Here’s the funny, fun, fun bit. The table:

Bottled Stout in the 1950's - Standard Stouts 65-70% attenuation
Year	Brewer	Beer	Price	size	Acidity	OG	FG	ABV	App. Atten-uation	colour
1959	Bents	Red Label Stout	12d	half		1048.3	1014.5	4.38	69.98%	250
1950	Hancocks	Export Stout	1/2d	half	0.06	1044.4	1013.4	4.02	69.82%	1 + 18.5
1953	Mercers	Stout	1/1d	half	0.06	1045.7	1013.8	4.13	69.80%	1 + 22
1954	Bernard	Export Stout	1/2d	half	0.04	1043.9	1013.3	3.96	69.70%	1 + 14
1951	Hammerton	Oatmeal Stout	23d	pint	0.06	1047.1	1014.3	4.25	69.64%	1 + 21
1959	Ansell	Newcrest Stout	14d	half		1046	1014	4.15	69.57%	190
1954	Tollemache	Beano Stout	9.5d	half	0.04	1041	1012.6	3.68	69.27%	350
1951	Groves & Whitnall	Red Rose Stout	1/2d	half	0.06	1047.5	1014.6	4.26	69.26%
1951	Hammerton	Oatmeal Stout	16d	half	0.07	1045.6	1014.1	4.08	69.08%
1950	J & T Bernard	Stout (Export)	1/1d	half	0.11	1045.5	1014.1	4.07	69.01%	1 + 10
1959	Stones	Samson Stout	13d	half		1045.7	1014.2	4.08	68.93%	459
1952	Duttons	Mercers Stout	1/1d	half	0.06	1045.3	1014.1	4.04	68.87%	1 + 21
1950	Hydes	Special Stout	1/8d	pint	0.05	1045.5	1014.2	4.05	68.79%	1 + 9
1951	Truman	Black Ben Stout	14.5d	half	0.06	1047.6	1014.9	4.23	68.70%	1 + 9
1954	Ansell	New Best Stout	1/2d	half	0.05	1049.7	1015.7	4.40	68.41%	1 + 9
1954	Meux	Special Stout (no lactose)	10.5d	nip	0.04	1040.2	1012.7	3.56	68.41%	300
1958	Bernard	Export Stout	26d	16 oz	0.05	1046.4	1014.7	3.96	68.32%	225
1959	Sam Smith	Taddy Stout	14d	half		1047.1	1015.1	4.14	67.94%	225
1953	Plymouth Breweries	Oatmeal Stout	1/0.5d	half	0.06	1047.9	1015.4	4.21	67.85%	1 + 15
1953	Stones	Samson Stout	1/0.5d	half	0.05	1046.6	1015	4.09	67.81%	1 + 20
1952	Flowers & Son Ltd	Stout	11d	half	0.07	1044.1	1014.2	3.87	67.80%	1R + 16B
1959	Greenall Whitley	Sterling Stout	14d	half		1046.8	1015.1	4.10	67.74%	225
1959	Thwaites	Cream Stout	13d	half		1044.3	1014.3	3.88	67.72%	225
1952	Wilsons	Wembley Stout	11.5d	half	0.07	1044.3	1014.5	3.86	67.27%	1 + 14
1954	Flowers	Table Stout	1/2d	half	0.04	1046.1	1015.2	4.00	67.03%	325
1953	Brickwoods	Black Bricky	11d	nip	0.14	1045.7	1015.1	3.96	66.96%	1 + 12
1959	Hydes	Special Anvil Stout	12.5d	half		1041.4	1013.7	3.58	66.91%	200
1954	Chesham & Brackley	Raven Stout	1/3d	half	0.04	1047.5	1015.8	4.10	66.74%	475
1956	East Anglian Breweries	Ely Silk Stout	1/2d	half	0.07	1046.2	1015.4	3.98	66.67%	275
1957	Samuel Smith	Sams Extra Stout (lactose absent)	1/2d	half	0.06	1049.8	1016.6	4.30	66.67%	225
1950	McEwan	Imperial Stout	1/1.5d	half	0.06	1043	1014.4	3.70	66.51%	22 B
1959	Workington	John Peel Stout	13d	half		1040.9	1013.7	3.52	66.50%	300
1952	Hope & Anchor	Jubilee Stout	1/2d	half	0.08	1041.7	1014	3.58	66.43%	1R + 11B
1959	Hanson, Julia	Special Stout	15d	half		1044.9	1015.1	3.85	66.37%	225
1950	Hammerton	Oatmeal Stout	10.5d	half	0.06	1040.7	1013.7	3.49	66.34%	1 + 17
1954	Hancocks	M Stout (Lactose present)	1/-	half	0.04	1043	1014.5	3.69	66.28%	350
1959	Marston	Mello Sweet Stout	15d	half		1040.3	1013.6	3.45	66.25%	325
1954	Steel Coulson	Elephant Sweet Stout	1/2.5d	half	0.07	1041.7	1014.1	3.57	66.19%	350
1959	Flowers	Sable Stout	15d	half	0.02	1044.3	1015	3.79	66.14%	250
1959	J & J Bernard	Export Stout	13d	half		1046.2	1015.8	3.93	65.80%	275
1953	Truman	Best Stout (Lactose present)	12d	half	0.06	1044.4	1015.2	3.78	65.77%	1 + 8
1957	Whitbread	Mackeson Stout	1/4d	half	0.06	1046.3	1015.9	3.93	65.66%	250
1954	Hall & woodhouse	Glucose Stout	1/-	half	0.04	1042.7	1014.7	3.62	65.57%	375
1954	Vaux & Co	Sweet Strong Stout	1/2d	half	0.05	1047.6	1016.4	4.03	65.55%	1 + 20
1954	Groves & Whitnall	Red Rose Stout (Lactose present)	1/1d	half	0.06	1048.8	1016.9	4.13	65.37%	300
1954	Cornbrook Brewery Co.	Barley Stout (Lactose present)	1/1d	half	0.04	1047.2	1016.5	3.97	65.04%	300
1952	Atkinsons	Semi Sweet Stout	1/-	half	0.06	1046	1016.1	3.87	65.00%	1R + 16B
Source:
Whitbread Gravity book held at the London Metropolitan Archives, document number LMA/4453/D/02/001.

I’ve a few more years’ worth of this stuff left. Sadly enough for you.

Berlin day two (part two)

It’s even hotter when we stumble into the sunlight at 13:30. Glad we don’t have too far to walk.

Dolores is confused by the U-Bahn station I’m headed for, Stadtmitte. She doesn’t remember stations in this part of Berlin.

“It was one of the ghost stations. Don’t you remember hearing the West Berlin U-Bahns rumble under Friedrichstrasse?”

I certainly do. Mitte, the old city centre and part of the East, stuck out into the West like a cheeky tongue. U-6 was a bolt through its middle, running from North to South under Friedrichstrasse. The handful of station in the Eastern Zone had their entrances bricked up, but you could still hear the trains through the ventilation ducts. East Berlin was a weird place.

The rest dive into a shopping centre and I plunge underground. Kreuzberg bound. After a quick change, I’m overground again on what looks very much like an old S-Bahn line. Which is probably what it was once.

Berlin was as nutty as a chimp’s Christmas stocking. In the West, Deutsche Reichsbahn (German Imperial Railways), the East German state railway company, ran the S-Bahn system. They didn’t show a great deal of commitment to it, prompting West Berlin to convert some lines nominally to U-Bahn.

I’m initially disorientated as I exit Schlesisches Tor station, but eventually spot Skalitzer Strasse. Heidenpeters has an odd location: in an old indoor market. The market itself is strangely located, on a side street in a residential area.

I’m due to meet Peter Read, a Canadian who works as a brewer at Heidenpeters, in Café Neun. He told me it’s at Eisenbahnstrasse 41. Except that address doesn’t seem to exist. On my third despairing pass along the street, someone in wellingtons asks: “Are you Ron?” It’s Peter.

When he takes me to the brewery, I understand why he’s arranged to meet me outside. It’s in the basement of the market, through a locked door. In a previous life it was a butchers, which meant it handily came ready tiled.

The tour doesn’t take too long, it being a compact brewery. Though I do linger in the cold store a while. It’s the coolest I’ve felt since arriving yesterday. We chat a while and Peter gives me a few bottles to take with me. He can’t linger too long, having work to do. But he does mention that they have a street food event every Thursday evening in the market. It’s Thursday. And it sounds like something Dolores might like. I make a mental note.

The chill of the brewery makes it feel all the warmer when I leave. It’s one stop on the U-Bahn to Warschauer Strasse, but it hardly seems worth the effort of climbing up to the platform. No more than a couple of hundred metres. I decide to walk instead.

The road bridge runs parallel to the railway bridge. The latter is a delightfully wistful confection, adorned by fantasy brick turrets. Their beauty takes my mind off the heat. For a moment or two. I’m half melted into my shoes by the time I get back to the hotel.

The family are hiding inside vainly trying to cool in front of a fan, taking turns at switching it back on when the timer runs out.

In the evening Dolores and I stroll over to Markthalle Neun. “It isn’t really that far, Dolores.”

Dolores is slightly disappointed by Kreuzberg. She expected it to be like Istanbul. I blame the yuppies. The bastards are taking over everywhere.

The market is mobbed. Lots of interesting food, but it’s mobbed. We squeeze our way through the beards and tattoos to Heidenpeter’s bar. I order three beers. Two for me, one for Dolores. She needs to keep one hand free so she can fetch us food.

It’s a fun place. But it would be double the fun with half the people. And a temperature 20º C cooler. We eat some stuff and drink some beer. Until the heat and crowds wear us down.

“Can we go now, Ronald?”

“Just wait until I’ve finished my beer.”

I get a steely look when I suggest walking back. Dolores insists on taking the U-Bahn and tram back. Clearly not that impressed by my “it’s not that far”. The tram is nicely air-conditioned. Which gives Dolores an idea for tomorrow.




Heidenpeters
Eisenbahnstr. 42-43,
Berlin.
Tel: +49 176 22291688
http://www.heidenpeters.de/


Markthalle Neun
Eisenbahnstraße 42-43,
10997 Berlin.
http://www.markthalleneun.de/

1990 Gotha and Erfurt pub guide

I'm not slightly amazed that anyone other than me is interested in this out-of-date travel information. Yet it seems some of you are. Folk really are queer, as they say in Yorkshire.

I was disturbed to discover how few of the pubs I could recall in even the slightest. I suppose it was all a long time ago. And a few beers have flowed over my tongue since then. It's a wonder I can remember my name. Talking of names, I couldn't name more than half a dozen of the kids I went to school with. Only the ones who were later drinking chums. And Smellie. You don't forget a name like that.

But enough idle chit chat. On with some truly useless data.


Gotha
30 km east of Eisenach, along the main railway line and the motorway, is Gotha. It's another typical larger Thuringian town, many of whose attractive half-timbered are in dire need of tarting up. From the 1640's the Archdukes of Sachsen-Gotha had their residence here in an imposing Baroque palace, the Schloß Friedenstein. Stuck on top of a hill between the railway station and the centre, the castle and its gardens dominate the town. From it, there's a good view over the red tile roofs of the houses around the old market. Along Bahnhofstr., which leads logically enough from the station to the town centre, are monuments to another group of the town's past inhabitants: the 19th century bourgeoisie. The street is lined with substantial stone villas now, somewhat ironically, used as offices by VEB companies and socialist organisations. Sadly, this is another town whose council was a bit too eager in using bulldozers to solve its renovation problems.

Right in the centre of town, on the Hauptmarkt,  is Turiec, a complex of a cafe and a couple of restaurants. One of these is Slovan, offering excellent Slovak cuisine. The recently refurbished interior is one of the more comfortable and tasteful examples of the HO 'heritage' stripped pine style. The food is slightly more expensive than average, but well worth it. The beer served is Apoldaer Classic. Borovicka, the Slovak version of gin, is also available.

Going from the sublime to the ridiculous, my next recommendation is the Mitropa (10 - 22) in the Hauptbahnhof. Even in a country where pubs rate on a scale of basic, very basic or incredibly basic, this is an establishment of exceptionally low class. Housed in a portacabin hidden away, as if even Deutsche Reichsbahn were ashamed of it, at the end of a platform, its contents have been stripped down to the barest essentials. It makes you feel lucky that they remembered to include chairs. Despite all of this, it isn't without a certain charm and is certainly very good value. Thankfully, it isn't full of the non-travelling, obnoxious drunks which plague some of the Mitropas in larger cities (notably Leipzig, where you look out of place if you enter sober and carrying luggage). In keeping with the minimalist approach, it's also self-service.

Erfurt
Carrying on another 25 km east of Gotha is the Bezirk town of Erfurt, the largest city in Thuringia. It's also the only major city in the DDR which wasn't totally flattened by bombing during the war. As a result, it retains an attractive old centre, including the unusual Kramerbrucke, a bridge covered in half-timbered houses. The town contains a good mixture of medieval, renaissance and neo-gothic architecture, reflecting its long history as a cultural and political centre. The Dom and Severikirche, next door to each other on a hill,  are particularly imposing, especially from the massive square below them.

On this square, directly facing the two churches, is an unassuming little pub (whose name unfortunately escapes me).  I do recall, however, that it's a plain beer-hall type place with long, rough wooden tables. On the walls are some very interesting blue and white tile murals depicting the history of the town. For its central location its remarkably un-touristy and uncrowded - probably because of its unprepossessing exterior and basic interior. This makes it very useful, as the centre isn't exactly overflowing with boozers to choose from.  It also serves a very nice glass of the distinctive Braugold Pils.

On the way to the railway station, on Bahnhofstr., is Burgerhof,  a sizeable restaurant with a modern interior. With its angular metallic furniture and strident decor, it's unselfconsciously ugly in the way of a 1960's cafeteria. The staff's eagerness to sprinkle around the 'bestellt' signs can make it difficult to get in. The reward if you do is more of the wonderful Braugold Pils.

Actually opposite the main station on Bahnhofplatz in the grand Erfurter Hof hotel is the Pilsner beer bar. A single room reached its furnished in the decorator's imagination of a Czech beer hall - that is: barrels for tables and lots of wood everywhere. Still, the beer is at least the genuine article. Pilsner Urquell. Downstairs the hotel has a very posh baroque restaurant, which is good to try if you can't find anywhere else to eat. The menu is more interesting and imaginative than is usual in the DDR and the service pretty good. Expect to pay for this, with prices at the very top of the scale. This sells Braugold Angerbrau Pils in bottles.

Over the other side of Bahnhofplatz in the Mitropa (9 - 23) you can experience the opposite extreme of the DDR culinary world. A cavernous self-service buffet, where the food comes on those very classy plastic trays with little hollows for each different dish. Basic, but not rough, it’s good value and handy if you're in a rush. Again, you can treat yourself to some Braugold Pils.




I spent my wedding night in Erfurt. Didn't really need to tell you that, did I? I'll spare you further details. Mainly because I can't remember many. It was a long day, during which large quantities of Erfurter Hell and Nordhäuser Doppelkorn were drunk.

Leipzig Mitropa I can recall. Couldn't forget a pub as grim as that. Last time I was there it was full of shouting drunks. ANd noty the nice kind. Quite a scary atmosphere.

Berlin day two

I sleep pretty well, despite the heat. Thank god for that. Or rather thank the monks of Andechs, who propelled me to the land of nod so gently.

One of the reasons Dolores chose our hotel was the reports she read on the web of their breakfast. Very complimentary, they were. Just like the breakfast itself. Or did she say that just to get Lexie to come along? He has a great interest in breakfast. And other meals.

Downstairs in the breakfast room, Lexie immediately senses where the fried things are and heads their way. I follow him. No bacon, sadly, but there is scrambled egg, little meat balls and small bits of deep-fried schnitzel that resemble chicken nuggets. Maybe they're chicken nuggets gone horribly wrong.

“Daad. What happened to Pommerania?”

“It ended up in Prussia, Lexie”

Dolores, meanwhile, is loading up on smoked salmon and horseradish. Andrew stares glumly at an empty plate. His stomach is playing up again. Maybe he shouldn’t have drunk that bourbon and apple stuff quite so enthusiastically last night. Eventually Dolores persuades him to stare at a croissant instead. He occasionally rips off a corner, chewing it with little enthusiasm.

According to weather forecast it won’t be as hot as yesterday. It’ll be hotter. Great.

Salmon polished off, Dolores returns to the buffet for some cake. It’s a very central European thing, eating cake for breakfast. Seems really odd to me. Much less healthy than a plate piled with grease and gristle.

I’ve an appointment in the early afternoon at Heidenpeter, one of Berlin’s new breweries. It’s one of the few beery events pencilled in for our stay. Dolores was very clear from the start, “I want to see something of you, Ronald. I don’t what you spending all holiday on your beer crap.” Beer crap? Is that what I do?

The plan is to ride into town, look at some shit, eat something, then split up. Me heading to Kreuzberg the others somewhere else. But first some preparations. To complement our internal greasing at breakfast, we get some external grease applied. Andrew has the same sort of skin as me. We'd get sunburned in a cave.

“Daad, what happened to the Teutonic Knights?”

“They split up and had brief, unsuccessful, solo carreers.”

Warschauerstrasse S-Bahn station is undergoing extensive rebuilding. Access to the platforms is via a long ramp, exposed to the sun. I’m already feeling uncomfortably hot. There are queues at the two ticket machines. People are taking forever to get their tickets. When it’s our turn we see why. Or rather struggle to see. The machine’s screen is near unreadable in the dazzling sunlight.

It’s not quite as unpleasantly hot on the S-Bahn. There’s a bit of a breeze. Chance to count tattoos again as I chill. I get bored at 35.

“Daad, what happened to the Commonwealth? Poland and Lithuania.”

“Got carved up by its neighbours. Like the Ukraine.”

When we’re parked in Friedrichstrasse I point out to Andrew the gantries where there used to be border guards armed with submachine guns. “Just like at Schiphol, dad.” Now I think about it, it wasn't not so different from a modern airport. “Except at Schiphol they’re there to protect us. I think.”

I try to remember where the border was as we trundle along. Past the university hospital, that’s for sure. All the shiny new things tell me my mission is as pointless as non-alcoholic beer. All that valuable land has long been gobbled up for development.

We’re starting with something dead touristy. Looking at the Bundestag. We have to change at HauptBahnhof. Walking through what seems like every layer of the station to get to the world’s shortest underground line (just 3 stops) is great fun. Especially as it’s so cool today. Needed some exercise to warm my cold, old bones.

"Daad, why's it called the Bundestag?"

"Because its architects were Herr Bunde and Herr Stag."

We don’t linger long. Or go inside. Or even get within 100 metres. A couple of quick snaps of the family squinting into the sun in front of it is as far as it goes. Then back down into the U-Bahn to ride the last of the three stops, taking us to the Brandenberger Tor.

“Which side of the border was it on, dad?”

“It sort of was the border, Lexie.”

“You couldn’t get very close to it because of the fences. And there were guards with guns in front of it.” Dolores adds.

"Great! Guns. Were they assault rifles?"

A sweaty walk away down Unter den Linden is our next appointment. A very important one. Lunch.

Did I mention it was hot earlier? It’s hotter now. And dustier. Some poor sods are digging up the street. The ground around them is littered with water bottles.

We’re on the sunny side of the street, which is none too bright. Of  us, I mean. It's way too bright in the other sense.

“Daad, what happened to Limburg?”

“It was eaten by its neighbours.”

We don’t have that far to go, really.

“See those traffic lights there in the distance? It’s about twice as far again.” I reassure the kids.

“Daad, how far is it really?”

“Over there on the corner.” I point.

“What, with that crappy, generic, old writing?”

“You mean Gothic, Lexie." Andrew corrects him.

"It’s a good sign. It means it’s an Augustiner pub.”

We sit in pavement shade. I'm thirsty. I haven't had a beer yet. Other than the Andechs I needed to brush my teeth. I know what I’d like. Edelstoff from the cask. But I suspect they only serve it in the evening. They do. Bum. I settle for a Dark Mild. I mean Dunkles. Dolores and Andrew stick with Helles. I feel slightly cooler in at least one sense after slugging down half. (Being cooler in the other sense is never going to happen*.)

My lovely, moist roast pork might not have been perfectly paired with the weather. But I spit on your pairings. Could have been more crackling, for my taste. If not my waist. Andrew has a local delicacy: currywurst. I’m put off by the lurid sauce and unidentifiable orange dust.

Next: panic when I have to take a solo U-Bahn ride. And I tell you what I have for my tea.




* Note the lack of an “again” in that sentence.







Augustiner am Gendarmenmarkt  
Charlottenstraße 55,
10117 Berlin.
Tel: +49 30 20454020
http://www.augustiner-braeu-berlin.de/