Malt and barley in London in 1889

Some quick statistics. Fairly random ones, but ones that do tell us a story. It's amazing what a few numbers can tell you. In this case about barley and malt in UK brewing.

I often find myself saying things like "Californian malt" or "Chilean malt" when talking about UK beer. But it's untrue and misleading. I really should say "malt made from Californian barley". Because, whatever the origin of the barley it was made from, the malt used in UK beer was always manufactured in the UK. The quantity of malt imported was tiny. And probably exclusively lager malt.

The numbers I'm going to show you confirm this. For while there was a considerable amount of foreign barley being imported into London, there was zero foreign malt. Obviously, not all the imported barley was going to end up being turned into malt. And even the malt made from it wasn't necessarily all used in beer - considerable quantities were used in distilling. But it's still significant that three-quarters of the barley coming into London was foreign.

I'm slightly surprised that Scottish malt was turning up in the capital. Scotland ran a deficit in malting barley and malt with England. Importing both finished malt and malting barley.

Here are the numbers.

ARRIVALS OF MALT IN LONDON.
	English.	Scotch	Irish.	Foreign.	Total.
	qrs.	qrs.	qrs.	qrs.	qrs.
Week ending Nov. 1	22,382	1,241	-	-	23,623
,,          ,,       ,,      8	16,671	717	-	-	17,388
Total for the fortnight	39,053	1,958	-	-	41,011
Source:
"The Brewers' Guardian 1889", 1889, page 365.

ARRIVALS OF BARLEY IN LONDON.
	English.	Scotch	Irish.	Foreign.	Total.
	qrs.	qrs.	qrs.	qrs.	qrs.
Week ending Nov. 1	2,400	1,506	150	18,597	22,653
,,          ,,       ,,      8	2,796	1,152	490	9,603	14,041
Total for the fortnight	5,196	2,658	640	28,200	36,694
Source:
"The Brewers' Guardian 1889", 1889, page 365.

Enamel for Casks

I'm often asked about the lining of casks. Something which was common on the Continent and which many assume was also practised in the UK. It wasn't. Or at least, not much.

Though, as with everything, it's a bit more complicated than that. UK brewers definitely weren't keen on lining casks with pitch, as was the Central European practice. They reckoned pitch was the source of the onion flavour they detected in Lager. But they did use other materials to line casks. Though much more common was the use of unlined casks.

This is one of the first mentions I've found of lining casks in the UK. In this case with some sort of enamel. It's a bit vague about the composition of the enamel. Perhps it was a trade secret.

"Enamel for Casks.
Some short time ago we detailed the necessary treatment of cask plant, and pointed out that we had tried nearly all the chemical agents advertised for the purpose of restoring musty and stinking casks, but with no result that we could safely recommend to our readers. We are, however, now pleased to say that since the appearance of our previous note, we have conducted experiments upon a footing entirely different from those previously carried out. The experiments we speak of have been in the direction of the application of enamels. Now, from a practical point of view, we know many brewers who have experienced great benefit from the use of this class of material, but it was with reluctance that we ventured to give it a trial, since we were under the impression that the various forms of enamel were, more or less, all of the same character, and knowing that alcohol has a decided effect upon the majority of them, and that acetic acid has a still greater effect, we were sceptical of the result, but we are all liable to mistakes, and it is in this particular that we made one, for the simple reason that we have just analysed one patent enamel, and find that these two powerful solvents, alcohol and acetic acid, have no action whatever upon it. Therefore, from an experimental point of view, we find that it is without a rival, and from information received, we are bound to admit that it is an excellent material, not only for the purpose of curing musty and stinking casks, but for the purpose of preserving casks, which are not in such a bad state, since the enamel in question lengthens the life of cask plant to a somewhat considerable extent. The enamel we speak of is patented and manufactured by Messrs. Crawford & Co., to whom we refer our readers for particulars, and although our having to go to press prevents us discussing this subject further, we will nevertheless, in a future issue, detail the enamel’s practical application, since we are certain that the majority of fretful causes of beer, combined with acidity and turbidity, are due to faulty cask plant, which we have no hesitation in saying, could be readily avoided by the use of such an enamel as the above."
"The Brewers' Guardian 1889", 1889, page 370.

The article reads a bit like an advert for Messrs. Crawford & Co.'s enamel. Was it really as wonderful as made out?

Let's Brew - 1921 Barclay Perkins X Ale

Here's an oddity: an old Mild recipe that isn't watery. Or bland.

X Ale was one of the mainstays of Barclay Perkins range. By 1921 it had attained the form it would have for the remainder of the decade. As XX Ale after 1931, it lasted much like this until WW II.

Barclay Perkins were unusual in having Mild Ales with fairly complex malt. In addition to pale and crystal malt, there was also amber malt. Amber malt had been in the recipe since 1909, but the crystal malt was only added in late 1916, around six months before X Ale was discontinued.

This beer was made in the small brew house as a “Special brew with Australian malt”. Which explains why there’s no SA malt as part of the base, but all pale malt.

The hops were mostly pretty new: Mid Kent 1920 and Pacific 1920, both kept in a cold store. There were also some Alsace hops from 1917. Which means they were grown when the region was still part of Germany.

Unusually for a Barclay Perkins Mild, it doesn’t appear to have been primed.

1921 Barclay Perkins X Ale
pale malt	5.75 lb	64.25%
amber malt	1.00 lb	11.17%
crystal malt 60 L	0.50 lb	5.59%
flaked maize	1.00 lb	11.17%
No. 3 invert sugar	0.67 lb	7.49%
caramel 500 SRM	0.03 lb	0.34%
Alsace 90 mins	0.25 oz
Cluster 60 mins	1.00 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	0.75 oz
OG	1041.5
FG	1010
ABV	4.17
Apparent attenuation	75.90%
IBU	31
SRM	11
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	60.5º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

Seattle there we go

The kids turn up at 11:30. Just after the maid. I’m pretty much ready to go. I’ve finished off the bourbon and beer. Plus done some writing. I’m so diligent nowadays.

Final packing done, we stroll down to reception just after noon. Dump our bags and head for the diner Andrew has found. It sounds dead good. But is over the other side of the motorway. That is, up a dirty great hill.

“It’s not as bad as yesterday, dad. See, it goes off to the left rather than straight up the hill.” I’m not totally convinced. But it does look like a good diner.

The road may not be as steep. But the climb is longer. We end up walking up to about the same height. But I’m too out of breath to argue.

When we arrive at Glo’s, we’re informed that we’ll have to wat 30-45 minutes for a table. Just as well we’re not in any great rush.

One of the lessons I’ve learned in my travels is not to rush. Leave plenty of time for everything. Stuff always takes longer than you expect. Even without unexpected delays. I’d rather wait for two hours in an airport bar than have to run to my gate.

“We could have a coffee over the road, in the meantime.” I remark. There’s a Starbucks there. The kids just get a medium black coffee. Being flash, I go for a caffe latte. I have to wait for mine.

We notice four cops drinking coffee on the patio. After a while the only female officer gets up, runs up the hill and jumps in her squad car, which departs with lights and siren blazing,

“That’s a bit odd. It would only make sense if she’d suddenly remembered that she’d left the front door open.” I’m puzzled as to why none of her colleagues accompanied her.

We finish our coffees and trundle back to Glo’s. We’re next on the list. Though it does take another 10 minutes before our arses are parked inside. Me and Alexei choose exactly the same: 2 egg breakfast with bacon and wholemeal toast. Andrew has exactly the same, just with a single egg.

At least that’s the idea. “I’m sorry, the chef got carried away and yours has two eggs as well. I’m just charging you for one.”

The breakfast is good. Damned good. Even Andrew eats most of it. I feel stuffed. In a good way.

I plan on getting to the airport really early. Partly because we couldn’t check in online yesterday for some reason. Best to have plenty of time in such circumstances.

We pick up our bags and a taxi at our hotel. And soon we’re on the highway. Which is crazily busy for an early Sunday afternoon. Where the hell are all these people going?

We go straight to a Delta counter and explain that we couldn’t check in online. It seems our country of residence was the problem. It hadn’t been filled in. 100% certain I filled that in for all of us on the way out. Why didn’t they still have that information?

I drop by the duty free. The bourbon selection is worse than disappointing. And far worse than what I can get around the corner at Ton Overmars. Let’s get some wine for Dolores instead. I’ve forgotten to get something earlier.

Washington wine will do nicely. Except most of it is hideously expensive – in the $70 - $100 range. Oh look, this one is just $17. A bit pricey for Dolores, but not too crazy. I’ll annoy rather than impress Dolores if I get something expensive.

“That’ll be $37 please, sir.” You what? I must have looked at the wrong price. Dolores is going to garrotte me when I get home.

Our flight is from gate S1. Handily, there’s a seafood place right next to it. Which has a dozen or so draught beers. That’ll do nicely. We get a table and order beers: Sam Adams Lager for Andrew, Pike IPA for me. And cola for Alexei. As usual, Andrew’s knocking back two or three beers to my one.

Alexei is getting anxious about boarding time. Even though we can literally see the board at the gate from our seats.

“You know what I need to finish off the trip?”

“What dad?” the kids ask unenthusiastically.

“A double bourbon. That’s how I usually say goodbye to the US.”

“How predictable, dad.”

The waitress explains that they have a special. If I buy a beer and a bourbon, I get a discount. Though it’s only a single. Oh, go on, then. You only live once.

“Didn’t you say that you only do doubles?”

“Don’t spoil dad’s day, you nitpicking bastards.”

As we’re queueing up to board someone says behind me “Hello neighbours.” I’m confused for a while, but then recognise the American woman who lives a few doors down from us. Now there’s a coincidence.

I’ve the luxury of an empty seat next to me again. What a jammy bastard I am.

As usual, I pull on my noise-cancelling headphones and fire up the in-seat entertainment. It’s the best way to pass the time. I plump for my usual intellectual fare. I watch “Enter Player One” then start watching “Blockers”, but fall quickly asleep. Only to awake when it’s time for breakfast. Perfect. I must have been out for 5 or 6 hours.

My bag appears fairly quickly. And within minutes we’re in a taxi bouncing down the motorway. Racing back to the iterative reality of normal life.



Glo's
1621 E Olive Way,
Seattle,
WA 98102.
Tel: +1 206-324-2577
http://www.gloscafe.com/

An appeal

Dolores keeps saying "Ronald, why can't you sell more books?"

"It's not my fault. Those bastard beer geeks don't appreciate my genuis."

"You could just write books people actually want to read."

"No. No. that would completely betray my principles. And be too commercial."

"Good luck making any money out of your writing, then."

Dolores is so cynical.

Prove her wrong by investing in one of these:

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/austerity/23181344

http://www.lulu.com/shop/ronald-pattinson/lets-brew/paperback/product-23289812.html

http://www.lulu.com/shop/ronald-pattinson/scotland-vol-2/paperback/product-23090497.html

Vancouver to Seattle

We arise really fucking early. Earlier than I would like to. By two hours. 4:30. Six hours, really, than I’d prefer to get up.

I asked the kids to come to my room at 4:45. The unreliable twats are three minutes late. I’ll be docking their pocket money for that. Or their gin ration, once we get home.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Chill out, dad. We’ve still more that 10 minutes until our taxi is due.”

We quickly check out and stand outside in the silent darkness. Where’s that taxi? It should have been here ten minutes ago. I’m starting to panic until Andrew says “There it is.”

“Thank the fucking fuck for that.” Little things like a non-appearing taxi can really bugger up a journey.

“You’re very sweary this morning, dad.” Andrew says.

“It must be this fucking ridiculously fucking early fucking start.”

“You’re getting as bad as Lexie.”

“But I only swear in one language. That’s less than half as much, really. As he swears in at least four languages.”

“That makes no sense, dad.”

The recommendation is to be at the station an hour, at least, before the 6:35 departure. Because of the US immigration procedure we have to undergo before boarding.

The station is already busy when we stumble in at 5:20. We join the pleb queue.

“Do you fancy any food or drink for the train?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’ll get some stuff anyway. Sandwiches and drinks.”

I quickly nip into the shop and get sandwiches and cola. They’ll thank me later. And I may as well spend some of these Canadian dollars I have left.

We get the fingerprint treatment again. Just the four right fingers for me and Andrew. While Alexie gets both hands full.

“What’s Lexie been doing online, Andrew? He must be flagged in some security databases.”

Our fellow passengers are an international bunch. The two rows in front of the kids house Aussie pensioners.

The rear pair are two women. At a certain point one of them gets up and goes to a family with several small children sitting a few rows ahead.

“Can you keep your children quiet. We got up very early to catch this train. They’re old enough to read a book or play a game quietly.”

The father is remarkably calm and understanding. I’d have told her to fuck off. Old enough to read a book? One is only just about old enough to walk. Two of the others are under five. They’d been making a little noise, but they’re kids for fuck’s sake. It hasn’t been enough to keep me awake. Some people are just miserable twats. I really don’t get the hatred of children. Especially among some cat lovers.

The train ride is very scenic, mostly hugging the coast, but occasionally streaking across dead flat expanses of farmland. I say streak. Trundle would be more apt. It’s not exactly fast by European standards.

“It looks like polder, dad.” Now Alexei mentions it, it does. It really is dead flat. Though I can’t see the drainage ditches of a polder. Everywhere else is quite hilly. This must be reclaimed land.

I don’t pay as much attention to the view this time. I did the journey a couple of years ago. I’m more interested in catching up on my kip.

Seattle station is quite busy. It looks like another train has just pulled in. That’s probably the only two trains all day.

After the kids have a piss we grab a taxi. The traffic seems very slow for a Saturday.  Then we see the reason for the holdup. As we pass a handful of weirdly dressed men, our taxi driver says: “That’s the KKK.”  It’s an oddly tiny Alt Right demonstration. With an equally tiny counter protest.

Our hotel is in a downtown bit of town. We’re able to check into our rooms, even though it’s not yet noon. That’s good. It really gives us a full day in Seattle.

A maid shares our lift. “You boys are tall” she says. It’s been a recurring theme. What’s it going to be like when we’re in Japan next year?

My room, on the 14th floor (there is no 13th, so I guess this is really the 13th floor, though, if you count the floors the European way, it’s the 12th) has a good view of the motorway. Which is pretty busy, despite it being the weekend. There’s something hypnotising about heavy traffic. When you’re not init. And preferably several hundred metres away behind glass.

I think Alexei was feeling ill yesterday. That's why he was a bit aggressive. I've got the same cold. I could hardly talk this morning. My throat was so croaky. But that was at 5 AM.

For some reason we can't check in for tomorrow's flight. No idea why. Good reason to arrive early. Maybe Alexei has been flagged again.

After consulting my laptop, we head off for some brunch. On foot. It isn’t far. And I need to get some exercise every day at my age.

“The roads here are retarded. Who named them? Some autistic? 1st Avenue - what’s that? And there are too many junctions. You’re always waiting. Totally retarded.”

Alexei must be overheating again.

On the way to our brunch destination, there are some dodgy looking characters hanging around, shouting at each other. Lovely. Free street theatre. They aren’t even passing around a hat.

We brunch at Local 360, a sort of posh diner in Belltown. They sell beer from Belltown Brewing. “I’ll have an IPA.”

“Sorry, we’re out of that. We do have IPA in bottle.”

“I’ll take that then.”

“I’ll have a Lager.” Andrew says.

It turns out to be a can, not a bottle. Of Crikey IPA.

The kids go for a farmer’s breakfast. I have corned beef hash. Not that I can finish it. Doggie bag time again.

We make a detour to a liquor store on the way back to the hotel. Alexei sits outside gazing at the Space Needle. While I get some Jim Beam and Andrew some Pabst Blue Ribbon. Whatever. He’s not snobby at all when it comes to beer.

“Look, dad, there’s one of those Amazon stores. Where they have no tills and you just walk out with stuff.”

“How do they know you aren’t just a shoplifter?”

“No idea.”

“There’s an interesting business model.”

“Is that “interesting” in the British sense, dad?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

Alexei is still getting annoyed at the street plan. “Kanker mongolen.” He repeats several times. His ability to be enraged by random stuff is quite impressive. No idea where he gets it from. I’m as even-tempered as Saint Francis on valium.

We chill in my hotel room for a while. After some cold medicine and a bourbon or two, I liven up.

“Where are we going to eat tonight?” Andrew asks.

“Have a look on my laptop to see what’s close.”

At first he suggests a craft beer and pizza place. Then he notices that there’s a Redhook place just a little further.

“That’ll do.” I say.

We leave Lexie in the room. He’s not feeling great. But has beer. That’s all the company I need.  I’m sure he’ll be fine. He didn’t fancy sitting and watching me and Andrew drink beer again.

Redhook Brewlab isn’t far. But all uphill.  I thought I’d seen the last of enormous hills when we left San Francisco. Fuck, this is steep. I need to pause for breath. I’m getting old.

“It didn’t look this steep on Streetview, dad.”

“At least it’ll be downhill on the way back.”

We sit at the bar. It’s quite busy already – at just 5 PM – and I like sitting at the bar. I guess it’s a habit I’ve acquired from often being in US pubs alone. Much more chance to chat, either with bar staff or fellow bar flies.

"Oh look - they've got a mash filter. That's very unusual for a craft brewery."

"I thought you didn't like the term craft?"

"Stop nitpicking. You know what I mean."

"Why is it so unusual, this filter thing?"

"They're mostly used by big brewers. And Belgians. Only a handful of breweries ever used one in Britain. I don't think there are any now."

I get an IPA and Andrew a Lager. He’s quite keen on this Lager stuff. Though he has drunk other types of beer – particularly Hefeweizen – and cider.


"Can you taste the evil in the beer, Andrew?"

"Why is it evil?"

"Because they sold out to someone."

"Who?"

"I can't remember. Some people who own some other breweries or something."

"That's just crap, dad."

"No, honestly, the minute a brewery sells out, evil immediately permeates their beer. You can taste it."

"Don't talk crap, dad. You know that's bollocks."

"No, it's true. I read it on the internet."

"Stop talking crap, dad."

It’s strange sitting at a bar with Andrew. I dragged him around so many pubs when he was small. And now, here we are, sitting at the bar. Talking as adults. And he isn’t trying to run off.

“Do you have a Stout?”

“We have two Porters. Do you want to try them?”

“Sure.”


They’ve a standard and an Imperial. “I’ll have the ordinary one. Too early for the strong one.”

We order food. A burger for Andrew, pork belly bao for me.

“Did you notice that the beer menu has dollar signs and decimals in the prices, but the food one doesn’t”

“That’s weird, Andrew.”

“It’s psychological. It makes it seem less expensive.”

Alexei asked us to bring to over-order and bring back a doggie back for him. Which we do.

He’s sleeping when we return. But wakes up and gets stuck into the doggy bag. And some bourbon. I finish off my corned beef hash. Though it’s a bit tricky to eat without cutlery. I use one of the paper coffee cups to scoop it up.

We watch some crap TV, drink some beer and whisky and generally chill.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow, dad?”

“Just come down here any time after ten. We’ll hang around in the room until checkout time, dump our bags downstairs then get some brunch. Head off to the airport around 2 PM. So we’ve plenty of time. Probably a good idea as we couldn’t check in online.”

“OK, dad.”

I tumble into sleep down steps of bourbon.



Local 360
2234 1st Ave,
Seattle,
WA 98121.
Tel: +1 206-441-9360
http://www.local360.org/



Redhook Brewlab
Pike Motorworks Building,
714 E Pike St,
Seattle,
WA 98122.
Tel: +1 206-823-3026
http://redhook.com/

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1921 Barclay Perkins IBS

The war had an impact on all beers. Even such special ones as Barclay’s Imperial Russian Stout, which is the retail name of IBS.

The classic OG of Russian Stout is around 1100º, considerably more than the 1064º of this version. But it has to be borne in mind that when it was brewed, price controls were still in effect. Which, as the top band started at 1054º, there was a huge financial disincentive to brew anything much stronger. Given that constraint, I’m surprised the gravity is as high as 1064

The grist is typical of a strong London Stout, where in addition to brown malt and roast barley, there’s also amber malt. You have to look very closely at Barclay Perkins brewing records because sometimes used roast malt – i.e. black malt – and at others roasted barley, as in this case.

The mild malt base is my substitution for SA malt. Unlike BS Exp, IBS does contain flaked maize.

Most of the hops were Mid-Kent and Pacific hops from the 1920 crop. However, as quarter were Mid-Kent from 1915. They must have been some leftover hops they wanted to use up.

1921 Barclay Perkins IBS
mild malt	7.00 lb	45.16%
brown malt	1.50 lb	9.68%
amber malt	1.75 lb	11.29%
roast barley	1.50 lb	9.68%
flaked maize	1.75 lb	11.29%
No. 3 invert sugar	1.75 lb	11.29%
caramel 500 SRM	0.25 lb	1.61%
Cluster 120 mins	1.50 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.00 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.50 oz
Fuggles dry hops	0.25 oz
OG	1064
FG	1020
ABV	5.82
Apparent attenuation	68.75%
IBU	57
SRM	41
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	172º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	58.5º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

Vancouver

The kids knock on my door, as arranged, at ten.

An all-day pub crawl was Alexei's suggestion for today. Seeing as he can drink. I’m not going to argue with that choice. Nor Andrew. He’s turning into a class A pisshead, just like his dad.

I’ve been trying to get the kids to do at least some of the legwork.

“Where are we going to eat breakfast, dad?” Alexei asked, on discovering breakfast wasn’t included for the first time.

“I’d like to go to a diner.” Andrew opines.

“That’ll do for me. What about you Lexie?’

“Fine.”

“Can you look for a diner on my laptop, Andrew. There’s some whiskey that needs drinking.”

He finds somewhere called the Templeton. A proper diner, in the downtown bit of town.

It’s not that far. But the route demands a Joe. It’s not a huge distance, as the crow flies. But a really awkward walk. That’s the downside of being on an island. We order a taxi at reception.

While we’re waiting, an English woman of around my ages emerges with half a dozen kids aged 4 to 8. The boys start misbehaving almost immediately, climbing onto the edge of the fountain. Their grandma -  that’s what I assume she is - struggles to keep them under control. The brothers keep egging each other on. As boys do.

“Do you know what that white stuff is, Oscar? That’s bird poo. Go inside to the toilets and give your hands a good wash.” The grandma says. The joy of having small kids. I feel for her. Been there myself many times.

They’re waiting for a brace of taxis. When one shows up, it’s unsure whose it is.

“Taxi for Pattinson?” The driver asks.

“Yes. That’s us.” I turn and smile at grannie. Just as their taxis arrive. Which makes me feel less of a bastard.

It’s hard to spot our destination, the Templeton. Just as well I have the exact address. The monetary transaction completed with the cabbie, we mosey on up to the diner. Where there’s a queue waiting for tables.

“That’s a good sign, dad.” Andrew says.

“Yes, but I’m a deeply impatient person.”

“We’re well aware of that.”

As we’re waiting, it becomes apparent that this diner is licensed. Alexei’s little eyes light up when he realises.

“Will you have a cocktail with breakfast, dad?”

“Why not? I’m always up for new experiences.”

“I doubt a breakfast cocktail is new for you.” How cynical Andrew is. Yet annoyingly correct.

We get seated after 20 minutes or so by a waitress who is literally working her arse off.

We order drinks: mimosa for me, chocolate milkshake for Alexei – with a shot of vodka - pint of Lager for Andrew.

Food? I have an excellent farmer’s breakfast. The kids some other eggy stuff. I’m not paying too much attention to their scran. I’m busier soaking up the atmosphere and that second mimosa. Living for this perfect North American moment, where breakfast, pop culture and alcohol collide.

Next stop: the Museum of Vancouver. Our only cultural stop on the trip. Unless you include pubs and breweries. Which I would be inclined to do.

We need and taxi. And, magically, one is parked just there. “Museum of Vancouver, please, mate.”

The ride doesn’t take long. Soon were outside the modernist edifice, fronted by a fountain where a google of geese are grooming themselves. What’s going on here?

I really like the museum. It starts with the indigenous population. And is totally open about all the racist shit against Asian immigrants had to put up with, right up until the 1950s.

Museuming done, how to get to our next stop, a brewpub?

“We could try to flag down a taxi, kids.”

“OK.”

We stand on the main road leading to the bridge towards the city centre.

“Oh, look, this building is a Molson brewery. I didn’t expect to see that here.”

“Dad, stop taking pictures and try to get a taxi.”

“I just need to get a couple. It’ll only take a few seconds, Lexie.”

“Daaad.”

We have no look on the taxi front and decide we might have more luck on the other side of the bridge. It’s a bit warm on the bridge, but the view is good. I pause to take a few snaps.

“Dad, can you stop taking photos all the time.”

“They’re for my blog, Lexie.”

“I don’t care about your stupid blog.”

Bridge crossed without too much moaning (well, quite a bit of moaning, really but I’ll gloss over that), we consult the map on Alexei’s phone.

“It’s only four or five hundred metres. We may as well walk it.” Yes, taxi fare saved. Just for the cost of an unpleasant 30-minute walk.

“We’ll get to see more of the city, too.”

“We could have seen it from a taxi.”

“Don’t waste time taking more photos. And don’t say that they’re for your blog again. I couldn’t care less about your blog.”

I sneakily take a couple of snaps while we’re waiting for traffic lights.

The brewpub we’re heading for is Yaletown Brewing, in, er, Yaletown. It’s a big, corner place with a fair bit of outdoor seating. We sit at the bar. And order beers.

Loading Bay IPA 6.2% ABV, 48 IBU, $7.50
Hazy pale amber colour. Grapefruit and mango aromas. Very bitter on the tongue, but finishes quite soft. The usual tropical fruit stuff in the gob.

Andrew is on Roundhouse Wheat (a Hefeweizen), while Alexei is drinking a 604 Lager. They’re both drinking way faster than me and soon have empty glasses. Andrew has the Lager next, while Alexei plumps for a cocktail: Emerald City.

No-one is inside except for us three and the staff. All the other customers are outside.

“Can we get a table?” Alexei asks, “I don’t want to eat at the bar.”

“Don’t worry, we can always get a table later.”

“Don’t leave it too late as usual, dad.” I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. I never leave stuff too late. Talking about not leaving things too late, it’s time for another beer.

Green Monster IPA 7% ABV, 25 IBU, $7.50
Very low IBU count on this one. It’s paler than the first IPA, though it smells much the same. It seems much more bitter than claimed, quite harshly bitter. Finishes all tobacco. A bit weird and not entirely pleasant.

Despite a couple of cocktails Alexei is pissed off, for some reason. I think he may be nervous about our early start tomorrow. He keeps saying that he wants to go back to the hotel. Even though he can have as many free cocktails as he wants.

We swap to a table when we want to eat. Alexei shuts up a bit after we order food. I suppose the chewing keeps his mouth busy. But it doesn’t last long. The whingeing starts up again as soon as his food is done.

I get a lamb sandwich in nan bread with onion rings. Very nice it is, too. A pulled bork burger for Andrew, a bacon burger for Alexei.

We get a taxi back to Granville Island. I’ve done enough walking for today.

On the way back, we stop by Granville Island Brewing, a brewery really close to our hotel, which is also on Granville Island. Alexei isn’t happy: "I don't want to stay in one place for more than one drink."

“Neither do I, but the pubs I want to visit are too far apart here. At least you can drink here. Unlike in Seattle tomorrow.”

“Thanks for reminding me, dad.”

It’s very much a taproom attached to a brewery rather than a brewpub. Not enormous, but with the pleasantly shiny background of brewing vessels. I order a beer.

Baconator 7.5% ABV, 25 IBU
Amber colour, bacon aroma. That’s rather nice: full of bacony goodness. I love smoke, in the right quantities. And it’s served in a proper German half litre sleeve.

On the way back, we stop by Granville Island Brewing, a brewery really close to our hotel, which is also on Granville Island. Alexei isn’t happy: "I don't want to stay in one place for more than one drink."

“At least you can drink here. Unlike in Seattle tomorrow.”

“Thanks for reminding me, dad.”

Not sure what got Alexei in such a bad mood. He heads off back to his room – the hotel is only a couple of hundred metres away - while me and Andrew hang around for another couple of beers. We don’t stay too long.

Back at the hotel I tell Andrew: “Come to my room in half an hour and we can have a quick last drink in the hotel bar.”

“OK.”

Alexei is looking much perkier than earlier when the kids turn up at my door. He must have been getting stuck into the bourbon. He’s positively cheerful.

Did I mention that there’s a brewery in our hotel? Just over the corridor from my room. It’s the closest I’ve ever slept to brewing equipment. They sell their beers in the bar, obviously. But I go for a double Jack Daniels instead. As does Alexei. He seems much happier now. He goes upstairs to sleep, while me and Andrew linger for one more.

We don’t make it too late. We’ve a very early start tomorrow. A nazily early start.

Sleep smothers me swiftly.



The Templeton
1087 Granville St,
Vancouver,
BC V6Z 1L2.
Tel: +1 604-685-4612
http://www.thetempleton.ca/


Museum of Vancouver
1100 Chestnut St,
Vancouver,
BC V6J 3J9.
Tel: +1 604-736-4431
https://museumofvancouver.ca/


Yaletown Brewing
1111 Mainland St,
Vancouver,
BC V6B 2T9.
7VGH+6J Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
Tel: +1 604-681-2739
http://www.mjg.ca/yaletown/


Granville Island Brewing
1441 Cartwright St,
Vancouver,
BC V6H 3R7.
Tel: +1 604-687-273
http://www.gib.ca/

Drunkenness in Russia

That got your attention. It is genuinely the headline of the article below. Though it would more accurately have read "No Drunkenness in Russia". Those clickbait headlines from a century ago.

It's really an overview of boozing restrictions in the middle of WW I.

"DRUNKENNESS IN RUSSIA
Is Punished With a Fine of £15.
Belligerents, Neutrals, and the Drink Problem.
(Special the Courier.)
The historian of the future whose concern with the great war is chiefly its contemporary social life will find some of its most wonderful phenomena centred round the drink problem. Practically all the belligerents and not few neutrals have been obliged deal directly with the subject. Bulgaria, Italy, Serbia, and Turkey have not, it is true, been called upon to restrict the consumption of alcoholic liquors, but the reasons are obvious.

Italy, like most wine-drinking countries, is essentially an abstemious nation. Only in the seaport towns, where mixed nationalities are congregated is drunkenness known. In his own country the typical Italian is too frugal to indulge in alcoholic excesses. The Turk is, theoretically, debarred from indulging in strong drink, but religion sits but 1 lightly on the ruling caste. They are essentially materialistic in outlook, and have acquired most of the Western vices. The average Turk, however, is a good Moslem, observant of the requirements of his religion, and strictly avoids the juice of the grape.

Serbs and Their Brandy.
The Serbian, travellers tell the truth, is somewhat fond of his national beverage, Slivovitsa. This is a brandy made from plums, and extremely potent in its action, but the wonderful constitution and open-air life of the Serb neutralises any possible effect it might have on his system. The countries which have dealt directly with the drink question are Great Britain, France, Russia, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Switzerland, and Germany. Great Britain's solution of the problem common property. Its success is doubtful, although, owing to the different habits of the southern portion of the island, it appears to have been slightly more successful there than in Scotland.

France has confined her attentions to dealing with absinthe, which even in the piping times of peace was more the drink of decadents than a beverage of the people. The French, bon vivants though they be, are not given to excesses, although readers of some of the realist school in French fiction might think otherwise.

Russia a Sober Nation.
In the search for drastic legislation restricting the consumption of alcohol must go to Russia. Now, there any matter on which one can dogmatise it is that the Russian peasant — and Russia is essentially a country of peasants — was a drunkard. His brother of the towns was little better. Yet now Russia, of all the belligerents, is perhaps the most sober nation.

No sooner did the order for mobilisation go forth in Russia than all wine shops, beer saloons, and Government "vodka" shops were closed, and the sale of all intoxicants absolutely prohibited, except in first-class restaurants and hotels. This order, with certain modifications, remains in force. In passing it is interesting to note that a bottle of whisky which could be procured in Dundee for somewhere in the neighbourhood of four shillings is costing in from twenty-five to thirty shillings. Like our own country, Russia is not exempt from evasions of the law. The next step of the Russian Government was to prohibit the sale of vodka and spirits until the end of the war. One month later, in October, 1914, local municipal and provincial administrative bodies were empowered topetition for prohibition of the sale of all strong intoxicants within the district in question, equivalent reductions of license duty being returned to license-holders. This power has been largely availed of by local authorities, but it is a mistake to assume, as is frequently done by temperance writers, that Russia is now a prohibitionist country. The consumption of light alcoholic drinks is permissible under severe restrictions. Beer and drinks of an equivalent strength are still procurable.

Heavy Fines.
The conspicuous feature about the Russian control of the licensed trade is the savage nature of its fines against the orders of the governing authorities. An intoxicated person is liable to a fine of, in British money, £15. The publican who supplies the liquor is liable to a fine of £450, and his conviction entails the loss of his license. That the new restrictions have resulted in a vast beneficial social upheaval all recent travellers to Russia, especially men such as John Foster Fraser, who knew the country intimately prior these changes, are agreed.

In Denmark there is absolute prohibition of the sale of spirits to soldiers in certain police districts. In more limited extent this prohibition is extended to civilians. The Government of the country has also prohibited the use of home-grown cereals for the distillation of spirits, but has sanctioned the importation of foreign corn and maize for the purppse. Apparently brewing beer in Denmark has not been greatly restricted since our trade returns continue to show fairly constant importations of Danish beer.

In Norway soon war broke out the use of grain and potatoes for distillation was forbidden, but in deference to the desires of farmers this restriction was withdrawn in September. 1914. The supply for distillation was reduced by one-half. Local veto very largely obtains in Norway, but in places where this was not in force the sale of whole bottles of spirits was permitted between 10 a.m. and noon for four days each week. Later a general sale of spirits was allowed on the four open days, and ultimately, except where there existed local veto, sales of spirits were allowed from 8 a.m. to midnight. It should be remembered, however, that the same time Norway raised her tariff on alcoholic liquor very considerably, although proportionately not so high as this country.

Sweden Suspends Sale.
Sweden, on the outbreak of war, required no new law to deal with the emergency. In common with other neutral nations in the belligerent zone she partially mobilised. Swedish law provides that in the event of mobilisation the provincial Governor in nearly every province except Stockholm has power to suspend the sale of spirits. This power was freely exercised. Sweden, too, had only six months before initiated the new "Stockholm system" for controlling the liquor trade. This system, which is merely a logical extension of the "Gothenburg system," has effected marvellous reforms in the brief period that has been in force, and promises to be fruitful of much reform in the future.

In Switzerland the preparation of distilled spirit from potatoes and cereals during the 1914-15 season was forbidden; the sale of potable spirit was forbidden, except for the preparation of medicines and for certain specially authorised uses. The use of methylated spirits as potable spirit was also prohibited. The Liquor Control Board in this country might take a leaf out of Switzerland in this respect.

Last (may she ever be there!) comes Germany. At first restrictions on drinking were imposed. Then the scarcity of raw material necessitated a limitation of the output of breweries and distilleries. Later it was made an offence to supply ardent spirits to soldiers, and in March, 1915 steps were taken to regulate the prices of alcoholic drinks. Characteristically in fixing the limitation of output and sale the Germans exempted certain breweries and distilleries. The ruling caste are largely interested in these, and, the Kaiser owns at least one brewery, whose wares he is reputed to be quite keen on pushing.

Strangely enough few questions have the power to raise passion as readily as the interference of the State with the drink traffic. The average citizen feels that Government interference in such matter is the rankest injustice. Surely it augurs well for the success of our just cause that Great Britain and her Allies have accepted in such good part the restrictions on their private habits which those in authority have found it necessary to impose."
Dundee Courier - Friday 21 January 1916, page 4.

What a wonderful cobination of racial stereotyping and temperance logic. Though you have to love the comparison of the price of a bottle of whisky in Dundee and St. Petersburg.  Good on the journalist for squeezing in the local angle.

I love this bit aboutthe effect of slivovice on Serbs: "the wonderful constitution and open-air life of the Serb neutralises any possible effect it might have on his system." Probably no coincidence that the Serbs were allies of the UK.

To Vancouver

Just sausage and boiled eggs for brekkie again. I don’t eat much. My stomach isn’t feeling great, but at least I can still see. Andrew doesn’t even go down for it, preferring more kip.

Back in my room I start writing up yesterday. And decide to get through some of the beer. There’s too much to fit into my check in bag. Now where is my bottle opener? I let the kids have it. Bastards. They must have taken it to their room. Luckily, I’ve one can.

When the kids turn up, I ask Andrew: “Do you have my keys.” He rummages in his pockets and says: Sorry dad, here they are.” He helps me get stuck into the beer.

“I think I’ll leave the Alcohol here.”

“Good idea, dad. If it leaked there’d be a risk of your bag going up in flames.”

“Good point, Andrew. I was worrying more about my eyesight.”

“There’s that, too.”

I promised Alexei he could pick what we did today. His choice: a diner. Fair enough by me. I like me a good diner. There’s one, Sliders, on the same street, Sutter, as our hotel. Decision made. Especially as the gradient to there isn’t that crazy.

We check up, dump our luggage and head off. Sliders is a classic diner with lots of chrome. Just what Alexei was after. The kids order hamburger and chips, while I go for a Louisiana hot links hotdog. I skip the chips. Andrew actually finishes his meal – there’ a first.

Filled up, it’s time for a couple of beers. At least for me and Andrew. Alexei will have the fun of watching. Tommy’s Joynt is our choice, mostly because it’s close.

On the way there we pass a pub outside which there was a pile of vomit yesterday. I'ts still there, now baked dry onto the pavement.

"Now there's a pub I wouldn't go in, Andrew."

Tommy's, on the other hand, is somewhere I’m happy to drink. An odd cross between a slightly kitschy diner and a bar. I don't care. They have a few decent beers. That's all I'm worried about. And it's enough like a classic American bar to please Andrew.

I start with a Lagunitas IPA, then have a Marin Pale Ale. Andrew has a few ciders and an Anchor Steam. As always Andrew is out-drinking me at least two pints to one. I feel very old.

Old blokes who are obviously regulars come in and eat. It looks like the always have the same meal. The way they eat is very ritualised.

Alexei isn't delighted about drinking cola for two hours, but he doesn't really complain.

"Just as long as I have a drink when we get to Canada."

"I promise." We've already checked for places that will be open close to our hotel. We should be OK. I wouldn't want to break a promise as solemn as this. One about beer.

We get to the airport early - 3 hours before the flight is due. Just as well.

We couldn’t check in online so we go to a counter in the airport. The woman there asks if we have an eTA. Which is the Canadian form of ESTA. Great. First I've heard of it.

"You can apply for one online." she suggests, helpfully.

Off we go, Andrew logs into the site on Alexei's phone and we start filling in this complicated form. Andrew gets all through mine, and at the end gets an error: the starting date has to be greater than today's date. Wonderful.

I go back to the desk and ask what I should do: "Just put in tomorrow's date." Doing that, we’re able to submit our requests. Luckily they are approved immediately and we can check in. Disaster avoided.

I seemed to remember a food court at San Francisco airport. But maybe that’s in another bit. Our pier has pretty crappy food and drink options. So we give the next gate a try. That has a Gordon Biersch. Which will do.

I get a Märzen and a double Jack Daniels. “Why didn’t you just get a single?” Alexei asks. “I don’t do singles.” When it appears, it’s a suitably huge measure. A bucket almost.

Me and Andrew share pulled pork sliders, while Alexei has a turkey sandwich. With chips. I’m not really that hungry, but realise this will probably be my last chance to eat warm food today.

There’s free entertainment on the plane. So I watch some Canadian comedy series called Mohawk Girls. Not really sure what I make of it, but it passes the time.

The flight is OK, just late in the day. It arrives quite early, but then hangs around on the tarmac waiting for a gate, putting us a little late overall. Luckily, my bag comes out quickly.

The taxi fare is a fixed $31 Canadian. As it’s late, I only have twenties, I’m knacked as fuck and I don’t feel like fucking around, I give him $40. “The tip is too much”, he sportingly says. But he doesn’t give me anything back. Tipping etiquette is a nightmare. Especially when you swap between countries.

By the time we get to the hotel it’s 11:30. And Alexei really wants to go for a drink in a pub. There’s one close to the hotel, Backstage, that, according to the web is open until 2 AM. We get to it about midnight, but it’s pretty empty.

"We're just closing up, I'm afraid."

"Any chance of one quick beer?"

"I suppose so." Phew. Promise kept. Just.

The kids have some fruit cider abomination with a horrible pink colour. I have some sort of IPA. Then it’s back to the hotel, where we have a couple of beers and watch some shitty TV. No rush to get to bed, as breakfast isn’t included here.

I surrender to sleep without a whimper.


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


Tommy's Joynt
1101 Geary Blvd,
San Francisco,
CA 94109.
Tel: +1 415-775-4216
http://tommysjoynt.com


Gordon Biersch
Terminal 3,
S Airport Blvd,
San Francisco,
CA 94128.
Tel: +1 650-827-6635


Backstage Lounge
1585 Johnston St,
Vancouver,
BC V6H 3R9.
Tel: +1 604-687-1354
http://www.thebackstagelounge.com/

Let's Brew - 1921 Barclay Perkins BS Exp

This beer must have been a relief after the war years. Finally, a full-strength Stout again. Hang on, it wasn't available in London. As it was an export beer.

Really an export beer. Written in red at the top of the record it says “For exportation only”.

I assume that’s because of the strength. It would have been uneconomical to brew this beer for the domestic market due to the price controls that were still in place. You could only charge a maximum of 9d per pint for anything with a gravity over 1054º. The domestic version of BS was 1055º, exactly what you would expect, as that was the most profitable gravity to brew to.

Interestingly, it says “Sterax lined casks”, presumably meaning the casks it was racked into for maturation. It’s one of the few pieces of evidence I’ve come across for lined casks being used in the UK.

The grist is pretty complicated , with five malts. Though what’s missing caught my eye: flaked maize, which was a standard ingredient in their Ales. There is, however, a small quantity of oats. Presumably so they could sell some of it as Oatmeal Stout. It’s not clear from the brewing record what form they were in, malted or flaked. The latter would be my guess.

The mild malt in the recipe is my substitution for SA malt. The pale malt was PA malt in the original. I thought it was odd having PA malt – the highest quality pale malt – in a Stout. But there’s a note next to it saying that it was used in error and should have been SA malt.

Some of the roasted malt – 0.25 quarters of the 3.5 quarters in total – was added in the copper. It was usual for Barclay Perkins to throw some of the black malt into the copper for their Stouts. I assume that it’s for colour.

There’s only one sugar and that’s No. 3. Surprisingly, there’s no caramel, which turns up in most of their beers.

The real FG would have been lower as I’m sure this beer underwent a long secondary fermentation.

Almost forgot to mention that it’s very heavily hopped. The hops were all pretty fresh so I saw no reason to knock down the hopping rate. Though the maturation period that I’m sure this beer underwent would have reduced bitterness levels by the time the beer was consumed.

1921 Barclay Perkins BS Exp
mild malt	7.25 lb	46.40%
pale malt	1.25 lb	8.00%
brown malt	1.25 lb	8.00%
black malt	1.25 lb	8.00%
amber malt	2.00 lb	12.80%
oats	0.125 lb	0.80%
No. 3 invert sugar	2.50 lb	16.00%
Cluster 120 mins	1.50 oz
Saaz 120 mins	1.50 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	3.00 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	3.00 oz
Fuggles dry hops	1.00 oz
OG	1072
FG	1025
ABV	6.22
Apparent attenuation	65.28%
IBU	105
SRM	44
Mash at	148º F
Sparge at	172º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale