San Antonio day two

The good news is that breakfast in included again. The not quite so good news is that it’s another paper and plastic job.

It’s pretty much identical to the breakfast in the first hotel. Meaning, there is bacon. Plus scrambled eggs and those potato things. I limit myself to just nine tiny rashers today. I wouldn’t want to be a pig.

My room has a great view of the motorway. I could stare at the view all day, if it weren’t for the weather channel and the adverts for prescription medicines on the TV to distract me.

No motorway journey for me, the conference being downstairs in the hotel. But I don’t rush to get down there. The first item on the agenda is a business meeting, which isn’t really appropriate for me.

Leaving me a valuable opportunity after breakfast to read crap on Twitter while watching crap TV. Good to know I won’t look back on this day with regret when I’m on my deathbed. At least I didn’t miss anything on Twitter that day in San Antonio, I’ll think to myself.

The first bit I turn up for is the Bloody Mary bar. No way I’d miss that. It’s at the wonderfully early time of 9:30. Perfect for warming me up for the day.

“I’ve never had a Bloody Mary before.” I confess to a fellow attendee. “Quite nice, aren’t they?” I continue. “Like an alcoholic soup.”

It is weird I’ve never tried one before. I recount the tale of how one of my old locals in Amsterdam, Rick’s Café, used to have a Bloody Mary happy hour at 8 AM.  We’d tip in there sometimes, post-club.  But I always went for the Guinness breakfast. Three pints and then home to bed.

They’re about to close up. Damn. “Could you put another shot of vodka in there, please?”

It gets me right in the mood for the day’s first presentation, which on can seaming.

I’ve noticed that all the talks except mine are extremely technical. Which I can live with. After learning more than I’ll ever need to know about attaching lids to cans, we continue with an in-depth look at keg spears. This one really resonates with me personally.

As it covers aspects of my one and only professional brewing job: filling kegs at the Courage plant in Newark (formerly Holes) in the summer of 1975. I genuinely find it all bizarrely fascinating. Sometimes I suspect my level of nerdy interest when it comes to beer is really getting out of hand.

Lunch comes with more beer. Hey, I’m not arguing. I’m first in the queue for the buffet. Leaving less time wasted queuing and more for drinking.

There’s something soothing, yet fascinating, about the technical detail of the presentations. Or perhaps it’s a full belly and a few beers that’s mellowing me out. What the hell – I’m enjoying myself.

I’m on at 3 PM. Which is a good time. The Bloody Mary and hospitality beers have me nicely warmed up. It doesn’t hurt that I gave the talk just two days ago. Helps me pace it better and remember where the hell I am.

I tell a lot more jokes and get some pretty good laughs. Though a couple don’t get much response. The audience seems pretty interested again. There are a decent number of questions. Which thankfully I can answer. Talking to a room of professional brewers can be intimidating for an amateur like me.

Once the after-talk chat is done, I nip up to the hospitality suite for some more beer and chat. I can never get enough of either. Especially when the talk is about beer.

It’s all very relaxed. Which suits me. I’m an informal sort of bloke. Pretty obvious, if you’ve ever seen the way I dress. Charity shop chic, is how I describe my look. Apprentice tramp, according to Dolores. She’s very harsh at times. One of the reasons I’m being so careful with the pennies.

Someone tells me: “A couple of your gags went over people’s heads. They aren’t all as used to British humour as I am.” That’s good to know. I thought maybe my timing was a bit off. Or my jokes were crap. Naah, that couldn’t possibly be true.

We tip – some of us – back downstairs for some evening nosh. It’s all pretty low-key. But with a beer in my hand and someone to talk to, I’m as happy as Barry. Whoever he is.

Dined and dazed I dumble up to my room. To stare dumbly as lights dizz and dazzle along the motorway.

The last of the hotel whisky helps me crawl between the cracks into the cavern of sleep.

San Antonio day one

Amber, Jeff’s wife, is giving me a lift to the Greyhound bus station. Before that, I’ve arranged to meet Jeff for some breakfast at the brewery.

There’s no-one there when I trundle up. I wander around for a while in search of life, then decide just to wait. I am a little early.

After ten minutes or so Jeff turns up. He’s got doughnuts and kolache. As I don’t consume sugar, I go for the latter. Though until Jeff explains, I have no idea what it is.

Turns out it’s a type of pastry. Introduced to Texas by Czech immigrants in the 19th century. Though since then its spread further afield. The filling is traditionally fruit, but these have something like a sausage inside, completely wrapped in the dough. Not bad at all, though I can’t remember ever seeing then in the Czech Republic. Evidently the fundamentalist wing of the kolache community refuses to accept meat-based versions as the real thing. Sounds much like the beer world.

Amber turns up when we’ve done eating. I plonk my bags in the car and we’re off. It’s quite a way, right over the other side of town. But the drive does provide the opportunity of seeing more of Austin’s urban motorway network up close. It’s just as exciting as on the way in from the airport.

Austin Greyhound station, despite its strange location miles outside of town, is way less crazy than the others I've been to. No shouting, swearing or any other weirdness. Just students, the old and the poor waiting patiently. At least I fit into one of the categories.

The Mexican-looking bloke sitting next to me says something unintelligible in Spanish. I think I caught the word “telephone”. Does he want to borrow my phone to make a call? He’ll be lucky, as I don’t have one.

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

He replies with more unintelligible Spanish. After a couple of more goings backward and forward he gives up. That was surreal. Eventually I see him getting into a car outside. He must have been waiting for a lift. Probably wanted to ring to see where it was. I’ll never know for sure.

The bus is 45 minutes late, but with three unread Private Eyes, I've plenty to entertain me.

When it does roll in, I’m lucky enough to be one of the first to roll on. Giving me first refusal on the various partially broken seats. What’s that smell? Hard to pin down, but not particularly pleasant. Best just try to ignore it, rather than investigating too deeply. Not sure I want to know what it is.

Probably a good idea to put on my seat belt. Except the thing you slot the buckle into doesn’t seem to be there. Let’s hope we don’t crash. Think I’ll just get stuck into my Private Eye and try to zone everything else out. That should work. Contemplating horrific imminent death isn’t very conducive to relaxation.

There’s not much to see through the window. Just a motorway full of cars with a backdrop of beige. Beige strip malls, beige houses, beige warehouses, beige flats. Must be lovely in the summer when all the vegetation is burnt brown. It looks exactly like the suburbs of Houston. Bland and a tiny bit depressing.

The bus may be broken and smelly, but at least the ticket was dirt cheap, just $7. Which is cheaper than the short taxi ride to my hotel from San Antonio bus station. Which has a more normal city-centre location. It’s a 2-minute trip.

When I enter my room I think the cleaners have accidentally left open a connecting door to an adjoining room. Then I realise that I’m in a suite. Cool.

It’s only 1 PM and the conference doesn’t kick off until 4. As I’m staying downtown, this seems like a good opportunity to take a look at San Antonio. Not sure what I’ll find, but it is a chance. I head out for a bit of a walk.

It’s another warm and sunny day. Having noticed on a map that there’s a shopping centre nearby, I head there.

I’ll admit Rivercenter isn’t a random choice. I want to check out the booze shop. To see if there’s anything worth picking up for the lads. Though after the Hong Kong duty free disaster (I spent way more than intended), Dolores has warned me about buying pricey spirits. Well, spirits in general. And anything pricey in general.

Dolores has been refreshingly frank and open on the topic of my spending. And about the likely repercussions for future transgressions of her guidelines. Being married to a German makes life so much simpler.

The Rivercenter is built around – and even partly above – a weird spur of the San Antonio River. The lowest level, on the banks, consists of a food court and restaurants. Above that are a couple of floors of shops. Sadly, I can’t find a map of the layout anywhere.

After 15 minutes of angry wandering, I still haven’t found the liquor store. Frustrated, I spot a drug store sharing the same name: Time Out. Maybe the staff here will be able to end my little hell. A very helpful spotty youth can, and explains the route.

It’s no wonder I hadn’t found it unaided. Tucked away around a corner right at the top of the complex, it’s not somewhere I was likely to stumble past. Almost as if they were trying to hide it. Maybe to discourage people from drinking. Bastards.

After all the effort getting here, it’s rather a disappointment. Not a great range of stuff. And the interesting stuff they do have (and not available in Ton Overmars around the corner from my house) is too expensive. At least if I want to retain a pair of bollocks. (I do, for the record.) Well, that was a waste of time.

But at least I got to see some of the city. More than I did in Austin.

Back in my room, I have a small stay-awaker while watching some bollocks on TV. It’s my holiday and I’ll do what the hell I want. Passing the time until the conference hospitality kicks off.

I wander down to the conference room. No-one around. This is odd. Maybe no-one has shown up yet? I go back to my room and loaf a little more.

There’s still no-one around when I return to the conference room after 30 minutes of vegetative TV. I finally spot the small notice saying that the hospitality suite is on the 15th floor. But also spot some people with conference lanyards obviously heading for the shuttle bus to Freetail. Where conference registration and dinner take place. I follow them. Feeling about 87% of a complete wally.

The shuttle is a retired school bus. A long-retired school bus. Probably at least 30 years old. If it were human, a nonagenarian. Yet, in some ways, it’s in better nick than the greyhound I took earlier. Not sure what that reveals about the state of the universe. At least this bus doesn’t have that weird smell.

We bump and grind grandly along, then grungle into Freetail. A typical modern production brewery. I was going to say American production brewery, but they all look much the same, everywhere in the world. A big industrial shed with an echoey tap room to the left and a room full of shiny things to the right. We hang right. Where conference registration is.

They don’t have a pre-printed lanyard for me. I have to write my own name on a blank one. What the hell. Vienna .

I’ve never met anyone here before. Yet soon enough I’m chatting away with all sorts of people. At one time I’d have found it terrifying being at a social event with no-one I knew. But I’ve learnt to relax and just not give a shit. Being a beer thing makes it easier. I can yammer on about beer pretty much indefinitely. To which Dolores and the kids can attest.

There’s food and free beer. What else could I possibly need?

There’s one more destination this evening: Alamo Brewing. After some more crunching and grunting of the ancient bus, we lurch into their car park. Flanked by train tracks, it’s an impressive, modern, rust-coloured complex. Merging in well with its industrial surroundings.

We drink awhile in the beer garden. Which is a bit of a beer car park, but no too concretey. There’s more beer and chat and general jolliness. Before the shuttle grumbles us back to the hotel. Where I finally discover the hospitality suite.

A no-money-spent day, other than that one Joe. My grillox will hang free a little longer.

Back in my room, a Glen Grant cuddles me tenderly, stroking my head into slumber.



Freetail Brewing Co.
2000 S Presa St,
San Antonio,
TX 78210.
Tel: +1 210-625-6000
https://www.freetailbrewing.com/


Alamo Beer Company
202 Lamar,
San Antonio,
TX 78202.
Tel: +1 210-872-5589
https://www.alamobeer.com/

Austin day two

Not a day for long lounging.  I’m being collected at 8:30. I drag myself out of bed around 7:30. Essentially just to leave some time for bacon. The day won’t be right without the right start. And the right start comes in the form of fatty strips of fried pork.

Bacon craving sated, I return to my room to collect the stuff I’ll need today. My presentation. Books to flog. All carried in a grey DDR bag. Plus my clothes, as I’ll be staying in a neighbouring ranch tonight. The oddly-named Tipping T. Sounds like a terrible afternoon faux-pas.

After arriving at Jester King, I have my second breakfast of the day: breakfast burritos. That’s a new one for me. I plump for a bacon egg and cheese combination. Can’t go wrong with that. It’s going to be a full day: brewing a collaboration beer in the morning, looking around the ranch in the afternoon, speaking in the early evening, supper club later in the evening. Two breakfasts are probably a good idea.

The beer is already mashing.  It’s an interesting one: Deutscher Porter. A style no-one seems to have heard of, despite it having been reasonably common until 1990. At least in the DDR. I know, because I’ve labels from at least a couple of dozen different breweries.

Though the recipe we’re using isn’t from the DDR, but from West Berlin. I took it from a little booklet produced in 1947 by the head brewer at Groterjan, the only 100% top-fermenting brewery in Berlin. The grist is quite different from a UK-brewed Porter, being 70% Munich malt, just 20% lager malt, 7% caramel malt and 3% Farbmalz.

The wort is very rich and dark. Looking forward to trying this one. Sean, the brewer with whom I discussed the recipe, is very pleased.

The brewery isn’t huge. Housed in a corrugated iron former machine shop, which Jeff and his brother bought, dismantled and then reconstructed here. Given the nature of the beers Jester King brew, it’s no surprise to find a cooler (coolship to Americans) and lots of oak barrels full of maturing beer.

Once I’ve checked out the brewery, Jeff takes me off around the site. They have a huge amount of land – over 160 acres. After years of being mostly unused, they’re gradually converting it back into a working farm. The idea is to grow as much as possible to be used both in the brewery and restaurant.

A vineyard has been planted, though, due to heavy pruning, it was hard to spot the vines. They’ve not been in long and need a couple of years to develop their roots and build up strength. A hop yard is also in the making. Currently only the trellising is in place. The rhizomes will be planted later this year.

Most fun are the goats, mothers and kids, who have their own pen. Though, judging by the quantity of goat shit scattered around the site, they don’t spend all their time contained within it. They’re very friendly, though I am slightly worried they’re only sidling up to me to snack on my trousers.

As they make spontaneously-brewed beer along the lines of Lambiek (though not called that out of respect for Belgian brewers), they need a stock of aged hops. The ageing takes place in the attic of a former stable. A rather falling apart stable. The hops have been repackaged into small burlap sacks as this helps them age more quickly. It’s not exactly fancy.

Once the tour is done, Jeff takes me back to the beer garden and breaks out a few bottles from his cellar. The spontaneously-fermented Spon is particularly good, with the subtle complexity of a good Belgian Lambiek. Beers of three different vintages, usually 1, 2 and 3 years old are blended to produce the final product.

There’s still a while to go before I speak. Leaving time to hang around the brewery, drink a little beer and eat some barbecue for tea. Very tasty brisket and ribs. Something I definitely wanted to try this trip, Texas barbecue. I’d heard lots about it. Not a disappointment.

I notice than my skin looks much whiter underneath my watch strap. Bloody hell I’ve managed to get sunburnt after 30 minutes exposure in partially overcast conditions.

Half an hour or so before show time the punters start turning up. Jeff is sure there will be a good crowd – at least 50. It’s taking place inside the brew house, which is nice.

Chip, owner of Live Oak arrives. “I saw you in the brewery yesterday.” He tells me. “But it didn’t click who you were. You should have told me you were coming and we could have drunk some special beers.” Oh well, I’ll know better next time.

With ten minutes to go, my stomach is feeling crap. It feels like I might be about to vomit. I wander off a little just in case I do. But a little dry retching is as far as it gets. Still feeling way short of my best, I take to the stage. Or rather stand in front of the projector screen. There’s no actual stage, obviously.

It’s a full house. Must be at least 60 people.

I do my talking thing. The audience seems to enjoy it. Most modern drinkers are unaware of just how many extinct German sour styles there are. Far, far more than still exist. There are quite a few questions, mostly pretty sensible.

Once the talking is over, it’s time to flog some books. Which goes very well. I quickly sell all the ones I have. Damn. I should have brought more. Estimating how many to bring is a nightmare. The first time I spoke to an MBAA audience, at Schells in New Ulm a couple of years back, despite there being over 100 in the audience, I sold just one book. I’ve realised that it’s totally impossible to predict how many I’ll shift.

I linger awhile chatting as they crowd slowly drifts off. The lingering takes a little too long, as the supper club, which is being held in the hop yard, has already kicked off. By the time I get up there, two courses are already done. Luckily, they saved them for me. I spend some time catching everyone else up. 

As dusk falls, the beer flows and the food arrives. It’s all very relaxing. Except when a few spots of rain threaten to ruin the party. But that soon passes, without causing any great inconvenience.

As the staff are clearing up there’s a strange, high-pitched noise somewhere out in the darkness.

“That’s a coyote.” One says.

“No, it’s just a dog.”

Not any dog I’ve ever heard.

“That’s definitely a coyote. And not that far away.”

How reassuring. What you get for being out in the sticks, I suppose.

I don’t stay up too late. Just before 10 I head for the hut I’m staying in. Where I watch some more crap TV and drink a little hotel whisky as sleep closes in, circling like a coyote.



Jester King Brewery
13187 Fitzhugh Rd,
Austin,
TX 78736.
https://jesterkingbrewery.com/

Let's Brew - 1904 Tetley X1 Pale

Yet another Mild recipe, though quite different to the last one. And it's from my favourite, Tetley.

A very wide range of Mild Ales was brewed at the Tetley brewery in Leeds. Despite the brewery being well-known for its East India Pale Ale, the bulk of its trade was in various strengths of Mild.

Second up from bottom of these was what I call X1. In the brewing logs it’s actually an X with a single horizontal line through the middle. As that isn’t a real character and one that doesn’t appear on my computer keyboard, I had to come up with something else.

As well as brewing five basic Milds, Tetley also made the three weakest, X, X1 and X2 in both pale and dark versions. The difference between the two being the quantity of caramel employed., which was ten times greater in the dark version.

There’s not much to the grist, which is just the two base malts and sugar. I’m not sure exactly what the sugar was: it’s described in the records as RC(3). At least that’s what I think it says. The handwriting isn’t great. I haven’t bothered including the caramel in the recipe because the quantities are so tiny: just 14 lbs out of a total of 6,118 lbs.

The hops were a 50-50 split between Worcester and Kent hops, both from the 1903 harvest, the former having been kept in a cold store. The chances are that both were Fuggles or something similar.

1904 Tetley X1 Pale
mild malt	4.50 lb	48.65%
pale malt	2.50 lb	27.03%
No. 1 invert sugar	2.25 lb	24.32%
Fuggles 90 mins	1.25 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.25 oz
OG	1047.9
FG	1012.2
ABV	4.72
Apparent attenuation	74.53%
IBU	31
SRM	7
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1469 West Yorkshire Ale Timothy Taylor

This is one of the dozens of recipes in my book Mild! plus. Which is avaiable in both paperback:

 

 

and hardback formats:

 

 

Austin day one

The day starts as all good days do. With an accompanying smell of bacon.

Just what I need after a very long day of travel yesterday. OK, it’s a self-service job with paper plates and plastic cutlery. But there is bacon, scrambled egg and those potato cubes Americans love including in their breakfasts. Waffles are available, too, but I’ve no interest in those.

I’m in no rush. Nothing is planned until 7 PM, when I’ve a dinner appointment with some of the Jester King brewing crew. What to do until then? Maybe they have breweries here or something. It is quite warm. Might be nice to have a cooling beer somewhere.

Lazing around in my room for a while, gazing at crap TV lets the bacon settle. Is ten rashers excessive? They were those tiny little US ones. Ten of them is barely one thick-cut-slice of back bacon.

I haven’t mentioned what I’m doing in Texas, have I? Back in January I received an invitation from the Texas branch of the MBAA. Did I want to present my German sour beers talk at their spring conference? Sure, I’d be delighted. But I’d need my expenses paid. The organisers hadn’t realised just how far away I live.

They couldn’t come up with an offer big enough to satisfy Dolores. Then I had an idea. Austin is quite close to San Antonio, isn’t it? I’d been meaning to visit my mate* Jeff Stuffings, one of the owners and founders of Jester King. If they chipped in maybe this could work. I was quite surprised when everything fell into place.

Which is a long way of explaining why I had a printout of the Jester King short guide to Austin beer. With lists of recommended breweries and beer bars. Where to go? I have a few options.

My choice is based on a couple of factors. Recommendations of other drinkers. And proximity. I don’t want to spend too much on taxis. (Dolores has made her opinions very clear on my travel expenses.) It’s all so complicated. Eventually I settle on Live Oak. Mostly because I’ve heard that they brew good Lagers. And I do love me a good Lager.

Soon a cab has bounced me all the way there. To quite a rural location, the brewery is set in what looks like several acres of low-density forest. Very nice. A beer garden with real trees. Which is appropriate given the brewery’s name.

Being quite early, it’s pretty empty inside the fairly cavernous tap room. Oh look – they’ve a Doppelbock on draught. The perfect morning beer. I order myself one.

Live Oak Liberator 7.8% ABV
Nice dark brown colour. Full of malty goodness. Rather good. There’s a little touch of smoke, which is fine.

They’re playing The Specials, which is pretty cool. Though the weather isn’t – it’s like summer. A Dutch summer, at least. Doubt this even counts as particularly nice spring weather here.

This will be a pretty laidback trip. Now I get to the US so often, I feel less of a need to rush around like a demented dervish. Only two towns on the itinerary: a couple of days in Austin then down to San Antonio for a couple more.

Should tell them who I am? Being English, I’m reluctant to say: “Hi, I’m renowned beer historian Ron Pattinson.” Way too presumptuous. Sounds like I’m touting for free beer. Plus there’s always the chance that they’ll reply “Ron who?”

Opening so early on weekdays is a surprise, given how out of the way they are. Far from any human habitation. It isn’t exactly mobbed. OK for me, boring old twat that I am. Quiet is my exciting. (That’s not particularly to do with age. I’ve never cared for crowds. Or maybe it’s just people I hate.)

I don’t quite understand how places like this can operate. How the hell would you get here? You’d have to drive. But then how can you drink? I keep coming across pubs in the US that make no sense to European eyes. Locations that seem insane for somewhere whose main business is serving alcohol.

I’ll ponder that while drinking my next beer.

Live Oak Grodziskie 3% ABV

Yeah – a pint of Grodziskie. Ordered with a little trepidation. I hope it isn’t one of those sour abominations. It’s served with a delightful ice-cream head and the colour is suitably pale. But how does it taste? Smoky and bitter – fucking right. None of that sour shit. It’s very pleasant, with all the features I’d expect from a Grodziskie. Almost as good as the Jopen one. But I am biased.

The trees outside look a bit weird. More like giant bushes, with their multiple stems. As there are a couple outside, I’m going to go crazy apeshit and guess they’re Live Oaks. I have heard that as a tree name. always thought it was a bit weird as a name. Surely all oaks, other than the dead ones, are live?

They’re playing Setting Sons by The Jam. I’d forgotten how good an album it is. I can still hum all the bass parts. Down in the Tube Station at Midnight – no-one else here has lived that.

The food truck, Black Forest, is now open so I troll over there. It’s very much German-oriented, which is fine by me. Something snack-like and German is exactly what I fancy. A bratwurst fits the bill perfectly. Quite a good one, too. And not expensive. Important, as Dolores will be going over all my expenses when I return. “We could have bought both of the kids shoes with what you spent in that bar.” That’s her catchphrase.

People drift in in drabs, then mostly drift right on out again to sit in the garden. I prefer it inside. Wouldn’t want that spiky sun getting too closely acquainted with my skin. Which has a lovely healthy pallor. (Dolores’s mum thought I had a vitamin deficiency the first time we met. That’s how pale my skin is.)

Eton Rifles is on now – does anyone here understand the anger behind that song? Or how appallingly relevant it still is in the UK?

Don’t get yourself all riled up, Ronald. Drink some beer and chill the hell out. It’s a lovely day, I’m in a brewery, have the whole day free and there’s money in my pocket.

Time for another beer:

Baltik 8% ABV
Another perfect lunch beer, at just 8% ABV. Pleasantly Lagery (my tasting notes just keep on improving),. Not quite dark enough, if I’m going style Nazi.

I’m being very restrained this afternoon. Just the three beers, then I leave into the next cab and roll on back to my hotel. To catch my breath before the evening. When I’ve a dinner date with two of the Jester King folks, Sean and Luis.

After an afternoon whisky to accompany some dreadful TV, I stroll over to reception and ask them to call me a cab. I’ve 30 minutes until my appointment. Should be plenty of time. It can’t be more than a 10-minute drive to the Odd Duck.

I stand outside and wait. And wait. Then I wait some more.

After 20 minutes the cacti outside the hotel are losing their fascination. 30 minutes in, I go back to reception and ask them to enquire where the fuck my taxi is. Though not in quite those words. I am English, after all. We never reveal the seething anger in our heads.

After just three-quarters of an hour, a taxi does arrive. And soon drops me at the Odd Duck. I’m embarrassingly almost an hour late.

I’ve never met either Sean or Luis before. How will I spot them? No problem. As soon as I get through the door Sean comes over and introduces himself. Then we tuck into some nosh.

It’s rather nice. Quite sophisticated and with an emphasis on local. We order various bits and nibble away on them. With accompanying beer, obviously. Especially as they sell some decent stuff.

When we’re done eating, we decant to The ABGB, a brewpub a little down the road, for more beer. In the darkness, lit only by a neon blur, we kick the last of the evening to pieces.

Back in my room, as I sip and slip from consciousness, sleep steals in through the window.




* We’re pisco sour friends after a week in Santiago in 2016.




Live Oak Brewing Company
1615 Crozier Ln,
Del Valle,
TX 78617.
Tel: +1 512-385-2299
https://liveoakbrewing.com


Odd Duck
1201 S Lamar Blvd,
Austin,
TX 78704
Tel: +1 512-433-6521
https://oddduckaustin.com/



The ABGB
1305 W Oltorf St,
Austin,
TX 78704.
Tel: +1 512-298-2242
https://theabgb.com/

Texas here I come

I’m up at my normal time.  No rush, as my flight isn’t until 10. And I’m already all packed. Prepared is my middle name.

My route to the airport is more complicated than usual. They’re fiddling around with the tram tracks again, preventing the number 15 bus from running its usual route. So instead I take a 5 tram, then switch to the 397 express bus at Emmastraat. It works pretty seamlessly.

I don’t go straight to drop off my bag. First I go to the little Albert Heijn supermarket landside. To pick up a bacon an omelette baguette. Way, way cheaper than getting a sandwich airside. And much nicer.

For some reason, I wasn’t able to print my boarding pass at home. I have to do it at one of the machines. “Touch screen to start” it says, encouragingly. For some reason, it doesn’t seem to like my finger. Or the other ones I try. I give the next machine a go. No luck there, either. No-one else seems to be having this problem. Eventually, one recognises my finger as human.

After that it’s a breeze. My bag is checked within a couple of minutes and after a couple more I’m through security and passport control. Mmm – will I be able to use the EU lane on the way back? Brexit is due to happen while I’m away.

On the way to my gate, I visit a duty-free shop. To pick up some hotel whisky. Dolores has had a word with me about how much I spend when travelling. So no Laphroaig or Lagavullin for me. Too expensive. I go for the more economical Glen Grant. The sacrifices I make.

It’s getting close to boarding time, though there’s still time for a quick eye-opener. A double Johnny Walker Red Label at a cafeteria-type place. I don’t linger over it. And only the one. Dolores expressed some robust opinions when reviewing the accounts for my last US trip.

My gate isn’t far. One of the lessons I’ve learned from years of air travel: always do you pre-flight boozing in a bar close to your departure gate. It saves a whole load of stress. When I get to the gate, push-in boarding is just starting. Perfect timing.

Unfortunately, I’m pulled out for a “random” extra security check. Which thankfully doesn’t last long. Not like the near strip-search – I was down to my undercrackers – I once had to endure.

Soon I’m settled into my seat and searching for crap films to while away the time. Something with the intellectual weight of an anorexic wren. Johnny English part two fits the bill perfectly. I’m already ankle-deep in it by the time we’re trundling down the runway.

A Dutch woman and an American bloke are in the two seats to my left. They’re soon chatting away with each other. Fine by me. I have my noise-cancelling headphones on. The talking is obviously drying out the woman’s throat. Because after we’ve been served our meal, she keeps nipping off to the galley for more wine. Very considerately, she also brings some back for me.

The flight slips may in a cocktail of low-quality entertainment and small bottles of red wine. It could be much worse.

Once again, I get a piece of paper with a black cross on it when I try to use the immigration machine. Brilliant. Luckily the wait for the human version isn’t too long. Not that I’m in a hurry today. Unlike on my last US trip. When I had a really tight connection, which I missed by five effing minutes.

To ensure that wouldn’t happen this time, I’ve arranged for almost 6 hours between my arrival in Houston and my connecting flight. No thrombie-inducing rush to the gate today. Instead, loads of hanging around. I don’t mind that. I’m sure it’s way better for my long-term health.

My bag’s waiting for me after I’ve gone through the fingerprint and photograph routine. It’s reassuringly dry. Which is important as, in addition to a few Dutch beers intended as presents, I’ve ten copies of the Home Brewer’s guide to Vintage Beer. It would be annoying if they were ruined by an in-flight breakage.

I need to change terminals as international flights arrive at D, while United flights depart mostly from C. There is an automated little train – quaintly called a tram – connecting the terminals. Except the walk to the tram stop is further than the ride itself. Good planning there. Annoying as I have both my bags with me.

Quickly transferring my duty free to my check-in bag (I deliberately left enough space for it), I’m soon breezing through security again with just a small rucksack. I know exactly where I’m going.

Because I checked before for a suitable bar to drink in. No need for any unnecessary aimless wandering.

Brewster Beer Garden isn’t very big. No more than a bar counter with stools. I plonk my fat arse on one of them and peruse the beer choices. There aren’t that many. But they do have a Coffee Porter from 8th Wonder. That’ll do. Along with a side of Jack Daniels. Just for tradition’s sake.

I don’t rush either of my drinks. I’ve still a few hours to wait. And I did have all those wines on the flight. I bury my head in Private Eye and take the occasional sip. Wow. I’ve really turned into Mr. Responsible.

The flight to Austin is short and uneventful. Though it’s getting pretty late – 9 PM – when we touch down. By the time I’ve collected my bag and jumped in a cab, it’s pushing 10 PM. The bag is reassuringly dry and unrattley. Pretty sure there’s no broken glass in it.

I’m staying a bit outside town, on the southside. Nothing fancy, but it was about the only option that wasn’t either ludicrously expensive, miles distant or too grotty. Though I do spot a scary gun sign on the way to my room.

Once I’ve stowed all my stuff, I head back to the lobby in search of nourishment.

There’s a restaurant attached to the hotel and I haven’t eaten for 8 hours or so. At least I think that’s how long it’s been. Jumping across time zones can make it difficult to keep track. But it’s just stopped serving food.

“There’s a 7/11 right next door if you want a sandwich.” The man on the reception informs me.

That’ll do me. I pick up a ham and cheese sandwich. Just $3 or so. That’ll please Dolores.

I switch on the TV and gradually doze to some shit programme to the accompaniment of a sip or two of Glen Grant. Sleep takes little persuading to kick down the door.


Brewster Beer Garden
Gate C43,
Houston International airport.

Let's brew Wednesday - 1880 Truman 40/- Ale

As time is ticking down towards May, it’s time for another Mild recipe. Though it isn’t Mild as you know it.

Of all the UK beers styles, it’s Mild that has undergone the biggest transformations over the last 200 years. A Georgian drinker wouldn’t recognise a modern iteration of the style: it’s just changed too much.

Early 19th-century Milds, even the weakest ones, were powerful beers, clocking in at over 6% ABV. And were often hopped at what to modern eyes looks like an insane level. The term Mild, despite what many today might believe, had nothing to do with strength of the level of hopping. It merely indicated that it was a beer sold young, usually no more than a couple of weeks after brewing.

In the final decades of the 19th century, the big London brewers had mostly trimmed down their range to a single Mild, known as X Ale. These had an OG of around 1060º. Truman, however, had retained a slightly stronger, one, too. Originally it fitted in between X Ale and XX Ale, but when XX was dropped in the 1870s, it became Truman’s strongest Mild.

The name refers to the wholesale price. In a system similar to that used in Scotland. Except in this case it referred to the price of a 36-gallon barrel, not a 54-gallon hogshead, as in Scotland.

The recipe is typically simple, just base malt and sugar. Rather a lot of sugar, in this case. Which doubles helped it a achieve a healthy degree of attenuation. The high percentage of foreign hops was very common at this point. In this case Cluster from the US and Belgian hops from Poperinge.

1880 Truman 40/- Ale
mild malt	9.25 lb	71.84%
cane sugar	3.625 lb	28.16%
Cluster 90 mins	3.25 oz
Poperinge 90 mins	0.75 oz
Goldings 30 mins	4.00 oz
OG	1068.7
FG	1015.5
ABV	7.04
Apparent attenuation	77.44%
IBU	116
SRM	5
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

This is one of the dozens of recipes in my book Mild! plus. Which is avaiable in both paperback:

and hardback formats:

Back from Texas

Just back from a few days in Austin and San Antonio. More details to follow, but I'll kick off with a few snaps. While I get my head back together.

Had great time, met lots of people, drank some beer. Pretty typical trip, really.

Returned

from the USA. Where my book sales went well. Well., I sold all the one I had with me.

Could have sold more. The biggest nightmare is guessing how many books to take with me on my trips. Too many, and I'm dragging around a ton of luggage. Too few, and I feel that I've robbed myself.

But you can help a poor old man keep is luggage manageable. Buy my books online. Buy many of them. Give to your family. Your friends. You can buy a whole pile and burn them for all I care. For me, it's all about the money.

Because, without money, I can't do the research, the writing, the talks or even the collaborative beers. None of it. I'm not some moneyed rich kid. I have to earn the money that makes all my beer shit possible.

It would be nice if more professional breweries hit the guilt button. But there's one simple way we can all be winners: buy my books. You acquire a masterwork of beer history. My kids get shoes. And vodka.

Here are a few buying suggestions:

The best ever book on Scottish beer:

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

The full tale of the horrors of WW I:

My outstanding new collection of historic recipes:

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


I also have other books available:

Public-Houses Improvement Bill

One of the weirder effects of having temperance twats on licensing authorities was their refusal to allow improvements to pubs. Their reason was quite cynical: pubs that were low-class drinking dens were easier to campaign against.

Any improvements to pubs had to be approved by licensing magistrates. You'd think that ones to make pubs more comfortable and provide facilities for activities other than drinking would have no trouble getting approval. But this wasn't the case. Mostly because of obstructive temperance twats.

"Public-Houses Improvement Bill.
The following is the text of the Bill introduced in the House of Lords by Lord Lamington “to facilitate the Provision of Accommodation for supplying Food, and other Improvements in connection with Premises licensed for the Sale of Intoxicating Liquors by retail”:—

1. In exercising powers with respect to granting permission for structural alterations upon or extensions to premises licensed for the sale of intoxicating liquors by retail, the licensing justices shall not do so in such manner as to interfere with ~

(a) the provision of accommodation for the supply of food or light refreshments;
(b) the making of such premises, or any part thereof, more open, airy, commodious, or comfortable;
(c) the improvement or enlargement of the sanitary accommodation;
(d) the substitution of the provision of chairs and tables either wholly or partly in lieu of existing bar accommodation;
(c) the provision of games, newspapers, music, or gardens, or any other means of reasonable recreation:

Provided always that no alteration in the premises or fittings, the chief effect of which would be, in the opinion of the licensing justices, to increase the consumption of intoxicating liquors only, shall be deemed to come within the provisions of this section: Provided also that in case of refusal to sanction alterations on the last-named ground an appeal shall lie to Quarter Sessions.

A Memorandum accompanying the Bill gives the following explanation:—

“The object of this Bill is to reform the public-house. At the present time the public-house is, in many cases, merely a place to drink in. The owner or licensee is strictly and systematically debarred from converting his house into a place for social and pleasurable intercourse, and from providing accommodation for the supply of food and other refreshments that the public may require. In France, Belgium, and other continental countries, this class of trader has the same liberty to extend and develop his business as has the grocer, the draper, or other trader or shopkeeper, with the result that the public-house or café in Paris or Brussels is a public-house in fact as well as in name—a place where all classes may congregate for the purpose of refreshment, enjoyment, and recreation. The arbitrary restrictions which the law imposes upon the publican in the United Kingdom have resulted in driving people into unregulated resorts such as clubs to obtain those things which in other countries are provided in a superior and high class style in the café. The effect of these restrictions is seen in the widespread evils of excessive and secret drinking and gambling, to check which the law provides and can provide no real remedy. In France, with free conditions as regards the sale of drink and with unrestricted hours of opening, in 1907 the total charges of drunkenness were 623; in Paris the total charges were 207. In England and Wales the conviction for drunkenness in the same period were about 200,000, more than a fourth of which were in the metropolitan police district, while in Glasgow and Edinburgh, where there is Sunday closing, early closing on week days, and closing on special days, the convictions for drunkenness were 22,025 and 14,791 respectively. These figures speak for themselves. If the English public were provided with similar facilities for pleasure and recreation as are found in every flourishing Continental café, it may safely be concluded that the amount of drunkenness would not have reached such high figures as these.

The Bill does not propose to take away any of the powers for the police supervision of public-houses.”
Brewers' Journal, vol. 45, 1909, pages 418.

Converting dingy pubs into family-friendly continental-style cafes had long been a dream of some brewers. But things never seem to work out like that. A similar desire was behind Labour's revamp of licensing laaws in the 1990s. It was just as successful as previous attempts.

There was a movement for improved public houses between the wars. This resulted in things like roadhouses - very alrge pubs, usually on main roads, with all sorts of facilities. Birmingham is notable for having many of this style of pub. Most pubs, however, did not undergo a radical makeover and remained, as before, mostly drinking shops.