Lazy Chicago Saturday

Having propped my eyelids open until my midnight minimum, sleep is uninterrupted. Even by the regular rattling of Blue Line trains virtually under my window.

I checked out the breakfast options yesterday. When not included in the room rate, I prefer to eat outside the hotel. Somewhere diner-like. I do love me an old-fashioned diner. It’s like being in a film set in the 1950s.

Just around the corner is a place called Dove's Luncheonette. A modern, slightly trendy take on a diner. “Southern-inspired Mexican cuisine”, whatever that is, it claims to provide. But there are some diner-like items on the menu.

I sip on my coffee and stare at the menu. Either the typeface is slightly too small or my eyes aren’t working properly yet.

“Do you have anything that includes eggs and bacon?”

The waitress smiles patiently and points to the egg and bacon option. She must think I’m a total idiot. Or in denial about needing glasses. In my defence, it is almost the last item on the menu.

Eggs, bacon and grits. That’ll do nicely. Not sure about the grits element. Never quite got my head around the point of them. Pure ballast? What the hell. There’ll be bacon and eggs. I can always leave the grits on the side of the plate. Or have them doggy-bagged up and dump them in the nearest rubbish bin. I hate to appear impolite or unimpressed by leaving food on my plate.

The two eggs – over easy, as always – are perched on a bed of grits. Almost hidden, the grits don’t look that unappetising. And there’s bacon. You can never go wrong with bacon in the morning.

A slightly odd breakfast, but pretty nice. I even finished up all my grits, like a good boy.

The selection of mezcal is huge. "Could you recommend one?" I ask my waitress. She can and does. One made especially for them, Banhez house reposado. She’s still smiling patiently. Though now she probably assumes that my confusion is substance-induced rather than eyesight-related.

The mezcal is served, like in Deep Ellum’s mezcal bar, in a little shallow earthenware bowl. That's pretty cool.

I do some lazing in my hotel room. Watching some crap TV, fiddling on my laptop, sipping some hotel whisky. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s while away the day in a frivolous fashion.

I'm in no rush. Absolutely nothing planned today. So I wander down to the offie me and Mike dropped in yesterday to get some whiskey for Andrew.  Brilliant selection and reasonable prices. What’s not to like?

Whiskey literally in the bag, I trundle to Piece, a nearby brewpub. Though I have trouble spotting it. As it’s snowing, I’m not going to piss around. I ask a passerby. Turns out it’s just over the road. But there’s no sign with something as explanatory as “Piece” or “brewery” on it. Just a weird symbol. There’s a good way of avoiding custom.

Where I park my fat, ancient arse at the bar. Time for a beer. Or two. And to get out of the weather.

Because it's snowing. It's fucking snowing. Just a couple of days until May and it's fucking snowing.

Piece is an industrially large echoey sort of place. And appears to be quite popular with those of a younger persuasion. Nothing wrong with that. I get to look at their perky youthfulness. In return they get to admire my flabby belly. Pretty sure I know who’s getting the better deal.

What to try first? Quarters Mostly (West coast American Pale Ale), Moose Knuckle (American Style Barley Wine) or Golden Arm (German-style Kolsch Bier)? The latter, I think. Leaves me the most scope for righteous indignation. And I don’t want anything to strong to kick things off. Not after the hotel whisky.

Golden Arm
Not sure how much it resembles a Kölsch. But the locals are friendly and it’s fucking snowing outside. I’m not going nowhere. Happy times. Probably as close to Kölsch as guacamole is to mushy peas. Right colour, similar texture, but not something you’d want with your pie and chips.

I’ve a belly full of whisky, a bug full of whiskey and a mind as empty as Boris Johnson’s morals jar. Two days in Chicago with not one fucking thing planned. Ace, acety ace. Just me, the US and my appetite and thirst. Coolerific, as the kids never say. One of the biggest relaxy times I’ve had in the US for years.

The beer may not be particularly Kölsch-like. But what the hell. At least they don’t describe it as an Ale. After the morning whisky I need to dial things back a bit. Or I’ll be on my back. At least my hotel is just over the road. I’m not going far today. Especially with the fucking snow. Did I mention that it’s fucking snowing. Have I gone back to Winterland?

Do you like this bollocks I write while I’m down the pub? I’m not sure I do. Is my travel writing a complete waste of time? Maybe. But I enjoy it. The writing and the travel. I really do.

Time for another beer. Maybe step things up.

Quarters Mostly 7.5% ABV
As it’s billed as American-style, not much scope for me to go into throbbing temple mode. It comes in a cheaty Nonic glass. Maybe it’s a US pint. It certainly fucking ain’t an Imperial pint. It has that American hop thing going on. Luckily the fruity one, rather than the disinfectant one. Anyone remember Izal toilet paper? One particular hop always reminds me of that. Is it Citra or Mosaic?

Just noticed. This place is full of white people. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a white people. But it isn’t very diverse.

It seems about time to eat again. I don’t fancy pizza, which rather limits my options. Think I’ll get another beer while I have a think.

Moose Knuckle
Another step up. It’s thick and strong. Full of alcoholy goodness. Should strengthen me up nicely for confronting the snow later.

Food time. A roasted turkey breast sandwich. “Whole breast turkey, slow roasted to perfection, sliced thick and served with gorgonzola, crispy bacon, lettuce, tomato, and pesto” the description goes. Crispy bacon – is there any other kind? It’s a quite reasonable $8.95. Especially as it comes with crisps.

I can’t manage to get all my sandwich down. My appetite isn’t what you’d call man-sized. More sparrow-sized. I never eat much when on holiday. Other than a shitload of bacon for breakfast. I get the leftovers packaged up to take back to my hotel. And no, I won’t be dumping it in a bin on the way. It’ll be my tea.

When I get outside, it’s still fucking snowing. Just as well my hotel is so close.

Back in my room, I while away the evening with bad TV and good whisky. Occasionally going to the window to observe the blizzard outside.

Slumber slowly ascends from my toes and sleep shakes my hand.



Dove's Luncheonette
1545 N Damen Ave,
Chicago,
IL 60622.
Tel: +1 773-645-4060
http://www.doveschicago.com/


Piece Brewery
1927 W North Ave,
Chicago,
IL 60622.
Tel: +1 773-772-4422
http://www.piecechicago.com/

Let's Brew - 1864 Lovibond XXXX

Top of Lovibond’s Mild pile was, unsurprisingly, XXXX. Which by this point was becoming something of a rarity in London. Whitbread, for example, dropped theirs in the 1840s. Few London brewers had more than an x and an XX in their portfolio in the 1860s.

What’s interesting about this beer is that it specifically states in the brewing record that it was for Christmas. Which is interesting, given that it was brewed on 7th October – a full seven weeks before Christmas Day.

Another interesting fact about this recipe is that it was the basis for a royal wedding beer that Meantime brewed a few years back. I got a few bottles and very nice it was, too. Powerful and complex without being too fussy. These simple recipes can work really well, especially when they have a good dose of Goldings.

As with Lovibond’s other X Ales, the hops were a combination of American and Kent. Though in this case they all seem to have been new, rather a mix of new and yearlings.

The degree of attenuation is surprisingly high for a beer of such a high gravity. Though the long fermentation – a full 14 days – probably helped.

Like all Lovibond’s X Ales, XXXX was fermented quite cool. It was pitched at 56º F but the temperature only rose one degree during fermentation. Which is quite unlike normal practice. I would have expected the fermentation temperature to peak somewhere around 70º F.

1864 Lovibond XXXX
pale malt	21.75 lb	100.00%
Cluster 120 mins	1.75 oz
Goldings 90 mins	1.75 oz
Goldings 30 mins	1.75 oz
OG	1096
FG	1018
ABV	10.32
Apparent attenuation	81.25%
IBU	60
SRM	8.5
Mash at	148º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	55º 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:

Amsterdam to Chicago

The day starts with a doctor's appointment. Bit bizarre. But I planned it before the trip. That's how my life works. All sorts of shit arranged at short notice. I nip back home for a quick cup of tea and to kiss Dolores goodbye, then I’m off.

All the public transport at our square is currently buggered by heavy duty tram works. Meaning my normal route of No. 15 bus followed by the No. 397 doesn’t work. It’s not such a drama. I just need to kick off with the No. 2 tram instead.

Dolores has been threatening, like a private equity investor, to pull the plug on my beer business if I don’t reduce costs. I can see her point, however much it pissed me off the first time she mentioned it.

So no bar visit before the flight. Instead a quick visit to the Albert Heijn landside for a sarnie. Then a couple of miniatures from the duty free airside. That’s about 50 euros saved. What a good boy I am. A sense of smug satisfaction washes over me. Or maybe that’s the whisky miniatures. I even bought the cheaper Glen Grant rather than Laphroiag for my hotel whisky.

Dolores finds this another insane trip: ”All that way for just a weekend.”

“I’m there for four nights.”

“Just two days, then.”

“Its four nights.”

“Whatever. A stupid amount of time for all that travelling.”

I genuinely don’t find it that bad. Seven or eight hours in a plane I can cope with fine. As long as I have enough legroom. I just watch some shit films and have a few drinks.

Not rushing, not stressing. That’s the main thing. Silver KLM status really helps de-stress my travel. Dolores was impressed when we travelled to Dublin earlier this year. It almost made her keen on air travel again. Almost.

The flight is a little delayed. No biggie. I’ve no connecting flight or any crap like that. And my first appointment is three hours after we’re scheduled to land.

I down my last miniature while I’m waiting for the first food service. That’s warmed me up nicely. And relaxed me out a treat. Handy, as the meal is shit. I still force it down. Trying not to spill too much on my shirt.

One thing I learnt from my last US trip: On KLM flights you can go to the galley and ask for drinks. Whenever you want. "Mag ik en rooie wijn, alsjeblift?" So that’s exactly what I do. A couple of times.

I only watch the one shit film this time. Some Mission Impossible bollocks. Then finish off series 9 of Peep Show. I only got as far as episode 4 on my last trip. After that, Modern Life is Goodish until the laptop's battery gives out.

Been a bit tiring, but all is going OK so far.

Then there’s the horror of getting through the fucking airport.

On the upside, the immigration machine accepts my fingerprints this time. I don't get the dreaded slip with a cross on it. But it takes 45 minutes to get to the machine. Then another 20 minutes after getting the happy slip until I get past the physically checking bloke. I think I’m done then. No such luck.

Dolores is a wonderful woman. The love of my life. But not someone to be ignored. She's been very clear on the topic of my expenses when travelling. No taxi from the airport then. Not such a biggie. The Blue Line metro stops literally at the doorstep of my hotel. Dead easy trip then. Une piece d'urine as they say in France.

Like bollocks.

Because the metro stop isn't in the international terminal where I arrive. And the usual shuttle train between terminals isn't running. Instead there's a bus. Substitute bus service. One of the most chilling phrases known to man. Bum.

"The line for terminals 1, 2 and 3 is there." I'm fairly aggressively told by a security guard. Proper aggressive, none of that passive stuff. I understand his brusqueness. Stacks of impatient travellers are trying to jump the queue. I just don’t know where the fuck I’m going.

OK. I get into the queue, as we call lines in the UK. Queueing - that's what we do best, us Brits. It's only when I get to the front that I realise it's a queue for another queue. It's almost 2 hours since I moved my sorry arse off the plane. I've really had enough of pissing around.

But, being English, I quietly wait my turn. Mumbling obscenities under my breath. While my piss slowly comes to the boil.

At least it's saving me 60 dollars on the taxi fare. I keep telling myself that, as I feel my blood pressure mounting and bopping around in my ears. This isn't doing my health any good. I can feel a knot of stress in my chest. That’s bad.

Finally, I'm in terminal 2 where the Blue Line station is located. Oh look - there's the Hilton Hotel I stayed in a couple of years ago. When I had a ridiculously early flight to Toronto. When did I get up? I think 5 AM. Or was it even earlier?

The signs to the station direct me under the road and past the Hilton. But the station isn't there. Oh no, it's not that fucking simple. There's a long corridor. There are moving walkways. But none are working. Bum, bum, bum. I'm really not up for this.

I've had enough of walking. At least I'm at the end now.

Oh fuckity, fuckity fuck. There's another fucking corridor, at right angles to the first, so it was cunningly hidden. With another non-working fucking moving walkway. This shit is going to be the death of me.

Getting a ticket is a piece of piss. I have my 5-dollar bill ready. The machine spits out a ticket. “Just think of the money you’re saving.” I keep telling myself.

Thankfully, I get a seat on the train. It trundles along reassuringly beside the motorway, as my heart slowly stops flapping around under my shirt like a fish caught in a net. No thrombie today. I'll live to see another dawn.

The hotel is just around the corner from the station. Thank fuck. Soon I’m in my room taking stock. It’s one bottle of whisky.

The view isn’t bad.

I've arranged to see Mike Siegel from Goose Island in the lobby at 5. Had O’Hare not been hell, I’d have a couple of hours to chill. As it is, I only have 45 minutes to check the quality of the hotel whisky I picked up at Schiphol.

Slightly strange seeing Mike. We spoke at length on the phone just yesterday. But he's always fun to chat with. After years of collaboration we’re old chums.

Mike has two bottles of Obadiah Poundage with him. "Would you like to try it now?" he asks. "Sure. Let's nip up to my room. There are two glasses."

Maybe I’d best explain exactly what Obadiah Poundage is: a blend of a Keeping and a Running Porter. Both Truman’s recipes from 1840. The Keeper has had a year in an oak vat. The Runner was brewed just a few weeks ago.

That first sip of a new collaboration beer is always a bit anxious. I needn’t have worried. 

Wow. The Brettanomyces character of the Keeper adds a trace of acidity and a stack of underlying complexity. While the Runner contributes a surprising freshness and lightness. It’s dead good. Complex, yet at the same time highly drinkable.

It’s only taken 2.5 years from the first time me and Mike kicked the concept around to actually getting to taste the finished beer. A good job I’ve learnt to be patient. In six years of collaboration we’ve manged to get just two beers done.

"What would you like to eat?" Mike asks.

"I'm easy. What would you recommend?"

"What about Costa Rican?"

"That'll do me. Never had that before."

"It's BYO, so we'll need to stop off for some beer."

Handily, there's a liquor store on the way. Mike talks me through the impressive Bourbon selection in the offie. This will come in handy when it comes to buying the kids some booze. I can get them something cool for under 20 dollars. Me, Dolores and the boys, all happy. Triple win.

We get a four-pack of Daisy Cutter to go with our food.

Irazu is rustic and already getting busy. The food looks dead good. We share a ceviche starter. I order casado for the main event. Which is a very Costa Rican dish. It's a mix of rice, meat, vegetables and beans. And rather nice.

Sated - what's next? "How about Map Room?” Mike suggests. That’ll do me. Been there before and it was pretty good. It's also within walking distance.

Map Room is quite busy, but we find a space to park ourselves in. And order some beers, obviously.  3 Floyds Alpha King for me and a Schlenkerla Fastenbier for Mike. Fastenbier is lovely, but I’m not going to drink a German beer here in the US. In the same way I don’t usually drink American beer in Europe.

No lengthy lingering. It’s getting late and I’ve been up how many hours? Mike has his family to get back to.

“Do you want to finish with an Abt?” Mike asks.

“OK.” I say, ditching my imported beer principles. It is on draught, I reason.

Back in my room, I check the Glen Grant is still OK.

It is. And sings a sweet lullaby to ease me into oblivion.





Full disclosure
Goose Island paid for most of my trip - flight, hotel and quite a bit of food and drink. Not everything, but a hefty chunk.





Garfield's Beverage Express
1704 N Milwaukee Ave Ste A,
Chicago,
IL 60647.
Tel: +1 773-666-5747
https://garfieldsbeverage.com/


Irazu Costa Rican Restaurant & Catering
1865 N Milwaukee Ave,
Chicago,
IL 60647.
Tel: +1 773-252-5687
http://irazuchicago.com


Map Room
1949 N Hoyne Ave,
Chicago,
IL 60647.
Tel: +1 773-252-7636
http://www.maproom.com/

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Sweet home after Chicago

Just back from my latest jaunt. Or, as Dolores describes it, "that stupidly short trip".

Not stupidly short. Inadvisably brief, would be how I'd describe it. I got back five hours ago and I'm still capable of typing. Up yours, Dolores. I'm totally whatsit. Lucy . . lucifer ... match . . football . . . jumper . . . July . . . Jules ... Juicy ... Lucy ... lucid. That's it. I'm totally 100% lucid.

Time marches on. Not really. Creeps, dashes, crawls, runs, sprints and then gets on a fucking maglev train.

I need to catch up with the shit telly I missed in those four nights away. Here are some pictures

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Let's Brew Wednesday - 1864 Lovibond XX

I have the luxury of having every single page of the Lovibond brewing book for 1864-65 photographed. Mostly because it’s one of the three brewing books I personally own.

That’s how I know that, contrary to expectations and usual practice, XX was Lovibond’s most popular beer. At every other brewery I’ve looked at, X Ale was the most popular. And while X was usually parti-gyled with XXX or XXXX, XX was always brewed single-gyle.

The gravity of XX Ale varied a bit, the weaker examples being around 1063º and the stronger ones 1069º.  Which places it in much the same class as the X Ale from the larger London breweries. Whitbread X, for example, was around 1066º at this time  and Barclay Perkins X 1062º

The malt bill is incredibly simple – just one type of base malt and that’s it. The hops are identical to those used in X Ale, that is Kent and American yearlings, plus new Kent.

1864 Lovibond XX
mild malt	15.75 lb	100.00%
Cluster 60 mins	0.75 oz
Goldings 40 mins	0.75 oz
Goldings 20 mins	0.75 oz
OG	1069.5
FG	1015
ABV	7.21
Apparent attenuation	78.42%
IBU	25
SRM	7
Mash at	148º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	60 minutes
pitching temp	55º 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: