Lucid and mobile

I was prompted to consider my mortality again by a Twitter post of Rebecca Pate. Fretting about the Grim Reaper's approach when turning 35.

Consider yourself lucky to be so young, was my first thought. My second: you shouldn't be worrying about death when you're under 60.

I regularly have a birthday party. Once every decade: 40, 50, 60. The interval may reduce to five years as get further down death's highway. No point denying the inevitable goosestep of time. May as well embrace and attempt to smother it.

The exact moment, I'm not sure of, but there was a point, when, rather than seeing each year added as another milestone on the road to extinction, I began viewing my age as a cricket score. Each number added, a little victory.

I've knocked off 62. Like a nervous lower-order English batsman, at the crease early after the usual high-order collapse, I'm amazed to have got such a high score. I'm setting myself little goals. Not dreaming of a century, but determined to hit 70.

That's my current aim. 70. Lucid and mobile.

Memorial Day

I awake to total silence. Well, other than the air conditioning.

I finish off yesterday’s chicken sandwich from Gabe for breakfast. It still tastes pretty good. Probably much healthier than my usual bacon-heavy hole filling.

Stomach about as full as it’s been the last few days, I stroll down the hill, saying hello to the goats on the way again, to the house.

Inside, Kaycee offers me a cup of coffee, which I eagerly accept. While I’m getting my caffeine fix, we chat a little. I ask if they get coyotes around here, remembering the concern at Jester King about their goats. No, they don’t. But they do sometimes see a red wolf. And there are hawks nesting up by the cabin who sometimes attack their chickens. A black beer stole the goat’s food, too. Having animals like that around would really freak Dolores out.

John drives us to Appalachian Vintner, picking up Chris Whaley on the way. Noticing a tractor parked in his drive, I assume that it belongs to his wife Jessica, as she’s a farmer. It isn’t. Chris acquired it from his uncle.

Because it's a holiday, Appalachian Vintners is the only place open before 2 PM. A wine and beer shop, it also has a bar section where you can drink on premises.

Once we’re settled at the bar, John asks: “What do you think about hazy IPAs, Ron?”

I just roll my eyes despairingly, which gets a laugh. John can’t really talk. He’s drinking a mango guava vanilla lactose Berliner Weisse. I’m not joking. Someone really brews that abomination.

I peruse the tap list a couple of times, hunting something that isn’t sludgy or full of all kinds of shit. I settle on an Edmund’s Oast Bound by Time. A little hazy, but without lumps. A fairly straightforward IPA.

Fonta Flora Hulihe’e is my next choice. A bit hazy again, but pretty normal. Phew! Ordering beer in the US is getting to be a nightmare, if you want something that isn’t weird.

We have a few beers and chat. Can’t stay too long, though. I’m giving the Porter talk again a 4 PM.  I don’t need to be there quite so early today as everything was left from yesterday. I only need to plug in my computer and away we go.

Though there is some more gear to arrange as Art Whitaker, of Milk the Funk, is recording my talk.

Spotting someone wearing a Bierpallieters t-shirt, I ask if he’s been to their festival. “Oh, yes,” he says, “it’s wonderful.” He’s not wrong there.

Gabe has made me a sandwich again. She really spoils me. This time I manage to chomp down the lot. I’m obviously getting back to normal. Or somewhere close.

Since I’ve been over, I’ve been engaging in an email conversation with Doug Piper about a webinar he wants to do with me. For his BJCP study group. Once I would have baulked at the idea, but age has mellowed me. As has getting to know quite a few people at the top end of its hierarchy. We make arrangements to meet tomorrow.

I notice that the barman who served us in Appalachian Vintner is in the audience. What a small world.

It’s a smaller crowd today. Around 20. Things run much the same as yesterday. Except there’s a group that keeps speaking amongst themselves. I’m tempted to tell them to shut the fuck up. I’m supposed to have a monopoly on talking. But I’m far too polite.

Talking done, we go to Zillicoah, which is sort of a half brewery.  A fermenting house, really, as their wort is produced elsewhere. I’ve nothing against that. Whatever financial model works. They clearly have a great deal of control over the finished beer.

As is proved by the beer I get: Helles. One of the trickiest styles to do well. As a lover of Augustiner Helles, my standards are high. Only handful over here have been up to it. But this one is. Light, without being bland. And drinkable as fuck.

Giant corrugated iron shed is how I would describe the building. Sitting between railway tracks and the river. No great beauty. That’s all compensated by the large beer garden outside. Running down to the aforementioned river. Lovely.

We sit outside and drink a couple of Helles. This is fun.

“What about some tacos?” Mike asks, “There’s a food truck.”

I can cope with that. Not too heavy. We amble down to the truck.

Peering through the window, I’m impressed. They’re doing it the proper way. Cooking everything to order. Even the bread component.

The tacos are dead good. Really dead good. Tempting a stomach-challenged me to stuff my face.

We don’t make it a late one. Mike has me back at the cabin by 9:30. He has work and shit tomorrow.

I watch some TV while the fireflies flash neon green distractions outside.

And sip a somnambulant whiskey to hasten me to my dreams.


Appalachian Vintner
745 Biltmore Ave #121,
Asheville,
NC 28803.
Tel: +1 828-505-7500
https://appalachianvintner.com/


Zebulon Artisan Ales
8 Merchants Alley,
Weaverville,
NC 28787.
http://www.zebulonbrewing.com/


Zillicoah Beer Co.
870 Riverside Dr,
Woodfin,
NC 28804.
Tel: +1 828-424-7929


Taqueria Muñoz
1438 Patton Ave,
Asheville,
NC 28806.
Tel: +1 828-412-3331

Sunday in Weaverville

The phone rings about 9 Am. I’m sat, as always in my room, glued to my laptop. Would I like to come over for some brunch? Yes, I think I would.

It’s not far. The house is just across the driveway. And my guts have settled somewhat. I’ve already successfully downed a whole glass of water without needing to sprint to the bog five minutes later to puke it up.

Chris and Kirsten are an intriguing couple, having lived many years in Japan. I pick their brains a little as we nibble on eggs and bacon. Based on what they tell me, including Kyoto on my upcoming trip with the kids was definitely a good idea. They also warn of the summer heat, which I hadn’t taken into account.

Breakfast stays where it should: in my guts. Not all over the carpet, as I’d feared. Good start to the day. This is what it’s like when you get older. Simply succeeding to breakfast is a victory.

After brekkie, they drive me to the parking lot of an Ingles supermarket, where I transfer to Gabe’s car. A bit cloak and dagger. Though it makes practical sense. It means they don’t have to drive all the way to Weaverville.

Being a paranoid bastard, I want to be at Zebulon well before three when the VIP session starts. Lots can go wrong, and has done in the past. Even with a simple setup of just a laptop and projector. That’s why I carry a bag of cables with me.

Fortunately things go pretty smoothly. Leaving me plenty of time to warm up with some beer. What should I have? No contest. Warwick’s IPA is on handpull today.

I get myself a pint, obviously. With the softer carbonation, it’s even nicer than yesterday. If only you could still get this beer in Newark. Though maybe you can, as my school friend Henry made a version at his Cat Asylum brewery.

The draught beers, other than the handpull, are all different today. A set of Porters to accompany my talk, The Rise and Fall of Porter. Each beer demonstrating a phase in evolution of Porter, and dating from 1750 to 1922. Really looking forward to trying them all.

Mike has gone to a lot of trouble, getting different brown malts made for added authenticity. I said in a talk just a couple of weeks ago: “Anyone who tells you that they’ve brewed an authentic 18th-century Porter is a liar.” But Mike has. As he used 100% diastatic brown malt, something which isn’t commercially available.

Gabe has made me a chicken and cheese sandwich. It’s very nice, but I only manage half. I save the rest for later.

The VIP guests wander in. I chat with them and sign their books. Quite fun, really. I get to talk about beer to people who won’t drift off or tell me to shut up after two sentences (I’m looking at you, family.)

There’s an English bloke called Peter who owns a brewery in Asheville. He tells me of his struggles to get the locals to drink English-style beers. Why does that not surprise me?

By the time everyone has assembled, there are about 50 in the audience.

Mike kicks off proceedings with a short introduction. After which someone from local maltster Epiphany talks about making brown malt. It’s quite technical, but I find it interesting. Then again, I was mesmerised by a talk on keg fillers in San Antonio.

My contribution goes pretty well. I get multiple laughs, which is always a good sign. No-one falls asleep and no-one leaves. I take that as a big thumbs up. Especially as I’m on for two hours.

What I say isn’t pre-scripted. And, as I’m happy to take questions during the talk, can leap off on tangents. Loads more fun the wading through exactly the same shit stream. I’d get bored if I had to listen to myself endlessly repeating the same words. I really can’t understand how anyone can enjoy being a stage actor, saying the same stuff night after night. It would drive me nuts.

The Porters lubricating the talk are a diverse bunch, from easy-drinking to downright challenging.

1750 porter: 100% diastatic brown malt
1804 Barclay Perkins TT: 50% lightly smoked brown malt, 14% amber
1824 Adulterated Porter
1832 Barclay Perkins TT: 15% lightly smoked brown malt, 2% black
1849 East India Porter: similar to above but with 100 IBUs and dry hopped
1870 Porter: 12% lightly smoked brown, 7% black, 16% invert 3
1900 Porter: 15% unsmoked brown malt, 7% black, 9% maize, 15% sugar
1922 Porter: 10% unsmoked brown malt, 10% sugar, 1% oats 1.032 OG

I’m slightly surprised by the two I like most: the 1824 Adulterated Porter and the 1922 Porter.

The first is really a domestic recipe which contains harmless extra ingredients such as liquorice and capsicum. I really liked the extra dimension added by the liquorice. I understand now why some professional brewers started adding liquorice to their Porter and Stout after 1880. Has anyone else brewed a Porter with liquorice recently? I think not. Despite all the other shit brewers throw into Black Beers nowadays.

The second is a feeble Whitbread recipe that’s only about 3% ABV. It certainly didn’t drink as watery as it appears on paper. Mike reckons that it’s the high percentage of dark malts that give it a decent body. I could drink the stuff all day.

There’s the usual post-talk book flogging. And chatting with anyone who comes up to me. I’m a pretty open sort of bloke.

After a little winding down, Mike drives me to John’s. We drop off my bags in the cabin then amble down to John’s house, pausing to say hello to the goats on the way. We’re really out in the sticks here.

In the house, we meet John’s wife Kaycee and their unbearably cute daughter, who’s just about two years old. She gurgles happily as she toddles around the room.

Walking in, I noticed John’s massive record collection. He has even more vinyl than my friend Lucas. He tells me he pruned the collection when moving up from New Orleans, getting rid of 30,000 records.

Chris and Jessica arrive, too. Obviously, we drink some beer. I usually only drink American beer while in the US. But I can’t resist Abt and Aventinus Eisbock. Those beers are just so good.

We eat some takeaway Thai food, which is reassuringly fiery. Which perhaps isn’t the greatest for my still dodgy stomach. Luckily, it doesn’t object too much.

“Would you like to play Cards Against Humanity?” someone suggests. I’ve no idea what it is, but agree anyway.

Turns out it’s a really good laugh. Especially after a few beers. I can’t be bothered to explain exactly what it is. Look it up on the internet.

It’s quite late when John drives me up to the cabin. It’s not far, but it’s pitch black and the way uneven.

A sip of whisky strokes me into sleep.


Zebulon Artisan Ales
8 Merchants Alley,
Weaverville,
NC 28787.
http://www.zebulonbrewing.com/

Let's Brew - 1944 Fullers XX

With all the fuss about D-Dy this week, I thought I'd publish a recipe from 1944. And what could be more typical of what was being drunk at the time than a Mild Ale?

Five years into the war and Fullers were still producing a stronger Mild, XX. It had lost 8 gravity points, but the gravity was still fairly respectable.

The grist was pretty much the same as in 1939. The only real change was the replacement of flaked maize by flaked barley. There was also a slight reduction in the proportion of glucose.

There were bigger changes with regard to hops. Not in terms of the type, as Fullers continued to use 100% English hops, as they had before the war. The difference was the quantity. The rate had fallen from 7 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt to 5.25 lbs. That’s a reduction of 25%. Which is a bout in line with the reduction demanded by the government. In 1941, the quantity of hops available to brewers was reduced by 20%.

The reduction in hopping rate is reflected in the drop in (calculated) IBUs from 28 to 20. It makes XX look very much like the Milds I knew in my youth in terms of strength and bitterness level.

1944 Fullers XX
pale malt	7.00 lb	82.35%
flaked barley	1.25 lb	14.71%
glucose	0.125 lb	1.47%
caramel 1000 SRM	0.125 lb	1.47%
Fuggles 90 min	0.75 oz
Fuggles 30 min	0.75 oz
OG	1034.5
FG	1010
ABV	3.24
Apparent attenuation	71.01%
IBU	20
SRM	12
Mash at	147º F
After underlet	150º F
Sparge at	168º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	62º F
Yeast	WLP002 English Ale

Weaving my way to Weaverville

Can’t say I’m feeling my best this morning. When I drink a glass of water then puke it up again, I know this isn’t going to be a great day.

With my flight not being until 13:44, I’ve time to lounge around my room in the hope of recovery. I eventually manage to keep down a few mouthfuls of water. That’s something, I suppose.

At the airport, I get myself a diet cola. Then realise that I’m still landside and will need to drink it before going through security. That wasn’t so smart. I’m really not at my best. As I’m not in a rush, I at least have time to drink it slowly. After bashing out most of the CO2.

I get myself another cola airside. I really don’t want to become dehydrated. Especially not in this heat. I once had heatstroke and it’s not an experience I’d care to repeat.

This is how shit I’m feeling: I don’t visit a bar. And not for financial/fear of Dolores reasons. Instead I slowly suck on my cola. Hoping the setting concrete feeling in my stomach won’t reappear. It’s quite a way to the nearest bog. Ejecting bodily fluids in public isn’t cool.

My destination is Greenville, where Mike Karnowski, my man in Asheville, will be picking me up. It’s not a huge airport and I’m soon at the baggage carousel. Twitching nervously as I await my bag.

Thankfully, it turns up. I’ve packed socks and trollies in my hand baggage, just in case. Not getting caught out by that one again. My whisky is in my check-in bag. Be hard to last a day without that.

The heat hits me like a well-aimed handbag when I step outside to wait for Mike. Fuck me, it’s hot. Way too hot for me. Why the hell didn’t I pack any shorts? The jeans I’m wearing are totally inappropriate for the temperature. I should have checked the weather before I left Amsterdam.

It’s a while before Mike arrives. But I’ve somewhere to sit and, as long as I don’t move, the heat isn’t that overpowering. Not exactly pleasant, mind. I am still lightly sweating, even while immobile in the shade.

When Mike rolls up, I jump straight in the car. Getting into the air conditioning as quickly as possible is all that's on my mind.

Soon we’re chatting away like crazy. We share several interests, so it’s not all beer.

“There are a lot of gun shop adverts at the side of the road.” I remark.

“That’s the South for you. They love their guns. Some states even allow open carry, where you have a handgun on your hip.”

It’s all a bit Wild West. I’m not sure what scares me more: being able to see the gun or not. I find it best not to think about who might be armed when over here. It just fucks with my head.

As we get closer to Asheville, the countryside becomes prettier, hillier and more wooded. It really is lovely around here. I’d forgotten just how mountainous this part of Western North Carolina is.

Our destination isn’t in Asheville proper. Mike’s brewery, Zebulon, is in the little town of Weaverville, a few miles north of Asheville.

“Would you believe it? Someone has opened a brewery almost next door.” Mike tells me.

“The bastard.”

It’s truly crazy how many breweries there are in the Asheville area. Something around fifty for just 100,000 or so people.

Mike complains about overdevelopment of Asheville. “The city council lets developers build hotels and condos wherever they want.”

Sounds like the problems here are similar to those in Amsterdam. So many hotels and tourists that it starts destroying the town.

As we pull up outside Zebulon, I see that it’s quite full inside. Must be the pull of those Warwick’s beers. Mike always has a dream set of beers on tap when I’m in town. Last time it was the selection you’d have found in an Edwardian London Pub: Mild, Porter, Bitter, Burton and Stout.

If you can believe it, the set this year is even dreamier: Warwick’s & Richardson’s draught beers from 1910. Mild, Light Bitter, Home Brewed, IPA and Stout.

Chris Whaley is behind the bar. A jolly chap with a near permanent smile on his face. We’ve met before, as he was already working here when I was last over, two years ago.

Soon I’ve a pint of Warwick’s Mild in my hand.  How long have I waited for this moment? It’s one I’m going to savour. As I am the pint.

It’s rather nice. Quite strong – over 5% - and semi-dark in colour, as was the fashion in Edwardian times.

There are lots of people in that I’ve met before - like the bloke who dressed as a vicar two years ago. He’s disappointingly dog-collar free today.

John, with his bright orange beard, is here, too. We’ve a strange connection, as he worked for a while at Mondo Brewing in Battersea. When they wanted to brew a historic beer, he suggested they get in touch with me. I’ll be staying in John’s cabin for a few nights, starting tomorrow.

Home Brewed is my next pint. Something else I’ve been longing to try ever since I discovered there was a style of that name. I’ve never tried a recreation. This is the only recipe I’ve ever come across, too.

I explain to Mike what the style is: “A sort of strong Brown Ale. It was mostly limited to the Southwest. Warwick’s is the most northerly one I’ve found.”

It’s somewhere in the Burton/Strong Brown Ale area. Malty, but quite bitter, too. Very nice. I only wish I was more in the mood to slurp it down.

Gabe, Mike’s other half, asks: “Are you hungry? I can go and get us sandwiches.”

I’m not really hungry, but I can give a sandwich a go. It’s 3 PM and I still haven’t eaten a thing. Probably a good idea to chomp down something. At least the beer is keeping me hydrated.

I’m dead impressed by the Warwick’s IPA I have next. It has that magical flavour only achieved by a shitload of Goldings: more citrus than twig. For a 6% plus beer, it’s scarily drinkable. To think that I used to fill kegs with this beer. Albeit a much later, emasculated version. In the 1970’s, when it stumbled on, sold in just a handful of pubs in Newark and brewed at their former rivals, Holes.

I decide sitting down would be a good idea and find myself a seat towards the rear. I eat two bites of my sandwich and almost immediately need to vomit. Just as well I’m close to the bogs.

We hang around for quite a while after the taproom closes. I manage to force a little more beer into my grumbling guts. But there’s no way I’m eating anything more. I pass on the pizza that’s brought in. I can imagine the havoc it would wreak on my innards.

I’m staying quite a way out of town, in a cabin owned by Chris and Kirsten. They drive me there along some scarily winding, narrow roads. Extra scary on account of the darkness.

My stomach is too fucked for a whisky lullaby tonight. That’s how shit I feel.



Zebulon Artisan Ales
8 Merchants Alley,
Weaverville,
NC 28787.
http://www.zebulonbrewing.com/

Brewing in Atlanta

I’ve an early start today at New Realm. That’s the only downside to collaboration beers. They often require getting up at some ungodly hour. At least if you want to be there for mashing in.

My bag hasn’t turned up yet. Fingers crossed that it arrives while I’m at New Realm. Otherwise life might start getting very smelly. Brew houses usually have plenty of masking smells. I reassure myself with that thought.

I may not have fresh undercrackers to wear, but at least I can brush my teeth and comb my hair. And have a quick swig of breakfast whisky. Must remember to at least include a set of underwear in my rucksack next time. Tough whisky is obviously more essential. Can’t travel without that.

As I’m still adjusting to US time, I’m up pretty early, anyway. At 6:30. I breakfast in the hotel, despite it not being included. Need some fuel for the long day ahead. Predictably, there’s a strong bacon element in my selection.

I roll up at New Realm at 8. Not too far off the allotted time of 7:30. I hope I can get in. That’s not usually a problem at smaller breweries, but New Realm is pretty big. Thankfully, the door is open and I can just wander in.

I’m soon met by Tyler Downey, my designated brewer for the day. We’ve been corresponding about the beer for a couple of weeks. It being May, I cheekily suggested a Mild Ale. Slightly to my surprise, both Tyler and Mitch Steele were enthusiastic.

Whitbread X Ale from 1865 is the beer. It has a dead simple recipe: mild malt with Cluster, Hallertau and Goldings hops. About 6.5% ABV and 85 (calculated) IBUs. The sort of Mild no-one would spot as a Mild, drinking it blind.

But exactly the sort of Mild I really like. Not that I’m likely to taste this one. That’s the curse of long-distance collaborations.  I rarely get to sample the finished beer.

The brew has already kicked off so we hang around in the brewery chatting for a while. Until Mitch rolls up. He gives me a spin around the brewhouse, after which it’s about time for me to complete my one technical task of the day: throwing in the hops. Being careful not to scald my fingers on the steam escaping from the copper.

Coincidentally, Tyler used to work with Mike Karnowski, who will be my host in Asheville. The brewing world can be very small.

At midday, Mitch takes me for lunch in the bar. No arm-twisting required, as the food is pretty good here. We sit at the bar and share a few beers. I love chatting with Mitch. He remains refreshingly enthusiastic about beer and brewing, despite the idiocy of some current trends.

Despair at the beers currently raved about by consumers is a recurring theme when I talk to professional brewers. I detect very little enthusiasm for sludge IPAs or pastry Stouts amongst those in the industry. But they have to brew beer that sells to keep the lights on and the fermenters full. It would depress the hell out of me.

Mitch, unfortunately, can’t stay for the whole day and has to head off after lunch. I linger until the end of the brew before returning to my hotel. Always fun hanging around breweries.

Back in my room, I’m delighted to see that my missing bag is standing there. Yippee – they could find it. And none of the bottles inside it have shattered or leaked. I guess that’s a win.

After such an early start, I can’t be arsed to go anywhere in the evening. It’s just me in my (fresh) underkecks, crap TV and a bottle of whisky. Which is probably how I’ll die.

Soon, unconsciousness crashes in like an impatient burglar.


New Realm
550 Somerset Terrace NE #101,
Atlanta,
GA 30306.
Tel: +1 404-968-2777
https://newrealmbrewing.com

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1931 Thomas Usher Stout 80/-

In the 1930’s, genuine Scottish Stouts began to fade away as breweries concentrated almost exclusively on brewing Pale Ales.

This had some odd results. With some pretty strange Stouts gracing the brewing logs. This is an example of one.

It’s mostly to do with the grist. You may imagine that at least one type of roasted malt was essential to the flavour profile of a Stout. Not so in Scotland. They made do with pale malt and a load of sugar, sometimes, as in this case, with a little crystal malt included.

I’ve done some interpretation in terms of the sugars. These were the ones used in the original: 6 cwt. cane, 2 cwt. Penang, 2cwt. CDW, 1 cwt. Caramax, 1 cwt. DF. The first two sound like simple sugars. The next two are types of dark proprietary sugars, the last, I’ve no idea. A combination of No. 3 and No. 4 invert should come somewhere close.

As always with Thomas Usher 20th-century recipes, the hops are a total guess as there are no details in the brewing record. Substituting something like Cluster for the 120 minute addition wouldn’t be out of place.

1931 Thomas Usher Stout 80/-
pale malt	6.00 lb	61.54%
crystal malt 60 L	0.75 lb	7.69%
No. 3 invert sugar	1.75 lb	17.95%
No. 4 invert sugar	1.25 lb	12.82%
Fuggles 120 min	0.50 oz
Fuggles 60 min	0.50 oz
Fuggles 30 min	0.50 oz
OG	1052
FG	1023
ABV	3.84
Apparent attenuation	55.77%
IBU	18
SRM	30
Mash at	148º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	WLP028 Edinburgh Ale

This, and many other, excellent recipes appear in my definitive book on Scottish beer:

Leaving Amsterdam

“I still think you’re crazy, Ronald. Going all that way again when you’ve only been back a couple of weeks.”

Dolores does have a point. But I’m not about to admit it. I weakly object: “It’s OK. I’m used to the travel.”

“It can’t be good for you.” Again, she probably has a point. Which, again, I’m not prepared to concede. This time, I simply remain silent.

I need to quickly nip out before leaving for the airport. To vote in the EU elections. I always try to make a point of voting when I can. This might be the last chance I get, what with everyone in the UK having gone insane. A bizarre way to kick off the trip.  As usual, the ballot paper is the size of a bedsheet.

My goodbyes said to a depressingly untearful Dolores, I toodle along to the bus stop. Normal drill this morning: 15 to Haarlemmermeerstation, then 397 to the airport. Quick (30 minutes at most), cheap (around 2 euros) and with the least walking. Taking the 15 bus then the train from Amsterdam Zuid involves lots more faffing around. When I’m luggaged up, faffing is something I try to avoid as much as possible.

I’ve a bit of a wait for the 397 bus. No biggie. Still three hours until my flight departs. Call me Mr. Paranoid, but I don’t like taking any chances. Despite having pushing-in boarding. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s boiling my blood by rushing. My life has enough stress without adding to it unnecessarily. 

When the 397 turns up, it’s tricky to get very far as some twat tourist three rows in has stuck his massive suitcase in the middle of the aisle. Thanks a lot, mate. How I hate tourists. And the way they ruin things for travellers like me.

I alight the bus to the traditional cry of “Taxi?” from the illegal touts that lurk on the fringes of the bus platforms. They just can’t seem to get the problem under control. Honestly, it’s like the third world here sometimes.

The touts all have self-made signs saying “Official taxi”. Dead unconvincing. Yet they must trap some fools, or why would they be standing here?

My airport routine is the same as always. Grab a sarnie in the Albert Heijn landside, dump my bag and get through security as quickly as possible. Heading directly to the duty free to pick up a bottle of hotel whisky. After comments from Dolores (“How can you spend that much on one bottle?”) I’ve become more frugal in my choices. Damn how expensive Islay is becoming.

I settle on a Speyside at a very reasonable 36 euros for a litre. Let’s face it: I’m not that fucking fussy. The main purpose of the whisky is to tip me over into slumber at the end of the evening. Any half-decent single malt will do.

While I’m in the duty free, I also pick up 6 miniatures of Famous Grouse. They’ll come in handy for the plane. I’m flying Delta and they’re meaner with the free booze than KLM. No nipping to the galley for extra bottles of wine with them.

I notice that in the long queueing area for the tills is lined with tubs of miniatures and shelves of half bottles. Aah, good old impulse Schnapps. Just like in German supermarkets.

My leaves from pier D. Meaning I have to walk past the Murphy’s pub. Literally, right past it. I can’t resist nipping inside. I’m not made of stone. I limit myself to a half of Stout. And a double Jameson, no ice. There’s a party of Americans nearby fuelling up for their flight. Know the feeling, mates.

Trundling on to my gate, I park my arse and fire up my laptop. I need to finish watching that episode of Taskmaster. Should fill in some time. I chomp away on my budget sarnie. Omelette and bacon, in the unlikely event you might take an interest. It’s what I always get. I’m very much a man of habits, when in Schiphol.

With my pushing-in boarding, I embark early and settle my fat arse into my seat. Carefully concealing the miniatures in the seat pocket. Only four left now. I couldn’t resist slurping a couple while I was waiting. As I said earlier, I’m not made of stone. “More like 50% whisky.” I hear Dolores telling me in my head.

A big, loud American sits next to me. I recognise him as one of the refuelling party in Murphy’s pub. One of his companions comes a long with a big bag of vodka miniatures and passes him a handful. Seems I’m not the only one concerned about on-board booze supplies.

I’m warming to my neighbour. Let’s be honest: I’m not exactly small myself. And, a few drinks in, my volume control jams at 11. We compare miniatures. Definitely my sort of guy.

The flight progresses in the usual way. Crap films, interspersed with drinks and meal services. Gently backlit by the illicit miniatures. The perfect start to a trip, really.

Immigration isn’t the nightmare it can be. I’m soon photographed and fingerprinted. They seem to have dropped those little customs cards you used to have to fill in. Good. They were dead annoying and didn’t seem to serve much purpose.

One upside of the hanging around at immigration is that there’s usually no waiting at the baggage carousel. As I got through quickly, that doesn’t apply. After a while, bags start to arrive. The circling pile waxes and wanes, then disappears altogether. Without my little grey trolley bag appearing. Bum.

This isn’t a great start. I go to the baggage counter and report my missing bag. They take my details, but have no idea where it might currently be or when I might see it again. If and when they find it, it’ll be delivered to my hotel. Not been having much luck with checked-in bags recently. That’s the second time in a year one’s gone walkies.

My hand baggage contains all the essentials. Laptop, toothbrush, razor, bottle of whisky. But I’ll need a fresh pair of trollies for tomorrow. And I’m only staying two nights in Atlanta. If it doesn’t turn up by then, I’m fucked.

I jump in a cab with what bags I have. The view on the way downtown isn’t that inspiring. The areas around US airports are often a sea of beige. Beige concrete motorways. Beige strip malls. Beige houses, beige flats. It would drive me nuts.

There’s little time to rest once I arrive in my hotel. I’ve an appointment at 7 PM. With John Roberts and Stan Hieronymus. Not that it’s far away. Just around the corner at John’s Max Lager’s brewery.

I arrive about on time and park myself, as always, at the bar. No sign of John or Stan. I start getting worried after half an hour. Then John appears. They’ve been waiting for me in the upstairs bar. Silly me not checking there.

We pass a few pleasant hours of beer and chat. Stan kindly gives me a copy of his book "Brewing Local".

It’s been a long day. When things start getting too blurry, I head back to my hotel. It takes me a while to find it. I should have paid more attention on the way over.

Ensconced in my room, a final encounter with whisky pushes me rapidly down the slope to slumber.



Max Lager’s
320 Peachtree St NE,
Atlanta,
GA 30308.
Tel: +1 404-525-4400
https://maxlagers.com

Me talking again

Me talking about the history of Porter at Zebulon in Weaverville:

https://www.facebook.com/milkthefunkthepodcast/videos/vb.543281539338355/442744286503674/

It does go on a bit.

Back from the USA yet again

Just got in from my last cross-Atlantic jaunt.  Mostly good fun, other than some stomach problems.

I'll be boring you stupid with reports of every beer I drank and every meal I ate. In the meantime, here are a few snaps I took while away. In no particular order.

webinar on Porter

While in Asheville, in addition to talking a couple of times, I also gave a webinar on Porter:

https://www.crowdcast.io/e/bjcp_study_groups-ron_pattinson-porter

A new experience for me. Though there were some technical difficulties.

London Porter grists in the 1920s

To say that there was diversity in post-WW I Porter great understatement. There’s only one constant in this set: black malt.

They don’t even all use pale malt as a base. SA – Stock Ale – malt was specifically designed to produce a less readily fermentable wort. Which is a desirable feature in a beer intended to undergo a secondary fermentation with Brettanomyces. There’s a reason why it’s present in such a light beer as TT: it was parti-gyled with Russian Stout. A beer that underwent a long secondary.

I’m slightly surprised to see flaked maize only in one example. Whitbread, of course, were malt and sugar only. Barclay Perkins, while big fans of maize in their Ales, didn’t use any in their Porter and Stout. The same was true at Courage. Leaving Fullers as the only adjunct users.

The sugars employed were as equally varied. There are several different types of invert, what looks like raw cane sugar, caramel and a proprietary sugar.

All four of these beers were only ever brewed parti-gyled with a Stout of some description. And, unlike before the war, Porter was always the junior partner. Meaning the Porter recipe was determined by the demands of the Stout.

London Porter grists in the 1920s
Year	Brewer	Beer	OG	pale malt	brown malt	black malt	amber malt	SA malt	flaked maize	oats
1922	Whitbread	P	1028	63.96%	14.15%	13.02%				0.57%
1928	Barclay Perkins	TT	1032.6		12.08%	6.99%	16.53%	50.85%
1925	Fullers	P	1041.5	64.15%		8.44%	0.00%		8.44%	0.66%
1923	Courage	Porter	1032.7	66.21%	6.90%	10.34%	0.00%
Sources:
Whitbread brewing record held at the London Metropolitan archives, document number LMA/4453/D/09/115.
Barclay Perkins brewing record held at the London Metropolitan archives, document number ACC/2305/01/614.
Fullers brewing record held at the brewery.
Courage  brewing record held at the London Metropolitan archives, document number ACC/2305/08/253.

London Porter sugars in the 1920s
Year	Brewer	Beer	OG	no. 2 sugar	no. 3 sugar	black invert	Mauritius	Sp Dark	caramel
1922	Whitbread	P	1028		8.30%
1928	Barclay Perkins	TT	1032.6	13.56%
1925	Fullers	P	1041.5					13.50%	4.80%
1923	Courage	Porter	1032.7			4.60%	5.75%		6.21%
Sources:
Whitbread brewing record held at the London Metropolitan archives, document number LMA/4453/D/09/115.
Barclay Perkins brewing record held at the London Metropolitan archives, document number ACC/2305/01/614.
Fullers brewing record held at the brewery.
Courage  brewing record held at the London Metropolitan archives, document number ACC/2305/08/253.

You'll find more information that you'll ever need to know about Porter in my excellent book on the subject:

Let's Brew - 1939 Whitbread X

This version of X Ale was brewed just a couple of weeks after Britain declared war on Germany. Too soon for the war to have had any impact.

The biggest change to X Ale’s recipe after WW I was the addition of crystal malt in 1924. Which was quite late. Crystal malt was originally developed for use in Mild Ale. Barclay Perkins were already using it in theirs in the 1880s.

As was usual, the colour mostly derives from the No.3 invert sugar and caramel. Despite the dark colour, there is no roasted malt of any kind.

Ironically, given that the UK was at war with Germany, around a quarter of the hops were Hallertau from the 1935 harvest. The remainder being Mid-Kent from 1937 and 1938.

Dark brown and just over 3% ABV. It’s looking very much like a modern Dark Mild.

1939 Whitbread X
pale malt	5.75 lb	76.21%
crystal malt 60 L	1.00 lb	13.25%
No. 3 invert sugar	0.67 lb	8.88%
caramel 2000 SRM	0.13 lb	1.66%
Hallertau 75 mins	0.50 oz
Fuggles 75 mins	0.50 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.00 oz
OG	1034
FG	1010
ABV	3.18
Apparent attenuation	70.59%
IBU	25
SRM	23
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	168º F
Boil time	75 minutes
pitching temp	65º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

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

 

and hardback formats: