Let's Brew - 1909 Whitbread IPA

Whitbread’s Edwardian beers are bound to get a style Nazi in tizzy. Because they certainly don’t fit with the modern hierarchy of Pale Ales.  With their IPA being significantly weaker than their Pale Ale.

Whitbread IPA was a latecomer to the party, first brewed in October 1899. They’d been in the Pale Ale game since the 1860s and already brewed three different ones – PA, 2PA and FA, in descending order of strength. With IPA slotting in just above FA.

So, what made this beer an IPA? The fact that the brewery called it that. I can’t work on any other basis. Were British breweries consistent in their use of the term IPA? Like hell they were. And particularly liable to use PA and IPA pretty much randomly. There’s no point searching for a pattern, because there isn’t one.

As was typical, the grist is dead simple. Just pale malt (made from Middle-Eastern barley) and the classier PA malt. Along with quite a bit of sugar, which I’ve assumed to be No. 1 invert.

The hopping was heavier than for their Pale Ale – 11 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt as opposed to 9 lbs. Leaving it a little more bitter. The hops themselves were three types of East Kent, all from the 1908 harvest.

IPA would be a real survivor, eventually becoming Whitbread Trophy, brewed right up until the closure of Chiswell Street in the 1970s.

1909 Whitbread IPA
pale malt	8.00 lb	80.00%
no. 1 sugar	2.00 lb	20.00%
Goldings 90 mins	1.75 oz
Goldings 60 mins	1.75 oz
Goldings 30 mins	1.75 oz
Goldings dry hops	0.50 oz
OG	1049.6
FG	1015
ABV	4.58
Apparent attenuation	69.76%
IBU	68
SRM	6
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	105 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread ale

 

Effect of WW II on the Dutch brewing industry

Curse Peter Symons. He's got another document digitised which is going to cost me weeks of work.

It's called ""De Nederlandse Brouwindustrie in Cijfers" ("The Dutch brewing industry in numbers") and is stiffed full of useful numbers, including ones covering the war years. Providing me with so much information, I'm contemplating ripping the section on Dutch brewing oit and making it a separate volume. "Blutzkrieg! Vol, 3", I suppose.

Here's the first bit I've written using the new data.

Compared to the devastating effect of WW I on Belgian brewing – when hundreds of breweries were stripped of their copper by the Germans and never reopened – Holland didn’t fare too badly. Breweries weren’t looted and continued to brew until the raw materials ran out.

Only 16 breweries – all very small – closed during the war years. Compared to 36 in the first nine years of peace. The closure in 1949 if a brewery which was responsible for 5.3% of Dutch beer output has to be van Vollenhoven. It accounted for over half the production capacity lost between 1938 and 1954.

Dutch breweries 1938 - 1954
year	working breweries	closed during the year	cumulative total of closed breweries	production share of closed breweries	cumulative total of closed breweries
1938	99	—	—	—	—
1939	98	1	1	0.0126	0.0126
1940	98	—	1	—	0.0126
1941	95	3	4	0.0490	0.0616
1942	93	2	6	0.0079	0.0695
1943	92	1	7	0.0113	0.0808
1944	87	5	12	0.2811	0.3619
1945	83	4	16	0.8939	1.2558
1946	79	4	20	0.3153	1.5711
1947	76	3	23	0.1511	1.7222
1948	72	4	27	0.2547	1.9769
1949	66	6	33	5.2927	7.2696
1950	60	6	39	0.6670	7.9366
1951	54	6	45	0.8456	8.7822
1952	50	4	49	0.6478	9.4300
1953	47	5	52	0.7659	10.1959
1954	47	—	52	—	10.1959
Source:
De Nederlandse Brouwindustrie in Cijfers, by Dr. H. Hoelen, Centraal Brouwerij Kantoor, 1955, page 15, held at the Amsterdam City Archives.

Going home

It's my last day in Brazil. Not that I'll have chance to do much, other than haing around in airports.

My flight isn't until 12:35. No need to get up too early. I wend my way to breakfast just after nine,.

Now that's embarrassing: I've forgotten my mask. A member of staff soon reminds me and U head back upstairs to fetch one. How on earth did I forget? I've worn one every time I step outside for more than 18 months.

Once masked, breakfast is the same egg/sausage/cheese combo as yesterday.

I've still some cheap Velho Barreiro cachaça to finish off. That it's only 10 AM isn't going to stop me . I hate waste. And I am a bit of a pisshead.

A taxi speeds me to the airport. I didn't really take much of it in on arrival. Mostly because I was utterly and totally knackered. In daylight and with me more awake, it seems quite nice. Modern and not too big.

 

This time checking in with Latam is a much more pleasant experience. Far quicker, too. I'd left a couple of hours, just to be sire. Meaning I have a good bit of hanging around to do. I fire up the laptop and watch an episode of Modern Life is Goodish. Light and relaxing. Exactly what I need.

I would have watched more on the plane. But, once again, the twat in front of me reclines his seat to the max the moment we leave the tarmac. At least it's a short flight.

 

Sao Paulo airport is a much more relaxing experience in this direction. Mostly because my KLM gold status means I can jump the check-in queue. The woman checking me in asks if I'm vaccinated but doesn't look at my document, let alone check it, after I wave it at her.

I drop by the duty free to use up my remaining reals. A rather expensive bottle of cachaça does the trick. For some reason everything is priced in dollars. And, despite paying in reals, my change is in dollars.

The lounge is pretty nice, too. And they're very generous with the whisky pours. I need top pace myself, as there are almost 6 hours between my flights.

I was going to get stuck into my laptop. But they're showing a Premier League game - Brighton against Leeds. It's a pretty dreadful game, which the whisky takes the edge off. When it's done, they switch the TV to a channel showing the final of the Copa Libertadores, the South American equivalent of the Champions League.

Getting bored of the footie, I watch an episode of Al Murray's new programme, "Why do Brits win every war". It passes time painlessly.

Best get some food in. It is free, after all. And doubtless better than what will be served on the plane.

Not knowing how long a walk it is to the gate, I don't cut it too fine.

Once airborne, I get out the laptop. Despite the twat in front of me reclining all the way back.  Reclining my own seat, I've just about room to fiddle on my laptop. I watch a documentary on the Fast Show. More nice light stuff.

After eating some stuff - the same as on the way out, I think - I get my head down. It's not the most restful sleep I've ever had. Good enough. I wake an hour or two out from Amsterdam. And watch some crap on the in-flight entertainment. I watched all the stuff worth watching - and more - on the way out.

The immigration people want to see my vaccination certificate. "How long will you be staying in Holland?" they ask.  When I reply that I live here, they want to see my verblifsvergunning (resident's permit.) It was the same on the way out.

My bag pops out onto the carousel pretty quickly. That's good. I really want to get home. I walk through the nothing to declare channel. Despite, with three bottles of cachaça in my luggage, being well over the duty-free allowance.

Outside, I hurry to the taxi rank. I feel rather under-dressed wearing shorts.

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1901 Whitbread KK

Let’s take a look at what a couple of decades have done to Whitbread’s main Burton Ale, KK.

The most obvious change is in the colour, which is much darker. We’ll see in a moment the reason for that. Otherwise, it looks much the same as in 1981, in terms of OG and bitterness level.

Dig a little deeper, and the changes are more significant. Brown malt has been added to the grist, albeit in a fairly small amount. The bulk of the malt bill, however, remains SA malt (for which I’ve substituted mild malt), pale malt and PA malt (which I’ve combined together)

I have to admit that I’m not totally sure that the sugar was No. 3 invert. The brewing record doesn’t specify the type. It could equally have been No. 1 or No. 2. Which would have a significant impact on the colour.

English hops, all from the 1900 season, now rule supreme. Two lots of East Kent and one of Worcester.

In the brewing record the FG is listed as 1028, which is the racking gravity rather than the true FG. Several months of a secondary Brettanomyces fermentation would have reduced that considerably.

1901 Whitbread KK
mild malt	7.25 lb	43.94%
pale malt	6.75 lb	40.91%
brown malt	0.25 lb	1.52%
No. 3 invert sugar	2.25 lb	13.64%
Fuggles 105 mins	3.25 oz
Goldings 60 mins	3.25 oz
Goldings 30 mins	3.25 oz
Goldings dry hops	1.00 oz
OG	1076
FG	1018
ABV	7.67
Apparent attenuation	76.32%
IBU	98
SRM	18
Mash at	152º F
Sparge at	180º F
Boil time	105 minutes
pitching temp	57º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

More Floripa

I wander down to breakfast quite late, a little after 9 AM. 

The offering is almost identical to my last hotel.Scrambled egg, omelette, chopped-up sausages, sold meats, cheese and fruit. One big difference - there's much better cheese. Stuff that actually has some flavour.

What to do today? Let's have a think. I should be able to entertain myself easily enough.

After a frustrating attempt at shaving, I decide a visit to a chemists would be a good idea. To get a razor that actually works. I'm sure I'll find one easily enough. There seemed to plenty of them yesterday. I head downtown.

It's weird that Black Friday is a thing here, too. How long has that been? It makes absolutely no sense anywhere but the USA. Everywhere else, it's just a random Friday.

One thing I did specifically check for was somewhere to buy cachaça for the kids. I found some wine shops a little out of the centre. But I'm a lazy git. I opt for a supermarket with a central location.

I spot a suitable chemist on my way. Soon, I'm the proud owner of some cheap plastic razors. Score. Now for the cachaça. 

The choice is greater than in the small supermarket. Around a dozen or so, at varying prices.Not wanting to be a cheapskate, I splash out 50 and 70 reals (8 and 12 euros). I'm relieved to get that done. I return to my hotel to store away my treasures.

I've decided that I fancy seafood for lunch. A quick search reveals that there a couple of suitable candidates in the central market. Perfect. That's a piece of piss to find. Always important when navigating a city without a map.

Fortunately, it isn't too crowded.

After wandering around a bit, I manage to find the two places I've earmarked. they're next door to each other. And one is closed. That's made my decision easy. Rancho da Ilha it is, then.

While I'm looking at the menu, I order an Eisenbahn American IPA. It's oxidised as hell. But at least the hops cover it up a bit.

I choose the cheapest set meal thing. A heap of carbs, some bits of fish, salad and black beans.

The fish is so overcooked it's rock-like surface is difficult to cut. Who cooks fish like this. I'm reminded of some of the meat dishes at the buffet. I assumed they had turned to leather by being kept warm. Now I suspect they were cooked like that.

Good chips, mind. And there's vinegar. Black beans I'm starting to appreciate. Especially mixed up with rice.I can't really complain. It was under 4 euros.

Bayer Bier is my early evening destination. The one in the centre, around the back of the cathedral. I get there just after it opens at 4 PM.

The original Bayer brewery was founded in 1921 and closed in the 1960s. Descendants reestablished the brand in 2015 and presumably get the beers contract brewed.

Tiny doesn't describe it. Café Belgique is spacious in comparison. One table is half inside, half out.  That one side of a table is the sum of the inside seating. All the rest is outside, some in rather perilous looking spots out in the road. I sit at a tiny high table. (You can see it on the left in the photo above.)

Again, I choose an IPA. This one is far better than the one at lunch. No oxidation. That's a relief. It's slipping down quite nicely.

A good job I'm under cover. It intermittently chucks it down with rain. Alternating with bright sunlight. Sometimes both at the same time. After another couple of  Eepas, as most here seem to call them, I'm ready for some food. They're out of my initial choice and I make do with onion rings. Very nice they are. Not overcooked.

I'm worrying about whether I'll need a Corona test to get back onto Holland. Travelling is so much fun right now.

When the sun starts to set, I call it a day and walk home. The city looks magical in the fading light. The giant murals coming to life.

 The cathedral shimmering gold.

 

On way walk back, I make a small diversion to the little corner place. Just a sandwich today. Exactly enough to fill that hunger hole.

Back in my room, I anxiously search through the Dutch government's website, trying to work out what the current requirements for entry are. I'm pretty sure that while they advise that you get a test, it isn't required. At least that's how I interpret it. Very stressful.

I attack the cachaça, seeking relief. There's still a whole lot of it left when sleep comes a knocking.
 

 

 

Restaurante Rancho da Ilha
Mercado Público - Rua Jerônimo Coelho, 60 Box 37S
Centro, Florianópolis - SC,
88010-030.
http://www.ranchodailha.com.br/

Bayer Bier - Centro
R. Anita Garibaldi, 93
Centro, Florianópolis - SC,
88010-500.
https://www.bayerbier.com.br/home

 

 

In the city

No need to rise early. So I don't. It's just after 9:30 when I finally wander down. The breakfast room is pretty much empty. Just one other punter. Not someone from the contest.

Daringly, I give some of the cheese a try. And the ham stuff. The thrill of the unknown.

The orange cheese is pretty tasteless. Doesn't have much in the way of texture, either. I've not been missing much. I feel the fruit working its magic. Or perhaps that's just a fart coalescing in my gut.

With a couple of hours to kill before checkout, I head for a quick tour of the beach. The second I step onto it someone cries out:

"Hello Ron"

It's the woman who organised the Blumenau competition last year. We chat for a while. Until I need to go and pack.

Not that packing takes too long. I haven't a huge amount of stuff. Just clothes and a laptop. And the leftover hotel cachaça.

After checking out I'm offered a beer by one of the other judges hanging around the lobby. From the remnants of the sponsor's. No Bock, so I make do with a Black Princess Gold. When will I get another chance?

One of the Brazilian judges offers me a lift into town. Not going to say no. In daylight, it's clear how hilly the island is. Hilly enough to be untouched by agriculture or housing. Very green.

I've not seen Florianopolis proper. Other than a few fleeting glimpses as my taxi rushed past on Saturday night. As we skirt along the coast, it looks pretty highrisey.

Having lived in Florianopolis, my driver knows the hotel and quickly navigates his way there. Checking in is a doddle and I'm soon in my room. Very nice it is, too. Though with rather too many beds for my needs. In addition to a big double, there's a double sofa bed and a single. 

Not wanting to waste time wandering around, I check Google maps for a nearby restaurant. Something selling Brazilian stuff. I'm not going to waste my time on pizza or Chinese food. I find something suitable looking just around the corner. Called Restaurante Cota e Carioca da Gema, which is a bit of a mouthful.

The street leading down to the restaurant is scarily steep for a Dutch resident like me. I'm really not used to hills. Especially steep ones. I don't fancy climbing back up it.

There's a chav behind the counter about my age. He doesn't speak any English. Disappearing off to the kitchen, he returns with the young person who can speak English. Obviously the chef. Who explains what they have. I go for the pork option. And a can of Skol.

It must be after peak time as one of the staff is getting stuck into a meal in a corner at the back.

I wanted Brazilian and that's what I got. Double carbs, black beans and stuff (I can't remember the name) that someone described to me as bacon-flavoured sand. I get the sandy texture, but not the bacon flavour. It's fine mixed up with the beans and rice.

It certainly filled a hole. Good values, too, at a shade under 3.50 euros. After leaving, I snap the outside of the building. The old bloke comes out and enrolls the specials banner he'd just taken down. Very friendly, these Brazilians.

It's a bit disorientating being on my own after days of always being in company. And having my time scheduled. What to do? Maybe look at the sights.

Further down the street I'm on is the central market. I've heard it's good. So I roll on down. The street is very low-rise - mostly one or two stories. And lined with small, independent shops. Including some pretty weird ones. Like Rei do MDF - King of MDF.

The market is impressive. But most seems to be given over to restaurants. I don't linger and head over to the cathedral and its square.

Wow. That's an impressive fucking tree. And there's a depressing barefoot homeless man kipping on that bench.

I wander back to my hotel. Avoiding any too steep inclines.

I made a search of beery places in the city before I left Holland. The breweries all seemed to be either on the mainland or well out of the centre.I could get a taxi somewhere, but I'd prefer not to. Somewhere within walking distance would be so much simpler. 

Another search kicks up somewhere just a few minutes away. That'll do. It doesn't open until 6 PM. Time for some wandering around the internet. And working my way through that cheap cachaça. I wouldn't want to have to leave any.

Though not far away, Infinito is down an even more scarily steep street. One which I don't think I'll be able to avoid on the way home.

I'm the first customer in. They fetch the English speaker to explain everything to me.

"I'm behind the bar. If you need anything, just come and ask."

I pick a seat on the veranda and gave out over the adjacent empty lot. The sun is gently sinking and the light softening. Samba music plays, while I get stick into my IPA. Served in a bizarre 473 ml measure. It's pleasantly grapefruity and slips down without much trouble.

A waitress comes up and asks if I'd like another beer, touching my shoulder. You'd never have that in Amsterdam, the staff making physical contact with a stranger. Obviously, I want another beer,

For the first 40 minutes, I'm on my own. Then people start turning up in matching t-shirts. I've been in groups like that while down here. But they keep trolling up in their green shirts. Soon totally filling the pub.

The same song is being played over and over. Is this some sort of political rally?*

Just as well I've already got a couple of beers down. A couple of hundred political activists are now between me and another beer. Paying, too, after being driven insane by the same song being played 10 drillion tines. Not being so up on Brazilian politics, I have no idea who they support. 

I force my way to the bar and ask the English-speaking lass for a refill and the bill. She points me to another part of the bar and I wait around there for a while. No luck paying, for some reason. I retreat to my seat.

I manage to grab a passing waitress. "Pagar?" No problem. I can escape.

I would have ordered a small meal. No way I was doing that after the mobbing. So I leave a little peckish. 

 

The monster hill doesn't leave me as wheezing as I'd feared. This climate is doing my lungs a power of good. And at the top I find a little corner place open. Where I get myself  a sandwich and a bag of crisps. That'll do.

It's cheap cachaça easing me down the slope to sleep tonight.

 

* It was the election for the bar association of Santa Catharina state they were celebrating. With the first woman being elected president.

Restaurante Cota e Carioca da Gema
R. Conselheiro Mafra, 594
Centro, Florianópolis - SC,
88010-100.

Infinito - Cervejaria Criativa
R. Henrique Valgas, 318
Centro, Florianópolis - SC,
88010-220.
https://infinito-taps.negocio.site

Lanchonete Café No Blue
R. Felipe Schmidt, 720
Centro, Florianópolis - SC,
88010-001.

Last judging

"What will we be judging today? We already awarded medals yesterday." I ask Gordon over breakfast.

"Not all the categories have been judged yet."

My hopes of a short day dashed, I tuck back into breakfast. The eggy sausage fruit thing I'm now totally committed to.

I've been down early enough to be ready for the scheduled departure of the bus at 8:20. I should really have caught on by now. It leaves closer to 9:00.

I sit next to Jan Koch, who brews at a brewpub in Hamburg. I'd been surprised a couple of days earlier when he spoke to me in fluent Dutch. Not what you'd expect of someone living in Hamburg.

It turns out he'd worked in Holland. Including a place where my wife worked. Though they were in different departments and their paths didn't cross. Still weird.

He complains about how late the bus back to the hotel was yesterday. It turns out I was one of one of the lucky ones. I assumed that the minibus would have continued to ferry people back. It didn't. After my trip it fucked off. Everyone else had to wait for all the judging to be done. Which was after 8 PM.

I'm on a table with Ludmilla again. This time captained by Tibor, who has  a beer pub in Munich. Just the three of us.

Tibor is using the same system as Gordon, more or less. Which has us zipping through the beers. I'm dreading a couple of the flights. Vienna Lager, for a start. And home brewed Catharina Sours.

The Viennas are as expected. Almost all riddled with faults. Except for the only decent one I judged on the first day.

In contrast the Catharina Sours are the best set I've had in the whole competition. 8 out of 10 good. Some very good indeed. It restore my faith a little.

We rattle along so smoothly that, even judging one of the flights meant for the afternoon, we're still pretty early for lunch. Again up on the rooftop. It's pretty much the same buffet fare as the other days.

Tibor rocks us through the afternoon flights. So quickly, that we get an extra flight. Even after that, we're one of the first tables done.

I'm going to be judging Best of Show. Meaning I have to hang around until all the other tables have finished. Jan does, too. He mentions that he had a quick swim and a beer at lunchtime. Just 50 metres away. I wondered why his shorts were wet after lunch. I didn't like to say anything in case he'd pissed himself.

A couple of tables clearly have a way to go.

"Fancy nipping to the beach?" I suggest. "Some fresh air would be much nicer than staring at a blank wall."

He doesn't need asking twice. Soon we're settled down on the beach. Almost deserted and quite lovely.

It feels like I'm on holiday for the first time since Sunday. So I get myself a cachaca as well. I nice big, thick one.

Jan asked another judge to call him when they were ready to start. Which he does. It only takes a couple of minutes to get back. We've had maybe 30 minutes on the beach, but it's really chilled me out. And got me ready to make big decisions.

There are two rounds to Best of Show. Each table of six judges gets 15 beers or so and has to put through three. There's a lively discussion on our table to whittle down the possibilities. We manage to come to a consensus without too much pain.

While we're discussing one of the Brazilian judges, possibly a shade older than me, mentions that he's a musician. Quite sell known in Brazil, it seems.

When we've made our choice, I nip off to the bog for a quick slash. On my return, I notice that I 've been chosen to be on the final panel. That's what happens when your name is in the BJCP guidelines. Gordon has already left, flying back to get home for Thanksgiving. The sneaky bastard.

It's pretty obvious to me which the winner is. To most of the other judges, too. There are only really two beers in contention. A quick show of hands confirms the winner as a Catharina Sour. With passion fruit and dragon fruit. The aroma is amazing. I could just sniff it all day.

It's late, but not stupid late. Not even 8 PM. There should still be some food left for us.

Tonight it's Feijoada, a traditional Brazilian stew. Not that I'm feeling that hungry.

A samba band is playing and most of the Brazilians are dancing. It appears the band recognised the musician judge and have invited him to join in. He sits in, singing and playing, for three or four songs. He clearly knows what he's doing.

I'm not tempted by the dance floor. A couple of decades back, I'd have been up like a shot. But my dancing days are behind me. I'm happy now just to watch and tap my foot.

I chat with fellow judge Thomas Sjøberg about beer history stuff. Drinking more Black Princess beer.

It's been a long and tiring day. Other than the quick beach interlude. I don't need to be up particularly early tomorrow. But I still go quite early to my bed. I need to preserve my energy. I'm not a young man anymore. 

Gentleman Bowmore has deserted me. This time it's cachaca giving me the final push into temporary oblivion.

The organisers of the Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation and food during the period of judging (four nights and three days) Beer, too, which was provided by one of the sponsors. I had to pay for my own cocktails. And all other expenses, such as flights and extra hotel nights.

Let's Brew - 1881 Whitbread PA

Just realised that I didn't publish a recipe on Wednesday. For the first time in many years. Apologies for that. I got carried away with Brazil.

The original Pale Ale brewed at Chiswell Street back in the 1860s was, rather unimaginatively, called simply Pale Ale. It was a beer Whitbread would brew for a very long time.

In terms of gravity, it’s very similar in strength to other top-class pale Ales, such as Barclay Perkins PA and Fullers IPA. Not really surprising, as they were competing in the same market.

The recipe is quite similar, too, consisting of around 80% base malt and 20% sugar. No adjuncts. That was a continuing theme with Whitbread, other than in wartime.

Three types of English hops were employed, one from the 1880 harvest and two from 1881. All pretty fresh, as you would expect in an expensive, hop-accented beer like this. And rather a lot of them. I’ve guessed Fuggles and Goldings for the varieties.

The bitterness level – and the FG – would have fallen by the time it was served. This was a Stock Pale, destined fir extensive ageing, probably at least 9 months. 

1881 Whitbread PA
pale malt	9.25 lb	80.43%
No. 1 invert sugar	2.25 lb	19.57%
Fuggles 90 mins	2.75 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	2.75 oz
Goldings 30 mins	2.75 oz
Goldings dry hops	1.00 oz
OG	1057
FG	1015
ABV	5.56
Apparent attenuation	73.68%
IBU	94
SRM	7
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	57º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

More judging

Ever the optimist, I'm up early and down for breakfast well before 8 AM.

I join Gordon again. And exactly the same egg/sausage/fruit combo as the previous mornings. How boring am I?

We're asked to head for the bus before 9 AM. We're not allowed on straight away. Leaving time for some idle chatter. Like what the hell is that weird fruit hanging from the tree next to the bus? It looks like a 1930s football.

We ask one of the Brazilians what it id. She has no idea. Another says she's pretty sure it isn't edible. No-one knows its name

We get to the judging hotel about on schedule. We're underway after not too long.

The beers come out exactly when required. Not the case everywhere. I've had to wait 20 to 30 minutes for each flight. Really annoying and dispiriting.

They've made a big effort to have a good balance of male and female judges. Great idea. I'll just say that in passing.

Today I'm on Gordon's table. Dead pleased about that. Not just for the chat. But because I know has lots of experience at this sort of thing. He won't allow any hanging around. His table finished first yesterday.

Sure enough, he has a much better system worked out. Makes the process much quicker.

A word about judging, for those who've never judged. It's way less fun than it sounds. Mostly.

You're going to have to drink some bad beer. If you're, unlucky, some really bad beer. That's just how it is. Some brewers, inexplicably submit quite old samples. I'm sure a lot is damaged in transit. Which, depending on where the judging is performed, can be a complex process.

On the upside, you get to discuss beer all day with fellow nerds. Some judges can have very expressive faces when sampling beers. Especially ones they hate. That look of just having taken a slug of battery acid laced with cyanide. I'm a member of that club. I've almost spat out particularly disgusting beers. None that bad this time, luckily.

Other humans can also be a downside. Argumentative, opinionated, pedantic and pig-headed are the characteristics you want to avoid around the table. I'm guilty of at least three. (Possibly five. I'd forgotten arrogant.)

The exact mechanics vary at each contest. But the approach I've seen most is to eliminate the obviously faulty beers first. Oxidation, DMS, diacetyl are the main problems. Even my leather nose can pick them out easily enough.

Next to go are any that are way out of style, no matter how good a beer it is. Like an English Dark Mild that's been hopped with bucketloads of the latest trendy high-alpha varieties, matured in Islay barrels for two years with Brettanomyces and finally bottled with champagne yeast. It might be a great beer, but it's in the wrong fucking category.

Finally, you get to argue about what's left. If you're unlucky, most of the flight will be faultless and to style. A nightmare if there are 8 or 9 quite similar beers. And when arguments can ensue.

The worst rows, however, flare when there's a big split in opinion about a beer. Especially if  two argumentative, opinionated, pedantic and pig-headed judges face off against each other. It doesn't happen that much. Most of the time. judges are in broad agreement. Diametrically opposite opinions don't pop up often. The process would be torture if it did.

I can't claim total innocence of this sin. But I have learnt from my mistakes and grown. As I person. Not getting drawn into that shit again.

Gordon has worked his magic and we're some of the first done with morning flights.

Lunch today is in the rooftop restaurant. With a view over the sea. Very scenic. I get first crack at the nosh, too. 

[Perhaps I would have done better to photograph the lovely view rather than my beige food.]
 

I get all the food groups: beef, pork and chicken. Note that I go for just a small portion of a single carb.

I've some time after gobbling down my grub. And drop by the supermarket over the road. To check out their cachaca selection. For the kids, obviously.

Disappointing, to be honest, the selection. Just the cheap one in the 931 ml bottle. I grab one just as emergency hotel drink. In case there's a big emergency. Like I've drunk the Bowmore too quickly.

On my way to the till I notice a display of glasses. Hey, that's just what I need. Yesterday, I nicked a flimsy plastic cup from the coffee corner. But that bugger split and I almost dribbled Bowmore all over my laptop. Now I'll be able to drink my whisky like a gentleman.

We start dishing out medals in the afternoon. Without a great deal of disagreement. At a decent pace.

A minibus takes the early finishers back to the hotel we're staying at. So early, I can unwind in my room before dinner.

When I get downstairs Gordon and a few other judges are drinking cocktails at the bar.

"That's a good idea. I haven't had a caipirinha yet."

So that's what I get. Makes a change from beer.

There's a barbecue at the end of the garden. Just before the beach. It's blowing a gale. Scarily windy. Which isn't doing the cooks any favours.

I eat a few skewers of meat and one of cheese. Big lumps of this white stuff. No idea what type it is. Barbecues up nicely. 

People keep bringing me bottles of beer. Black Princess Gold. One of the ones we're getting for free.It's OK, when cold enough.

Someone unwisely asks me about oak flavour in 19th-century IPA. It's a good hour before I pause for breath. 

Not a late one, again. 

A gentlemanly Bowmore, from a glass, gently rubs my temples and soothes me to slumber.

The organisers of the Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation and food during the period of judging (four nights and three days) Beer, too, which was provided by one of the sponsors. I had to pay for my own cocktails. And all other expenses, such as flights and extra hotel nights.

 

Judging begins

Like a good boy, I'm in the breakfast room well before 8. Spotting Gordon, I join him at his table.

"The bus is delayed until 9." is how he greets me.

Great. I could have had another 40 minutes in bed. At least I won't have to rush my food. The same as yesterday. Warm stuff then fruit. I quite quickly pick up habits. Usually bad ones.

9 o'clock comes and goes with no sign of a bus.It's more than 30 minutes more before we board. We're going to be behind before we even start.

Judging is at another hotel at a different resort. It's further away than I expected.

Perhaps I should explain what I'm doing here. I've been invited to be one of the judges for the Brasil Beer Cup, a competition for Brazilian beers. I accepted, despite Dolores's quite reasonable objections, because I really wanted to travel again. If I wait for everything to really get back to normal, how long will that be? Also, I really enjoyed Brazil the first time I visited.

Eventually I find my place. On a table right at the back.I sit down and pour myself a glass of water. It's well after ten and nothing is happening. This is a bit goring. I start flicking through the style guidelines the competition- - the ones from the Brewers' Association. 

My god, these are out of date. Like the BJCP ones from 20 years ago. I'm tempted to start scribbling corrections to while away the time. But where to start?

Gordon and I discussed the new set of BJCP guidelines he's editing. Would I take a look at them? Of course. At just the right moment he comes over with a printed copy.Something to pass the time while we sit around aimlessly. I've no idea why we haven't started.

The BJCP styles have greatly improved over the last two editions. There's nothing much to raise my blood pressure. Just a few little things. But, as there are a fuck of a lot of styles nowadays, it does take me some time. That's totally ignoring all the American ones, about which I know little.

When noon comes, things finally get going. With an introduction where several people give speeches in Portuguese which are then repeated in English, not usually by the same person. Not a quick process.

It's well into the time scheduled for lunch when the first beers hit the table. At last we can get on with this.

As captain of my table, it's my job to keep things moving. There are supposed to be four of us on the table. But Eduardo has to leave before judging a single beer. That leaves me, Marina and Ludmilla,  both Brazilians. The percentage of local judges is higher than at the other South American contests I've judged. The current COVID shit is probably the reason for that. 

The first set is Vienna Lager. Nine beers. Six are about the colour of Pils. All but one has some sort of fault. That's disappointing. We're supposed to put three through to the next round. There's only one serving. But we have to put through three. It's the rules.

We have lunch with only a third of the beers scheduled for the morning judged. It's going to be a late one. Most of the other judges have already eaten, leaving the buffet rather sparse.

The next flights of beer are generally better. Though some are modern hoppy styles with lots of fruit flavours to mask any underlying nastiness.

I'm struggling a bit with the hardware and software of the tablet used to input our judgements. After some taking of the computer god's name in vain, I eventually sort of get the hang of it.

When the scheduled finish time of 6 PM rolls around, we've still several flights to finish. When we're finally done, it's long after 8. Then there's a wait for the last straggles to stumble over the finishing line. I'm totally knacked.

It must be at 9 PM when the bus drops us off where we'll be eating - Kairós Cervejaria. It's one of the breweries on the island. They're barbecuing outside. To be honest, I'm feeling past eating. So go up into the brewery for liquid sustenance.

In the form of Sol Poente, a West Coast IPA. Pleasantly fruity, is how I'd describe it. And a refreshing 7% ABV.

I'm tempted into eating one of the fat sausages. It's fat in both senses of the word. I suspect it's one of the Blumenau sausages I've heard about. Not sure how healthy it is. Tastes good, mind.

A minibus takes back the exhausted amongst the judges. Including me. While the more hardy examples wait for the big bus. I've only had one and a half beers. That's how tired I am.

A slug of Bowmore gives me the final push down the hill to slumber. Have to be up early again tomorrow.

Kairós Cervejaria
Estr. Cristóvão Machado de Campos,
2741 - Vargem Grande,
Florianópolis - SC,
88052-600
https://www.cervejariakairos.com.br/

The organisers of the Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation and food during the period of judging (four nights and three days) Beer, too, which was provided by one of the sponsors. I had to pay for my own cocktails. And all other expenses, such as flights and extra hotel nights.

Beach

I'm in no rush to rise. Breakfast is until ten. Not much point in getting up before 9. or 9:15. Teeth brushed, kit on and I'm ready to go. Takes 10 minutes, tops. 

Despite there being plenty of noise coming from the hotel bar yesterday, I wasn't even vaguely tempted. Just too exhausted. Surprisingly sensible for me.

I don't recognise anyone in the breakfast room. Not that I had expected to. Everyone else arrives today. There are omelettes, scrambled eggs and some chopped up sausage things. That'll do. I make sure to eat a decent amount of fruit, too. I'll be needing all the vitamins I can get.

Logistics dictated that I arrive a day before things kick off. It's no bad thing. I have most of the day to laze about. What could I possibly do? Oh, there is that beach there. And according to Google Maps there are a couple of bars, too.

It's only 50 metres from the hotel. Very pleasant it is, too. Sunny, but not too hot. Plus a bit of a breeze. After walking up and down it for a bit, I'm getting this funny feeling in my throat. I know what it is, I'm thirsty. What could I drink to sate it? Maybe a beer would work.

I sit in the shade outside a pub and gaze towards he sea. I ask the waiter for a beer. "Which one?" he reels  off a few names I don't recognise, other than Skol and I don't fancy that. Original? That sounds good. I'll have one of them.

It comes, as is usual here, in a cooler jacket. The thing is all sealed up, preventing me from having a look at the label. Drinkable enough when chilled and consumed on a lovely beach.

As midday approaches, it gets busier at the pub. Many join me in a beer or two. You know what? Why don't I treat myself to a cachaca. Not had one since Andrew glugged down most of the ones I brought back from my last Brazil trip.

This is an excellent way of working off yesterday's stress. A couple of beers and cachacas in and I'm relaxed enough for a quick nap. I nip back to my room.

I wander back to the beach. Feeling a bit peckish, I grab a seat inside. The same beach-side bar. I order a beer and peruse the menu. This is taking me back. It's only in Portuguese. It's like when I first travelled to Germany, before I'd learnt the language. Often I had little idea what I was ordering.

I'm pretty sure that I order some sort of fish. With rice and some other stuff. I'm sure it will be fine.

The entertainment is around a corner and I can't see the musicians from where I sit. I did spot them on the way in. A singer with an acoustic guitar, accompanied by an electric bassist. Playing some sort of samba. It fits very well with the mood.

Mostly right, is how I'd judge my food guesses. Indeed there's fish and rice. Plus salad, chips and a mug of black beans Bit heavy on the carbs, maybe.

People have started singing along and dancing. It's two in the afternoon. And all rather fun. Some of the dancers must be at least as old as me. You'll not get me up there. It would be way too embarrassing.

I don't stay too long, despite grooving on down to the music. There's supposed to be a judges' orientation at four.

After loitering in my room a while I wander downstairs. Not a sign of any fucker. I wait another 40 minutes in my room. Still not a sign of anyone in the public areas. Maybe they're in the garden. 

Can't see anyone here, either. Oh look - there's Gordon (Strong) on the beach. With what I assume are some other judges. And they have beer.

We sip as the sun sets. Black Princess, which appears to be the main sponsor. Their branding is everywhere. A pretty nondescript Pils. The setting makes it so much better.

After the sun has gone, we trail inside to eat. And drink more beer. My evening is made when I discover there's a Black Princess Bock.  That's much more to my taste. More than acceptable. Especially if I'm not paying. 

It's nice to have a chance to chat with Gordon. He asks if I'll take a look at the new BJCP style guidelines. Sometime in the next few days. Sure.

Not leaving it too late, mind. The bus to the judging location leaves at 8:20 sharp. At least that's what the organisers claim. I'll need to be up just after 7, if I want time for breakfast. Which I do. It'll be a long day.

A little Bowmore gets the dreams rolling in more quickly.

 

Bar do Lua
R. Clorinda Ventimiglia,
180 - Cachoeira do Bom Jesus,
Florianópolis - SC,
88056-020.
https://bar-do-lua.negocio.site/

 

 

The organisers of the Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation and food during the period of judging (four nights and three days) Beer, too, which was provided by one of the sponsors. I had to pay for my own cocktails. And all other expenses, such as flights and extra hotel nights.