Blumenau judging again

Another 7:30 pick up so I rise at 6:00. After a quick shower, I finish off writing up yesterday. Yippee! I’m 100% up to date.  This is a first. I’ll have almost nothing to do when I get home.

I breakfast with Tim. Starting with bacon and scrambled egg, followed by fruit. I’m such a healthy bastard. Well, half healthy. And boringly repetitive. I could show a photograph of any day’s breakfast and you wouldn’t be any the wiser. But this is today’s. The first course.

Why do they cut up the bacon like that? It’s weird. Though nothing like as bad as the sliced-up sausage swimming in some red stuff. Never dared try that.

Tim and me have a good chat about taxation, the Stasi and bus travel in Scotland. Normal breakfast stuff. Neither of us mentions the bacon atrocity.

I sit next to Ben on the bus and he tells me more about his bar (Beer Lovers Bar). It’s sounds dead cool. I really must visit it sometime. It’s been so long since I was last in Antwerp.

In the judging hall, I’m having trouble with my network connection. Again. It says I have access but nothing is happening.  Today, it’s just me. Everything is working fine for the other judges on my table.

Stewards are called. Quite some fiddling occurs on my laptop, but still no luck. While I’m not looking, suddenly I’m in. At least it didn’t take over 2 hours, like yesterday.

9:05 – we haven’t got a flight yet. Experimental Beer first. Who knows what they will be? Nothing too insane, I hope.

Carolina Barioni and Simone Cantoni, my fellow judges, greatly embarrass me when they say it’s an honour to judge with me. “When we’ve finished judging you might have changed your minds.” I quip, lamely.

9:26 the first beers appear: a Catharina Sour mid-round. Whatever that is. Quarter final? Some pretty good beers. Others with obvious faults. Easy to pick three to go through. But these are extra beers. In addition to the scheduled six flights. Slightly dispiriting to still be on flight one.

Experimental Beer is a surprisingly good set. I was apprehensive, when seeing we were judging this class.  That’s being polite. Shit scared of having to let all sorts of anarchic shit touch my lips. How wrong I was.

A 1% ABV Catharina Sour is amazing. One of the best beers I’ve had so far. A crowd of tropical fruit flavours jostle for room in its amazing aroma. I can’t recall another beer this weak I would voluntarily drink. Though a shot of vodka would liven it up.

Historical Beer. I doubt that it’s a coincidence I’m judging this. Kicking off with Bernadynskie, which is a new one on me. There’s my specialist expertise made a sprint for the exit.

I’m better with the other styles. Which include two Lichtenhainers and a Kulmbacher. Pretty sure I judged a couple of these beers in Florianopolis last October. Especially the one incorrectly called Lichtensteiner.

The next three sets are all Scottish. In preparation, I launch into a rant about Scottish beer and how it’s all the same, really. 60/-. 70/- and 80/-, I mean. Not sure how coherently I put my point across. My fellow judges smile. Probably in pity.

Scottish-Style Light Ale. Three samples, all terrible. Riddled with faults and nothing like the style.

The guidelines we’re using are, to be honest, very wrong. Very, very wrong. And have the “conflicting theories” guff about peated malt in Light, Heavy and Export. Conflicting fucking theories? There’s the real history and shit people have made up. It’s like saying there are “conflicting theories” about whether Hitler was a Nazi.

Scottish-Style Export Ale. Most are OK, one is good enough for a gold medal.

Scotch Ale or Wee Heavy – much more fun. Full of sweet, alcoholy goodness. One beer is very heavily peated. Weirdly, there’s no mention of peated malt in the guidelines for this style. Who the fuck wrote these things? I’m guessing someone who had never visited Scotland.

Baltic-Style Porter. A very good flight. No beer is really bad. This should have been our last flight. But we’ve made the mistake of getting through our scheduled flights too quickly. So, we’ve been given more extra ones.

While Stephen and Tim, on neighbouring tables, have been sitting around without anything to judge for hours. I’m not sure which is more frustrating: extra beer or no beer at all.

Gluten free. A nightmare, mostly. Surprisingly, the Kölsch is pretty good. I was expecting it to be terrible. Being a tricky style to brew

Italian Grape Beer. Mini BOS of 13 beers. Torture at 6 PM. I’m really not up to tasting any more. And it’s really hard to compare beers of different styles with different grape juices added. Unsurprisingly, we struggle to agree. I realise I prefer those with grape varieties I like. Is that the right or wrong way to judge these beers? I’ve honestly no fucking idea.

When we’ve whittled it down to 5 beers, we vote: 5 points for the one we think the best, one point for the worst. Then add up the scores to determine the medals. The gold winner wasn’t the favourite of any of us.

It’s already 18:45 when we’re done. Just in time to catch the bus to Blu Terrace. Great. No time to relax again. And I’m taking my laptop to the pub again.

I sit next to Ben on the bus. And in the pub, where Jos Brouwer joins us.

It’s loud. Not just on account of the live music. Also, from the general hubbub of a swarm of judges. It’s Eisenbahn beer. Heineken, really. I wisely opt for IPA rather than Pils. I’ve been burned before by crappy Brazilian Pils. The IPA is OK. Not great, but drinkable.

The buffet is a bit of a joke. About 2 metres of deep-fried stuff. It fills a hole rather inelegantly.

On the way to the bogs, I notice a miniature of Chivas Regal at the hotel reception.

“How much is that?” I ask.

“18 reals.”

Bargain.

It’s the only one they have, sadly. It partially fills a spirit-shaped hole. As the bar sells none. I really can’t face much more beer. I’m totally ausgebiert.

Chris turns up after a couple of hours. He’s done the pre-BOS judging. The BOS itself is still continuing. This is after 22:00. I’m so glad I wasn’t asked.

We have some more IPA and wait for the bus to arrive to take us back. It’s supposed to be at 11:00. When it hasn’t arrived at 11:10, we go outside to check. It’s already been and gone. We didn’t see it because it parked around the corner.

Not to worry, Chris sorts out an uber for us and we’re soon bipping and bopping back to the hotel.

“How about a caipirinha in the bar?” I ask.

Chris and Jos are keen. But the hotel bar is closed. The others head off to a somewhere over the road. I’m far too knacked for that. Instead returning to my room.

Where I subside into sleep in the warm glow of Ardmore.


Blu Terrace – Eisenbahn Biergarten
Rua Mariana Bronneman 230
Velha, Blumenau
SC, 89036-080.

 

Disclosure: Concorso Brasiliero de Cervejas paid for my hotel during the judging as well as for some food and drink.

Blumenau judging

The bus is at 7:30. Which means I have to be up early. Like just before six early. As I want to shower and write a little.

I hit the breakfast room at 6:50. Where I spot Marti Nachel and Stephen. After Marti leaves, I breakfast with the latter. The bacon looks a bit anaemic. And the scrambled egg has run out. Leaving me to opt for a cheese and fruit repast. Should give me some energy. Along with those three cups of coffee. But it still feels weird having no scrambled egg.

I take the bus with Marti. I mention that I spent a couple of days in Rio.

“Isn’t it dangerous there? Did you feel safe?”

He’s the second person to ask me that. “It seemed perfectly fine to me. Not threatening at all.”

“During the day, but not at night, I assume.”

“I felt safe at night, too.”

Ipanema isn’t the tiniest bit scary. I feel more unsafe in parts of Amsterdam. I certainly wouldn’t wander around the Red Light District on my own late at night.

I’m on table 37. With Rodrigo Veronese and Raul Schuchovsky. Both Brazilian. Their surnames are an indication of the diversity in origin of this country’s inhabitants.

The internet isn’t working. Great. I can’t even download the app, let alone start judging. But, it’s always a bit like this on the first day. At least I remembered to bring my laptop. Which means I can type this while I wait.

You get used to waiting when you judge. Either that, or you go crazy. Just being patient helps. Eventually they’ll get network access sorted. How long it will take? Who knows? Had I been aware that we’d be hanging around this long, I wouldn’t have got up so early to write.

They said yesterday that 47 of the 141 judges were women. Which averages out to one on each table.  We’re all blokes. Some tables have two women, obviously. What am I trying to say? No fucking idea. It’s a bit early for coherent thought. Just crushing the numbers. As I always do. (I could tell you the how many aircon units there are and the number of stairs up to the balcony.)

At 8:46 I finally get connected to a network. Yippee! I’m ready to rock. Bring me some beer, you bastards.

9:20 – the connection has gone again. This is so much fun. Will we get any beers before lunch? I hope so. The network connection has come and gone a few more times. This is getting frustrating.

All this doing nothing is tiring me out. Even with all that breakfast coffee coursing through my veins.

We take a break. For more coffee and snacks. At least it’s doing something. I have a nice chat with Claire of Good Beer Hunting magazine.

10:27 – I’m connected! I hope it lasts.

These are the styles we’ll be judging.  When beers eventually appear.

Contemporary American-Style Light Lager
Munich-Style Dunkel
Fruit Wheat Beer
Mixed-Culture Brett Beer
Juicy or Hazy Imperial or Double India Pale Ale
Chili Pepper Beer

It could be worse, I suppose. Not really fancying the Light Lager or Mixed-Culture categories. Or Chilli Beer. I’m glad that’s at the end of the day.  Come to think of it, the Fruit Wheat Beer and Double sludge don’t sound much fun, either. I do like me a good Dunkles, though.

I’m not table captain, which is fine. It means less work. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s work. Ron lazy-arse Pattinson is what they call me.

The Light Lagers in the first set of six are all crap. Oxidation, DMS, diacetyl, you name a fault, it’s here. The second set of six are all crap . . . except one. The others are like a course in off flavours. Some have the full set: DMS, oxidation, diacetyl, butyric acid. And one weirdly tastes of strawberries. I’m glad that’s over.

Munich Dunkles next. One is spot on for the style, with a lovely nutty malt character that’s reminiscent of a good Bavarian example. Most of the rest are riddled with faults. And don’t taste very much like Dunkles.

There’s only time for two flights before lunch. We should have done at least three to be on schedule. It’s shaping up to be a long day. I’m just glad we got through any flights.

Guess what lunch is? A buffet. Salad, fish, meat, black beans. I try to make my choices as healthy as possible. I have a wander outside to get some fresh air and prepare myself for a busy afternoon. Even here in the city, there’s lush vegetation all around.

I take a deep breath and re-enter the judging hall.

Fruit Wheat Beer – we’re spending a lot of time discussing whether the base beer is of the right style. That’s fun. They mostly taste pretty nice, mind. Other than a couple being way too sweet. And one smelling like dirty socks.

Mixed-Culture Brett Beer - way too much of everything in some examples. Too much wood, too much fruit, too many bugs, too many spices. Just too much shit. And shitloads of acidity. Quite hard work.

Juicy or Hazy Imperial or Double India Pale Ale. After all those sour beers my stomach is getting a pummelling. I need me some rum. Quite impressed by the crystal-clear example. And least they’re full of alcoholy goodness.

Chili Pepper Beer flight isn’t as awful as I had feared. The Berliner Weisse with habanero was a real surprise.  I laughed out loud when I read the description. But it was by far the best beer. The only one to really get a chilli flavour and not just heat.

It’s getting on for six by the time we finish. We aren’t going back to the hotel, but straight to the restaurant, Thapyoka. I’d have liked to have had a little time back at the hotel to catch my breath. And to dump my laptop. I’m oddly reluctant to take it to pubs.

Going outside to wait for the bus, I bump into Tim and Stephen. Who seem to have judged a similar mix of the good, the bad and the ridiculous.

In the restaurant we’re joined by Claire. Making us the gringo table. When a waiter walks past with a tray of Pilsner, we grab some. It’s not the greatest beer ever.

The meal is a buffet, of course. It would be surprising if it weren’t. The second of the day. Not the most inspiring choice of food. I get potato salad, green stuff, a little bit of fish and some meat. It fills a hole. Nothing more. And it doesn’t even do that particularly well.

A pair of Policia Militar cops are loading up plates at the buffet. Seems to be a theme. I doubt very much that they’re paying. I hope they enjoy it more than I did. I wouldn’t like them to get angry while I’m around.

Stephen knocked back his first beer quickly. Too quickly. He’s now regretting getting a second. I’m not even half way through my first. He goes off in search of booze. I could murder a caipirinha, myself.

“They have no spirits.” He reports back. “How about we leave?”

Fine by me. There’s nothing here worth hanging around for. No chance of a caipirinha. And the bus won’t be for hours.

Tim checked on his phone earlier. The hotel is very walkable. So that’s what we do, once we’ve finished eating. No waiting around for the bus, like yesterday.

It’s just over the river and a little further. Not far at all. And, it being after dark, there’s no sun to worry about. Rather a short walk than ages of aimlessly hanging around.

Back at the hotel, we ascend to the bar. Where we find Marti Nachel and his wife drinking beer. We order caipirinhas. A very friendly – and very young – waitress takes quite a while making our drinks.

“I don’t know why it’s taking so long. There are only three ingredients.” Stephen says.

He’s right, but I’m in no hurry. I’ve learnt patience in my old age. Finally. And from judging South American beer competitions. Also, she seems very new to the job. Give the lass a chance to learn.

Chris arrives; rather than order a drink, he heads to the pool. Which is just outside the bar. The pool? At this time of night? It’s cocktail hour. Cocktail decade, for me.

Being a contemporary sort of bloke, I get another caipirinha. Weirdly, I’m feeling much better than when stuck in that crappy restaurant. So much so, that I celebrate with one more caipirinha.

Chris appears from the pool and, after much deliberation, gets the good cachaca Stephen has spotted behind the bar. There’s just about enough left for a single measure.

We don’t linger much longer. It’s getting late and we’ve another early start tomorrow. Early bus. Whether we start judging early is another matter.

When I get off at the third floor, I realise that 307 was my room number in the last hotel. Here I’m in 603. And I’ve just charged my drinks at the bar to room 307. Oh, well. I’ll let them know at reception tomorrow. I can’t be arsed to go down now.

Ardmore hurries me down the final flight to nightly oblivion.



Thapyoka Restaurante
R. XV de Novembro, 160
Centro, Blumenau
SC, 89010-001.
contato@thapyoka.com.br
https://thapyoka.com.br/


Disclosure: Concorso Brasiliero de Cervejas paid for my hotel during the judging as well as for some food and drink.

Birthday homebrew recipe

When I mentioned my birthday homebrew offer to a fellow writer while in Blumenau, his reaction was:

"That's a great idea. But 25 euros is far too cheap. You should charge at least 50 euros. Probably more."  

Food for thought there. I'm still contemplating a price rise. What with inflation and me being unjobbed. But, for the meantime, my bespoke recipes re still a bargain at a mere 25 euros. I'd grab one at this price while you still can.

You;ll get the recipe, a couple of hundred words of explanatory text and an image of the brewing record. What a bargain!

Just click on the button below.

Let's Brew - 1867 Reid Export Treble Stout

I'm done with the IPA recipes, for now. T could be encouraged to do more. Especially if you throw some money my way. Did I mention that I'm currently in a limbo between work and retirement. I haven't officially retired, but I'm neither working nor on the dole.

We're back with London Stout. Because that's what I've been writing loads of: London Stout recipes. For my upcoming super book on the style. I've finished 135 recipes, do far. Which is maybe half way. I really need to crack on if I'm to publish the book by June. Which is my aim.

On with the recipe.

After a quick glance at this beer, I thought it wasn’t worth a recipe of its own. Then I looked at the grist.

The gravity is exactly the same as straight Treble Stout. But the grist is very different. Over 50% of the grist is amber malt. There’s no pale malt at all. Instead, there’s some white malt. But only about 25% of the grist. There’s almost as much brown malt. Less black malt than the other Stouts, mind.

A very similar mashing scheme was employed, however. Three mashes and a sparge. Not sure why it needed to be quite so complicated.

Mash number	barrels	strike heat	tap heat
1	315	168º F	147º F
2	210	178º F	159º F
3	525	173º F	153º F
sparge	490	160º F

English hops, harvested in 1865 and 1866. Quite a lot of them, too.

At least 12 months ageing with Brettanomyces is required. Maybe more. It is a bit of a beast with all that dark malt.

1867 Reid Export Treble Stout
white malt	5.50 lb	23.91%
brown malt	4.00 lb	17.39%
amber malt	13.00 lb	56.52%
black malt	0.50 lb	2.17%
Goldings 150 min	4.50 oz
Goldings 60 min	4.50 oz
Goldings 30 min	4.50 oz
Goldings dry hops	1.00 oz
OG	1094
FG	1027
ABV	8.86
Apparent attenuation	71.28%
IBU	138
SRM	39
Mash at	153º F
Sparge at	160º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	55.5º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

 

 

USA - here I don't come?

You've probably noticed that I usually drop by the USA a few times a year. Last year, it was four times. But here we are in March, and I've nothing organised.

It's not for want of trying. A couple of putative trips have come to nothing. Everything I try this year comes to nothing. It's driving me to despair.

Which is a reason for this appeal. Feel like brewing a collaboration beer or hearing me lecture on  some beer history topic? Or both? Then get in touch with me.And I'll see what we can sort out.

This is all getting very random. But such unplanned trips can be some of the best. Both for me and the brewery, pub , home brew club, or whatever.

Blumenau, Blumenau

I rise quite early, not long after seven. Nature has worked its wonders and woken me again. The bastard.

Leaving me more than enough time to prepare for checking out. Not much to pack. Just my computer and associated bits.

The breakfast room is fairly empty. That’s what getting up early brings you. I get the same as every day: three slices of bacon, scrambled egg and some bits of fruit. Coffee, too, of course. I won’t be going anywhere without a few cups.

No breakfast photo today. I forgot to take one. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.

Most other diners look like they’ll be hitting the beach. Why else would they be wearing swimming costumes underneath loose outer clothing? Not so odd for a hotel that’s a couple of hundred metres from the beach.

My sunburn hasn’t got any worse. Except that my nose is peeling. Not exactly the classiest of looks. At least I have a good excuse for having a red face.

I love Rio. Now I’ve been here in daylight. On my previous two visits, I spent more time asleep than awake.  I get to see a bit more of the city as my cab rocks and rolls towards the airport. Santos Dumont, this time. Quite a small domestic airport. Small is good, when it comes to airports.

I also get to see some trams. “Tram, tram.” I say quietly to myself. A shame the kids aren’t here to hear it. Though I do hope that the driver hasn’t. Don’t want him thinking I’m some kind of crazy man.

I dump my bag pretty quickly. Security is over in a minute and I have ninety minutes to kill. What could I possibly do? I know – go to a bar. Just for a change.

This place will do. It looks like they make cocktails. “Uma caipirinha, com limon y cachaca.” I’m getting so fluent. In ordering caipirinhas. Though if doesn’t have lemon and cachaca in it, how the hell is it a caipirinha? I can’t say fuck all else. At least I can sound confident when ordering a caipirinha.

I wonder if it’s as strong as the beach ones? It is quite small. And cost 25 reals. On the beach 500 ml was just 20 reals.

Everything has gone really well, so far. I’m really getting the hang of Brazil. The people are so laid back, they’re almost falling over.

Time for caipirinha number two.

The people on the next table had a soft drink that came in a 510 ml bottle. WTF? They love weird sizes in Brazil.

The other customers are getting stuck into large plates of food. Bits of beef with a big pile of chips is popular. Along with draught beer. I’m an outlier with my diet of cocktails. And sunburnt knees. No-one else has those.

I’m yawning like a stoned hippo again. What could the reason be? Maybe those caipirinhas. Or that food I ate three hours ago. That’ll be it. Always the food that gets you.

Caipirinha number three is double the size of the first two. Does that mean there’s more booze in it? Or just more ice? The next question is: what size will number four be?

It’s big!

Not much to report about my flight. It takes off, I’m fed a snack and a drink. It lands again. The luggage is coming off by the time I get to the carousel. It couldn’t have gone any better.

My driver is waiting for me and we head north. Just as we leave, a few spots of rain trace dotted lines on the windows. Then all hell breaks loose. We splish and splash through a massive thunderstorm. Illuminated by jagged stabs of lightning. I’m glad I’m inside.

The tops of the flanking hills are invisible, obscured by swirls of cloud. Below, ranks of trees slowly march down the slopes. Their deep luscious green contrasting with the exposed terracotta earth closer to the road. Like the colours of the Portuguese flag.

It’s mostly eased off by the time we get to my hotel. Where I’m soon in the lift clutching my goody bag.

The hotel is much nicer than last time. That was a little, er, basic. Putting it politely.

The bus for the introductory dinner is at 7 PM. I go down to the lobby a bit after 6, hoping to find some fellow judges and bar action. The former works out, the latter not. I chat with Ben for a while until it’s bus time.

Dinner is at the same location as last year, Moinho do Vale. We’re given radio headphones as we enter. Well, the non-Brazilians are. Brazilians won’t be needing them.

Having stood around more than enough already, I sit at a table. Where I order a big bottle of Tripel (from Cervejaria Leopoldina). Full of alcoholy goodness. And pretty drinkable. I’m certainly not complaining when I’m getting it for nowt.

After a while, Tim Webb and Stephen Beaumont show up and sit at the table. I hadn’t realised that they’d be here. Claire from Good Beer Hunting joins us, too.

It’s pretty loud, just from the assembled pissheads. Sorry, judges. You can only really hold a conversation with an immediate neighbour.

A man in lederhosen and a woman in a dirndl come around offering rollmops. Some turn up their noses. Not me. I love me a rollmop. So much so, I have another when they appear a second time.

When I next get the waiter’s attention, I order two large bottles of Tripel. And another of Grape Ale. Wouldn’t want to be running out of beer. The Grape stuff isn’t for me, though. I’ll be sticking to beery beer.

There are various speeches, which, thankfully, don’t last too long. Without too much shouting. Who was it last year with rock star delusions? Weird and crazy. Just not in a good way.

Finally, we get fed. I can see why they had the speeches first. A buffet, obviously. It’s OK, for what it is. Resisting the multiple carbs, I get a little potato salad, some green stuff, beef and fish. Not a huge pile. I’m not a gutsy bastard, despite my fat gut.

Tim and Stephen, not wanting to wait until the bus at 11, head off in search of an Uber. I can’t say that I blame them. I’m ready for home, too. They return a bit later: no Ubers to be found.

Chris Flaskamp turns up with his luggage. He’s come straight from the airport. It’s great to see him again. We’ve become quite good mates. Hopefully, I’ll get to see his brewery again. It has a cracking location, surrounded by vineyards, the snow-capped Andes in the background.

I take the first bus. And go straight to my room. Not even tempted by the offer of a bar. I’m knacked. And I have a nice bottle of whisky waiting for me upstairs. I hope they’re suitably dressed for the occasion.

Early start tomorrow: the judgment bus is scheduled for 7:30. After cuddling up with the whisky to watch Match of the Day 2, I turn in.

Ardmore takes be by the hand, and we go to Potatoland.


Rollmopswagen
www.rollmopswagen.com.br


Restaurante Moinho do Vale
R. Porto Rico, 66
Ponta Aguda, Blumenau
SC, 89050-010.
http://www.restaurantemoinhodovale.com.br/


Disclosure: Concorso Brasiliero de Cervejas paid for my hotel during the judging as well as for some food and drink.
 

More Ipanema beaching

I’m up earlier today, around seven. Woken by nature’s alarm clock (daybreak).

I get a shock when I look in the bathroom mirror. My face, arms and legs are all bright red. How the fuck could I have got sunburnt? The I was only exposed to the sun walking to and from the beach. Maybe five minutes each way. It’s almost as bad as Australia. Where I couldn’t go two steps from my front door without turning into a lobster. 

After messaging the family a bit (I’m getting dead modern I can now use a laptop and a phone simultaneously), I rumble downstairs. Same drill for breakfast: bacon and scrambled egg to start, fruit for pudding. I try to keep the vitamins flowing when on these trips. Wouldn’t want to go down with scurvy. Though the limes in the caipirinhas are probably enough to stave that off.

What’s the plan for today? Get pissed and go berserk. As always.

Getting any redder not being an option, I give myself a good greasing with factor 2000. Will that be strong enough? Maybe two or three more coats will help.

The walk down to the beach is mostly in the shade. I quickly jump between each patch of cool. (Well, as quick and as jumpy as I can manage with my crappy old body.) I go a bit further along the beach than yesterday. Where there are more manageable steps. I had to be helped up yesterday.

I randomly choose Shack 58. Where a very friendly young lady sorts me out with a big umbrella (I’m taking no chances with the sun today) and a big caipirinha – 700ml.

It’s a similar scene to yesterday. Lots of muscular chests and exposed arse cheeks. But also plenty of flabby bellies and droopy bottoms. It’s very egalitarian. Everyone seems pretty comfortable with hanging their bits hang out to dry. I like that. Means I don’t feel out of place. Though I am the only fully-clothed person in sight. 

A beach vendor tries to sell me some fags. When I refuse, he shows me what looks like a lump of compressed weed. After I turn that down, he starts rubbing his nose in the international symbol for coke. “Now you’re talking”, I say.  Of course, I don’t.

That escalated quickly. Does he go through the whole routine with every potential customer? Or assume all gringoes are druggies? Even a washed-up old twat like me?

Two caipirinhas in two hours is enough for me. Feeling a bit tipsy. And a bit hot on the beach. So, I’ve escaped back to my room’s airco. I’ll go out again later when the sun is setting and the local beer pub is open.

I can’t be arsed to go to Flamengo now. That beer pub 150 metres away is calling. After I’ve had a kip. And a sandwich. Not eaten since breakfast. Ham and cheese, in case you’re wondering.

I get to Espaço 09 just after the 5 PM opening time. Obviously, I’m the only customer. With four staff to take care of my needs. They have an Imperial Stout on draught. But it’s too early for that. I’ll save it for my last pint. Instead, I order:

Mad Brew, New England DIPA, 8.7%, 32 reals for a US pint
Pretty damn sludgy. Nice head, mind. Not a bad price (about 6 euros) for a half litre of beer of this strength.

People are streaming past from the beach No surprise. it’s getting close to dusk. Some haven’t bothered getting fully dressed and still have their arses hanging out. Never seen anything like that in Amsterdam. Not out on the street, at least.

Back to the beer. Smells like grapefruit juice. Which is what you would expect. Hoppy, but not that bitter. OK, if you like this sort of thing.

Is there a brewery at the back? There are various shiny things. Or are they just serving tanks? On closer inspection, that’s definitely what they are.

Fiorentina against AC Mlan is on the TV. I can also watch a Spanish game which is showing in the pub over the road. Quite odd simultaneously watching matches in different pubs. Another win for microchip technology and its massive TVs.

Odd that they have Lagunitas IPA on draught. I wonder where this version is brewed? Probably in a Heineken plant in South America. (It won’t be California, as that brewery has closed.) There was a lot of Heineken being sold on the beach. Someone was even selling it on draught. Lugging all the kit required for that must have been fun in 35º C heat.

I’m still the only customer. That’s OK with me. I did my misanthrope bit yesterday. No need to repeat it.

Feeling quite knacked again. I’m yawning like a basking alligator next to a swimming pool full of kids. Not sure why I’m so tired. All I’ve done is sit on the beach and drink caipirinhas. Only two

I really like Ipanema. Cool beach and lots of bars and restaurants. Plus normal shops. Which are handy if you want to buy cheese for your hotel room. And who doesn’t? You can never have too much cheese.

I ask for the same again. I can be a right boring bastard. I can happily drink four or five of the same beer. But they’ve run out. The waitress brings me a taster of another beer. It’s:

Odin, NE IPA, 7.5%, 32 reals for a US pint
Even more sludgilicious than the last beer. Though it tastes very much like it. Had I not been told it was a different beer, I’d have assumed it was just the end of the barrel.

Music has been pootling around in the background. Mostly classic rock. But The Charlatans’ The One and Only has just started up. Great song. What got me into the band. Love the organ sound.

Fiorentina AC Milan has finished. Now they’re showing Corinthians in what I assume is a local league game. It’s like baseball: when a ball goes into the crowd, whoever catches it, keeps it. I’m automatically rooting for Corinthians, what with their weird history. It’s a pretty good game. Corinthians come from 0-1 down to win 3-1.

They’re now playing Stalins of Shite. I hate that song. Oh well, it’ll be over soon enough.

The Imperial Stout is off. So, I’m sticking with Odin. Which sounds like something a Viking might have said. It’s not got any less sludgy.

The Policia Militar are parked outside. I think they’re getting some food. I would take a snap. Except Andrew warned me off that in Tijuana. Seems being photographed can make military police quite angry.

I get some more cheese and ham in the supermarket on my way back to my hotel. I nibble on it while I watch Match of the Day. Which I’ve recorded from Dutch TV and watch via a VPN. Isn’t modern technology wonderful? It does mean I have to watch those bastards Arsenal win again. God, how I hate them.

I’m so depressed by the Arses winning, that I need to watch a few episodes of Spirited to cheer myself up.

A few sips or Ardmore drive me into the warm embrace of sleep. Well, as warm as it gets with the airco cranked up to eleven.

A priceless book

Well, over $100 a pop, if you want to get the original spiral-bound version of my proper book. Maybe not priceless, but pricey.

While you can pick up a signed copy of the paperback edition for just a fraction of that cost. While still getting 100% of the historical fun and recipes. All in my own inimitable, idiosyncratic style. An heirloom that will be passed down through future generations. Becoming priceless.

Here are some testimonials:

"I don't believe there is a book that is as comprehensive on British styles."
"A well-assembled collection of properly researched material"
"Compendious summary of British beer styles across nearly three centuries"
"Simultaneously the densest and one of the most easy-reading books on brewing."
"Not the most amazing brewing book ever written"

I think an extraneous "not" has wandered into the last one.

Buy a signed paperback edition of the Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer. For locations inside Europe.

Buy a signed paperback edition of the Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer. For the USA, Canada, Australia and other locations outside Europe.

 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1898 Cairnes I.P. Ale

I promised you lots of regional IPAs. Today there's the special treat of an Irish IPA.

Lying at the top of Cairnes’ Pale Ale pile was I.P. Ale. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb when I say that surely stands for India Pale Ale. Irish IPA, then. Weirdly, I can find it in any style guidelines. Who knows if it’s true to style or not.

In terms of gravity, it looks similar to a Burton IPA. Though the hopping is much more restrained. More similar to that of the weaker London type. Just brewed in a much smaller volume. A mere 60 barrels, in this case. While even a modestly-sized brewer in the capital, such as Fullers, churned out 200 barrels at a time.

Pale Ales of this period usually had pretty simple grists. Often a combination pale malt and sugar or just all pale malt. Cairnes opted for the former. They’ve also gone for the very vague description of “Sacc.”. But, at the very far right of the record, the actual sugars are scribbled in: 4 cwt of No. 2, 1 cwt of No. 3 and 6 lbs of No. 1.

The base malt was 75% from Irish barley, 25% from Chilean. One of the favourite foreign sources.

Both types of hops were English, one from the 1897 and the other from the 1898 harvest.

I’ve lowered the FG to account for secondary conditioning. The racking gravity recorded in the log was 1023º. I’d guess this would have had at least 12 months secondary conditioning in hogsheads. 

1898 Cairnes I.P. Ale
pale malt	12.25 lb	89.09%
No. 2 invert sugar	1.25 lb	9.09%
No. 3 invert sugar	0.25 lb	1.82%
Goldings 120 mins	2.00 oz
Goldings 60 mins	2.00 oz
Goldings 30 mins	2.00 oz
Goldings dry hops	1.00 oz
OG	1064
FG	1018
ABV	6.09
Apparent attenuation	71.88%
IBU	72
SRM	9
Mash at	152º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1084 Irish ale

 

Ipanema beaching

I rise around eight. Not exactly refreshed. But at least feeling human.

A long flight, but only a short taxi hop, haven’t taken too much out of me. Not a bad kip helps, too.

I head down for brekkie around nine.  I can smell the bacon even before I get into the breakfast room. That’s a win. I accompany it with scrambled egg. And have some fruit for pudding. Mmm. Dead good mango. Properly ripe. The best I’ve had since I lived in Australia. More than 30 years ago.

 "Are you going to show us every single breakfast of the trip?" You might ask. Maybe. If you're lucky.

I laze around in my room for a while. Doing some writing. This stuff doesn’t write itself, you know. Plus, the bars on the beach don’t kick off until eleven.

I get there not long after. A friendly young man from shack 72 gets me a chair and umbrella. And a caipirinha, of course. It’s very pleasant in the shade, watching the beautiful and not so beautiful people bake themselves in the sun. While I do my best to keep every scrap my thin, pale skin as far away from it as possible.

I can’t think of many other large cities in the world with such nice beaches in the city centre. I’m really warming to Rio. And it isn’t just the sun.

The beach is a huge market. Sellers walk by every few seconds. “Eempenadas, eempenadas.” Rings out most often. Or the variation: “Empeneadas Argentinas”. It’s not just food and drink. Walking clothes racks float by.  While I just lie back in my seat. Sipping nonchalantly on my cocktail.

With the sun almost directly overhead, it’s a challenge to keep every scrap of my pasty skin shaded. Maybe I should have greased myself with sunscreen this morning. Shouldn’t be a problem. Barely a ray has brushed my skin.

I get myself another caipirinha. And another. I call it a day at four and get my bill. Including seat and umbrella hire, it comes to 90 reals. Or a bit over 16 euros. The robbing bastards.

After recovering a bit back in my room, it’s getting on for four when I call up an Uber. Just in time for rush hour. We crawl around the lagoon at walking pace. It doesn’t really worry me. I have all the time in the world. And the delay has no influence on the price.

Where am I headed? Botafogo. An obvious choice. There’s a brewpub and a beer pub just two doors from each other. Easy peasy.

I begin at Hocus Pocus DNA, the beer pub. Thiggy diggy dig, thiggy diggy dig, thig thig, thig, thig dig. That’s how it goes, isn’t it? (One for my more mature readers there.) As Hocus Pocus seems to be a contract brewer, this is really a brewery taproom. As they only sell their own beers.

The session starts with

Interstellar IPA, 7% ABV, 19 reals
Not totally clear, but well short of sludge. Not bad. US hops, obviously. Quite drinkable.

Managed to get a weird patch of sunburn on my leg. I thought I kept it in the shade the whole time.

Quite a hole in the wall. But with 14 draught beers. It must be a quiet time as the staff are eating. I’m the only customer. Not that it bothers me. I hate crowds. Well, people, really. They are where all the bad things start.

Oh look – they sell mate. I must remember not to order one. 14 draughts, but nothing dark. Mostly IPA and Lager, with one sour beer. It’s just like being in the US.

I’m starting to feel quite at home in Brazil. It isn’t really scary at all. Rio is dead cool. My almost total lack of Portuguese isn’t a problem, either.

Time to move up in strength.

Infinite Boredom West Coast DIPA 9% ABV, 24 reals
Cloudy again. Loads of citrus hops again. Which is OK. A bit more Izally than the first one. It must have one of the trendy hops in it.

The prices are for what looks like a half US pint. (On reflection, probably 330 ml.) At almost 4 euros, that’s not far off Amsterdam prices.

I’m starting to tire a bit, yawning like a hippo at bedtime. Time to take the long walk to Overhop Brewpub.

I sit outside, giving me a good view of the street scene. It’s another hole in the wall, with shiny brewing stuff at the back. Which, given all the pipes and shit, looks like it really is in use.

Dead Men Tell no Tales, UK Triple IPA, 8.5% ABV, 17 reals for 330 ml
I didn’t notice the ABV, but it’s strong. (I added it on reviewing my photos) Very jammy. Not in the lucky sense. A bit weird.

I notice that they have one side-pull tap. How very trendy of them. Fashions seem to get around the beer world very quickly, nowadays.

Soul Rebel IPA, 6.5% ABV, 17 reals for 330 ml
This is better. A bit murky, but nothing too silly. A bit Izally, though not as bad as the last one.

I’m feeling a bit pissed. Which is surprising, given I’ve only had four caipirinhas and four beers over the day. Nothing to eat since breakfast, mind.

I get an uber back to my hotel. But don’t go in, as I see a supermarket on the corner. A good place to get some food. Cheese, ham and salami I get. And a couple of rolls. As I chew on them, I watch a few of episodes of Spirited.

While I get spirited myself with some somnolent Ardmore.



Hocus Pocus DNA
R. Dezenove de Fevereiro, 186
Botafogo, Rio de Janeiro
RJ, 22280-030, Brazil
www.hocuspocusdna.com


OverHop Brewpub
R. Dezenove de Fevereiro, 190
Botafogo, Rio de Janeiro
RJ, 22280-030.
overhop.com.br

Flying to Rio

I've just come back from Brazil.Again.Meaning lots more travel posts. Something I know you've been waiting for over the past three months. When I haven't strayed outside The Netherlands.

Every journey starts with a breakfast, as the saying does. Or as cup of tea. Both, if you're dead lucky.

I get up at about seven. I even beat Dolores up. Being a nice human being, I take her up a cup of tea. It’s been a while since I last did that. Since I stopped working three years ago.

“You’ve got a routine, haven’t you, Ron. So, you don’t get stressed.”

“Yes,” I say glibly “I pack up everything as I think of it.”

My cab is just pulling onto the motorway when I realize that I’ve forgotten my printed itinerary. It’s the second time I’ve done that. I panic slightly, as I don’t have the name of my Rio hotel written down anywhere.

Security is a doddle, but I spend ages in the passport queue. For some reason all the electronic gates aren’t working. Which is annoying, as it’s cutting down my lounge time.

Pausing only to pick up a bottle of Ardmore in the duty free, I head straight to the lounge. Before even picking up a whisky, I log onto the wifi. Luckily, I sent Dolores my itinerary yesterday. I can download it from my sent mail. Phew. If I’d failed to get into the wifi, I’d have been fucked.

I get the traditional Teacher’s and Jim Beam. Not mixed, obviously. One of each. Which calms my nerves a bit. Then I assemble myself a breakfast of chipolatas, scrambled egg and mushrooms. Bound to be better than anything I get on the plane.

I don’t have long. Less than an hour. Only time for three rounds of whisky. Reading a little Private Eye. And some cheese. You can’t go wrong with cheese. You can never have too much cheese. There are just so many cheese proverbs. I’ll come back with some more in a minute.

Goof timing again. I get to the gate a few minutes before priority boarding starts. Where we’re told we have to wear face masks. Just as well I brought some along.

Sat in my seat, I notice, as the other passengers stream past, that around half are unmasked. The selfish bastards.

A young Brazilian bloke occupies the window seat. The one between us remains empty. Now there’s a win.

Just before we start to taxi, there’s an announcement that, as of today, masks are no longer compulsory. The 40% wearing one, then remove them. Including me. Selfish bastard that I am.

Even before we taxi, I’m getting stuck into the first film: Everything, Everywhere, All the Time. It’s pretty long. Which is useful for a flight. It passes some time well.

The Brazilian bloke has paid for a posh vegetarian meal. When it arrives, the main course is beef. So he hands it back. A lot of faffing around ensues, with him eventually ending up with the standard vegetarian slop.

I, on the other hand, get the standard meat slop. Meatballs and mash. How many times have I been served this? I don’t care to remember. It’s no worse than other times. No better, either.

Next film is The Secrets of Dumbledore. It’s a bit crap, I think. But, having dozed off halfway through, I miss a big chunk of it. Which passes the time even quicker.

The other films I watch are pretty crap. Faced with the selection on a plane, it makes you realize how awful most Hollywood films are. Like Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Absolute tosh. But tosh that passes a few hours. Supposedly a comedy, it didn’t get me to break into a smile. Not even once. I do some scowling, though.

I picked up a few miniatures in the duty free. For a bit of illicit drinking. I stiffen up my glass of wine with some Jim Beam. It passes more time. Which is what a flight this long is all about.

Every so often I nod off. That’s how gripping the films are. The challenge is to make sense of the plot when you’ve missed the middle third. Or not. As most of what I’m watching had little sense to start with.

We’re served food twice more. It’s not particularly appetizing. I plough through some of it, anyway. For something to pass the time. The last couple of hours really drag. Starting, weirdly, almost exactly when I run out of miniatures.

Immigration is a mile or two away from where we disembark. A nice long walk is just what I need. Not. At least I waltz through immigration using the priority lane for the old and infirm. Yeah. An oldie person bonus.

I change some dosh and soon I’m in a taxi speeding towards Ipanema. Where I’m staying again. I really enjoyed my brief time there in October. Those two hours of precious daylight before I had to rush off to Florianopolis.

Nothing odd or scary about the taxi ride. Other than the long tunnels we pass through. What would happen if we broke down? There’s no pavement and no escape alcoves. Clipped by a lorry or suffocated by fumes? Is a toss up which would get you first.

Checked in, I fire up my laptop. No problem logging into the wifi this time. Though I struggle to do the same with my phone. Always something that I can’t get to work.

I flick through the TV channels until I find some football. There’s always football on somewhere in Brazil.

Feeling a bit peckish, I go downstairs and order a sandwich. It takes a while to come. During which time I remember that “caldo” means hot, not cold. It comes with a big pile of chips. Which possibly explains why it takes so long to appear.

Back in my room, I nibble on the food while watching Spirited. Never seen it before. But anything with Matt King has to be good. Super Hans is one of my all-time favourite characters.

I go to bed around midnight. Chased along by a tot of Ardmore.

Tetley cask Mild specifications (part one)

I'm plodding my way through these Tetley specifications. And now I've hit my favourite: Tetley's Mild. A beer I drank huge quantities of in the 1970s and early 1980s, I was living in Leeds. What else was I supposed to do.

It's sad going back to Leeds now. Nowhere sells the Mild. Not many pubs even sell the Bitter. Tetley used to completely dominate the city's pubs. When I lived there, it seemed as if their grip was unbreakable. Even when they swapped some pubs with Bass Charrington. 

I suppose it did last around 60 years. From when they gobbled up local rival Melbourne to the brewery's closure in 2011. Not a bad run, I suppose. I probably experienced the brewery at its height. When its beers were popular and good.

That's enough nostalgia for the heady days of the 1970s. (Many seem so nostalgic for that period, that they're trying to recreate it today. The empty shelves in the supermarkets. Endless strikes. Happy days.)

Let's crack on with the beer.

Tetley cask Mild specifications
O.G. (in package)	1032.0 +- 1.0.
PG (in package)	1007.0 - 1008.0
Apparent atten (%)	75
Limit atten	1004 +- 1.0
Alcohol (v/v)	3.15 +- 0.17
(w/v)	2.51 +- 0.14
Colour (EBC)	56 +- 3
Bitterness (EBU)	24 +- 2.5
Haze (EBC/°F)	Polished (Fined)
PH	4.2 +- 0.1
Head Retention (secs)	> 100
SO2 (ppm)	¬> 20
Cu (ppm)	¬> 0.2
Fe (ppm)	¬> 0.4
Yeast Count (10^6 cells/ml)	0.5 +- 0.4
Microbiological	Absence of beer spoilage organisms
Packaged in Cask	9:18:36 galls.
Storage
Shelf Life (weeks)	4
At Brewery (days)	5 (prior to trunking)
or Depot	14 days max.
Recommended age at point of sale (weeks)	¬> 3
Source:
Tetley Beer and Malt Specifications, 1985, beer page 6.

That sounds very much like the beer I drank. Fairly light, both in colour and body. It wasn't a really dark Mild. But dark enough to be easily distinguishable from Bitter.

I didn't know anything about bitterness units and would have had no idea how many the beer had. Not particularly bitter is what I thought. And less bitter than the Mild. Such simple times, back then.