Bia Hoi in Hanoi

I couldn’t quite take the picture in time. I saw it, fumbled to unlock my phone, fingers sticky from street food, and I tapped the camera icon, but the scooter carrying five silver kegs was already weaving through Hanoi’s never-ending traffic.

As we follow in the same direction I’m soon distracted. There are people everywhere, everything moves so fast, life condensed into the packed, stacked, compact streets; the air is thick with the smell of bubbling stock pots, an aniseed edge to every inhale coming from all the herbs, tropical fruit adding a fragrant sticky warmth; every turn reveals something new, something I’ve never seen before. Like Bia Hoi Corner.

Hanoi is a frantic, fast, exciting place

This famous intersection of bars has battered old beer kegs lined up on the kerb, people run around with trays of glasses, trays of fried food, the scooters weave in and out of all of it, and hundreds of people sit outside on tiny plastic stools, a dozen different languages bouncing around. It’s one of the world’s most exciting and lively places to drink, where the local beer, bia hoi, is unlike any other lager you’ll have had before.

Plastic mugs of the freshest, cheapest beer in the world

Bia hoi essentially means draft beer, the ‘bia’ bit derivate from the French ‘bière’, and it’s a pale lager, somewhere between 3%-4% ABV, brewed with malt and rice. That part is fairly normal for Asia. What makes it different is that after fermentation, at the point where lagers usually undergo an extended conditioning period, bia hoi is kegged and sent to bars. It’s fresh beer, a few days old, unfiltered and unpasteurised, with barrels delivered to bars every morning and emptied within a day, all served and drunk on the side of the street.

Kegs of bia hoi are all around the city, including small shops like this place, a couple of doors down from the main junction of bia hoi corner 

And that busy street-side experience is remarkable. When you sit on those plastic stools, knees under your chin, with your feet in the road, you’re given a tumbler, sometimes glass, sometimes plastic, of pale lager, and it’s something wonderfully simple in the middle of the madness.

Bia hoi corner at night

Bia hoi has the light, clean essence of Asian rice lager, made lighter by being low in alcohol and lacking depth because of its youth, the same youth which brings fruity esters of banana and strawberry. You also often taste the kind of caramel and buttery sweetness of Czech lager, reflecting the Czech influence on beer here (something surprisingly prevalent, especially so in Hanoi’s many brewpubs). The best bia hoi are really fine glasses of refreshingly bitter beer; the less-good ones aren’t worth worrying about when you’ve only spent 10p on it – it's one of the cheapest beers in the world.

100-litre drums of bia hoi sit outside a busy restaurant

While the liquid itself might be simple, understanding it is less so. All bia hoi is a bit different and the quality ranges. Different breweries make it (most big, some small), kegs change taste through the day, it changes depending on where you drink it, some bars have large drums of beer, others just tilt kegs on the roadside with barely any bar to house it; sometimes it cold, other times barely cool, some are great, others are ok, plus you never know who makes what you’re drinking because it’s free of branding; it’s just bia hoi, draft beer.

This is Vietnam’s beer and drinking it in Hanoi is a rare and wonderful experience. Nowhere makes or serves beer in this way, a fast-brewed, very fresh beer, kegs opened and emptied in one day before another delivery comes the next morning, where you drink on the street and the simplicity of the beer is the best kind of counter to the craziness of life flying by around you.

It’s worth knowing that you can also get draft beer that isn’t bia hoi – this is regular kegged lager from the local breweries, so if you specifically want bia hoi then you have to order that. And my favourite place to drink bia hoi wasn’t on Bia Hoi Corner, it was on the corner of Bat Dan and Duong Thanh (the top picture is the place) – lovely and bitter beer, in a place filled with locals eating good cheap food. There was also a place opposite (the one with the big 100-litre drums in the picture above) which was good.

Great British Lagers

A good pint of lager gets me excited. A proper pint of Czech- or German-style lager, brewed in Britain, is something I want to see more of.

I think there’s a massive potential market for great lager – just look at how much of it is sold in pubs. Imagine if a craft brand could tap into those sales. Things are happening in the UK with craft lager and I really hope it continues; breweries like Meantime, Freedom, Moravka, Camden, Black Isle, Thornbridge, and more, are making lagers now. I also think more will try them. I’d love to see DarkStar have a go at a proper Czech pils, Adnams and Fuller’s, too, Magic Rock, Fyne, Moor.

There’s also Windsor and Eton’s Republika. A 4.8% lager made with pilsner malt from Moravia, Saaz hops from Zatec, Czech lager yeast and water treated to soften it. It’s been conditioned for six weeks. And it’s very good. Soft and clean, biscuits and popcorn, dry and bitter and sprightly with Saaz. It’s what a good lager should taste like and I could drink a lot of it. I'd love to see it in keg to see how it gets on.

I want to see more great British lagers. Not ones hopped with Amarillo or Simcoe or Citra and not those almost-lagers which are made with ale yeast or which just get a two-week condition in tank. Good, classic lager with lots of flavour while still being subtle. But it is a big commitment for a brewery to make a lager as it needs extra tank time. When you get a really good one that time is totally worth it. That’s pretty much what I’m trying to say in the video above.  

Tank beer: Pilsner Urquell Mliko and Snyt

“Here the beer is packaged into bottle, can, keg and tank.”

It’s now that I lose focus on what Pavel is saying as he shows us the packaging plant at the Pilsner Urquell brewery.

The idea of giant army tanks filled with beer is stuck in my head. An image of a great fountain of pilsner powering out of the barrel of the tank’s gun is just far too exciting to take my concentration back to the unending grind and tinkle of the bottling line.

Tanks filled with beer.

Perhaps the PU tank would be deployed to fight this beer-stealing T-Rex...

It’s only later, once I’ve passed through the schoolboy thoughts that bring a new meaning to ‘Beer Wars’, that I discover that these tanks aren’t the military sort. In fact, it takes much longer than it should for this to sink in. Happy in my naivety, I walked through Prague hoping to see one of these tanks charge through the city, a Pilsner Urquell green with the red seal of approval. I kept my camera in my pocket ready for the photo opportunity.

It’s in Lokal that it finally makes sense. Walking in, the first thing we see is a bar made from glass with two stainless steel tanks beneath and a barman pouring pint after pint of golden beer with that gorgeous thick foam on top. Tank beer.

Picture from here, plus Evan Rail explaining tank beer

While most Pilsner Urquell is pasteurised and filtered, it is possible to get the unpasteurised beer in around 500 pubs within a four hour drive of the brewery (if you’re in a four minute walk of the brewery you can also get the unfiltered stuff). This unpasteurised beer is packaged in ‘replaceable, polyester-film sacks’ which then go into ‘sealed, steel tanks’ (see Evan Rail’s Good Beer Guide Prague for more – most of this paragraph is nicked from that great book) where the beer is drawn from. It’s pumped from increased air pressure within the tank, so doesn’t come into contact with oxygen. If you see tankovna then you are getting tank beer.

Tank beer is generally a sign of a decent bar because Pilsner Urquell are strict on where the tanks of unpasteurised beer goes. The bar need a fast turnover of beer, very regular line cleaning and they are taught the perfect way to pour. So in tank pubs you are getting fresher beer, served better – the drinking difference between the pasteurised and unpasteurised is that the tank stuff has a bolder, better aroma and a fuller body.

In Lokal the tanks are visible and the distance between the tank and the tap is one of the shortest around. Here they also serve the beer in a few different styles, which is why it was recommended to us that we visit. You can get it normal or you can order it Snyt or Mliko.

Snyt on the left, Mliko on the right

Snyt is half foam and Mliko is full-foam. Normal is just normal (but you still get a massive head of thick, handsome foam*). Served in a pint glass, you pay for a half, but you don’t order it this way because you want the beer, you order it this way for the creamy, aromatic, gorgeous foam which has trapped all that Saaz hop brilliance within it. It’s so soft on the tongue but you still get the full taste of the beer as you speedily suck it down before the foam falls away. Mliko was the one we preferred – it’s so light to taste yet so deliciously different. It’s not called Milk for no reason.

Tank Pilsner Urquell is good. Having it poured Snyt or Mliko is strange and wonderful and it’s definitely a beer to experience if you get the chance. But just imagine the look on the locals’ faces if you poured a pint like that in Britain...

*One of the greatest joys of a pint of Pilsner Urquell is the way it looks. Those first few seconds after it arrives in front of you are beer perfection as that golden pilsner sits below a pillow of thick white foam. As Mark from Beer. Birra. Bier. said while we were drinking it, one gulp and you ruin it and just want to order another to get the full, crowning pint. It means you end up drinking a lot more of it. 

Top tank picture from here.

A Front Line Report on Beer in a Spanish Tourist Resort

Of course, my two week frolic to Spain was not just an excuse to escape to the sunshine and sandy beaches of the Mediterranean, it was a cleverly veiled covert beer research trip. This expedition was to look at restaurants, bars and supermarkets to see what the local choices are.

On the first supermarket trip I saw a well-stocked beer aisle, red with Spanish lagers and green with those from Northern Europe, plus the bright blue of Illa, Menorca's own beer. It also featured bottles of Guinness, Magners and Strongbow, Paulaner wheatbeer, Judas, Desperados and a few non-alcoholic cans. I was there for the Spanish beers.

To begin, an observation: The first night out I ordered a beer, as follows: “Hola. Beer please.” “Small or large?” was the response. Obviously I said large. It arrived a few minutes later in an unbranded nonic pint glass. It was Estrella Damm. I do not believe that Estrella Damm should ever be served in nonic pint glasses. Later in the break I ordered both a 'small' and a 'large' Estrella and they arrived in lovely, branded and stemmed glasses, either 20cl or 40cl, not in bloody pints. I realised, with that first pint, that I'd stepped into a parallel version of England located on a Spanish island. However, the thought of pints of Estrella did bring me some joy as I imagined the burly, burnt Brits with their beer-drink bravado sinking four pints and stumbling home drunk blaming the heat for their inability to walk in a straight line. Ha! Estrella is 5.4%. Ha! It's not like the 4% lager you gulp at home, mate!

Anyway, here's what else I found in the aisles of Spar. I hope, for anyone visiting Spain this summer, it may help you in your drinking:

Estrella Damm. As mentioned, it's 5.4%, but one assumes, being dainty and English, that it is less potent and therefore one to smash by the pint. I like Estrella a lot as a holiday beer. That extra strength translates to extra flavour and body. It's honey, bubblegum and bread and it's refreshing.

Illa is the local beer. It's brewed with local grain. I wrote a blog about it last week. I drank lots of them while I was away and I’m still not sure if it’s meant to taste the way it does or not. I still liked it though. This is the one craft beer brand I had in two weeks.

Cruzcampo is 4.8% and good when cold and served in small measures. It's got a lovely dry finish, like the hot air, that makes you go back for more.

The Spar have their own beer, imaginatively called Cerveza. It's 4.5%, it's pale, has lots of bubbles, lacks body and tastes of very little. Drink it very cold and very quick when you are very thirsty and you'll be slightly satisfied. Otherwise, don't bother.

Mahou is another bright red branded Spanish beer. It's 5.5% and more bitter than the other beers, making it dry and quenching and perfect for small measures and little plates of food. My scribbled notes suggest tobacco, sherbet and crackers which coincidentally is also the preferred diet of supermodels.

In one place I found Duff. Duff! I've written about my desire to drink animated beer before (in which I say that I never want to try it - curiosity overpowered me), to have that moment where I down a delicious pint of it in seconds with a refreshed 'aahhhhh'. Fortunately, tasting of very little, I managed to drink this bottle cartoonishly-fast.

Xibeca, a 4.6% beer from Damm, is, I guess, the cheaper brand from the brewery. It's called a pilsner but, given the dramatic lack of hops, I'd question that labelling. I bought a litre of this for not many euro cents and that's probably the best thing to say about it.

The opposite end of the brewery scale is Voll Damm. At 7.7% and in a dramatic, dark can, it calls itself 'Das Originale Marzenbier'. I did wonder if it was Spanish Special Brew but a tweet from Boak and Bailey confirmed that it's not tramp juice. It tastes good too; smooth and sweet, full-bodied, lots of toffee and caramel and just enough hops to not make it cloying. One for beer geeks.

Cruzcampo make a stronger beer, Gran Reserva, at 6.4%. It's a richer amber colour than the normal brew and it's subtle but very enjoyable: tangy malt, a noticeable hop presence, a little peachy aroma and a sherbety sweetness.

And San Miguel also do a fancier, stronger beer: Selecta XV. I liked it a lot. I walked past a restaurant where everyone was drinking this deep amber beer in fancy glasses and I had to go in for a closer look. I asked what beer they had and the waiter said San Miguel, probably assuming my Englishness and considering his fancy beer too delicious for me, and I resigned myself to a usual golden beer. However, I got the darker one. It's very tasty: caramel, little chocolate and lots of hops.

Normal San Miguel ain't too bad either. I had a couple of lovely 30cl glasses of it with a table covered in tapas (local food). Refreshing, light, quenching; everything a lager should be.

Next come three non-alcoholic beers, purely bought out of research and curiosity. Free from Damm looks like beer but definitely doesn't taste like it. Eyes-closed it could be sparkling water. One good thing, mainly of appeal to the calorie conscious who want to appear like they are drinking beer but are in fact not, is that there are only 33 calories in the can.

With almost three times the calories, is San Miguel's 0,0%. If you drink it very cold it isn't offensive, otherwise it is offensive. Order Diet Coke instead, or, even better, a proper beer.

And finally, Cruzcampo's Shandy, a 0.9% thing which tastes exactly like lemonade and nothing like beer (though it still looks like beer). It tasted so much like lemonade that I added gin to it to make it taste better.

I must also report back that I had Heineken and Amstel, though I do not recall them in great detail. The Heineken, however, was delivered when I expected to receive an Estrella and came as a shock to my delicate tastebuds. It appears that I don't enjoy Heineken very much. Amstel is ok.

These are my research findings. My preference is for Estrella Damm as my day-to-day drink, though I did like the stronger brews, especially the one from San Miguel. If you go to Spain this summer, as many millions of you will, then you will find that the sun is hot and the beer is cold and that’s all you really need to know, though it is, for a beer geek like me, fun to try a little of everything. 

Saving the best until last? (aka This Beer Rocks)

The most memorable beer weekend from this year was the one I spent in Prague and Pilsen. It was my introduction to lagers; it was me discovering just how good beer could be. I’ll never forget that first pint when we arrived in Prague; the beer from Pivovar Groll which is brewed in the heavy shadow of Pilsner Urquell; the unfiltered pilsner in the cellars under the city, and so many other golden pints with rocky white heads. It’s left me craving the beers ever since.

I arrived home on Christmas Eve to find two bottles of Monsieur Rock, a collaboration between Stuart Howe at Sharp’s Brewery and Jean-Marie Rock from Orval, which is the unlikeliest of dream brewing teams. The beer is 5.2%, fermented with a lager yeast and dry-hopped with Saaz for two months of cold maturation in a lagering tank. And having followed the progression of the beer on Stuart’s blog, this was the best of early Christmas presents.

Monsieur Rock is as good as any lager I’ve had this year – as good as any beer I’ve had. It may very well be the best beer of the last turn around the sun. Every mouthful had me in suspense, in excitement, in awe, in love. Saaz hops are wonderful, beautiful things and in this they come together to create a masterpiece. It’s got the subtle olfactory shadow of a fruit bowl in it, orange peel, ripe peaches, tangerine, something floral and fresh like a spring morning (cut grass, blossom, a herb garden awakening, sunshine). There’s a playful bitterness – the perfect amount to make you go straight back for more – and it’s so smooth and clean and damn drinkable; the flavours aren’t squashed against one another and fighting for attention. This beer rocks.

The joy of lager is the simplicity of it and a good one should make you want to drink pint after pint while talking with friends. But scratch beneath the simplicity and you get, if you want to find it, an amazing depth of flavour; a lesson in subtlety that leaves you chasing the come-get-me complexities around the glass. Why could it be the best beer I’ve had this year? “It’s one of those beers which it almost physically hurts to stop drinking,” says the ever-modest Stuart. Zak Avery says something similar: the beer skips across the palate “in a manner that made you think 'hang on, did that really happen?' And so you have another drink, and another. And then your glass is empty.” It’s flawless, delicious, interesting and I didn’t want my glass to empty. My true test of a beer is whether I’d buy a case of it... I immediately wanted to buy a slab of Monsieur Rock and drink the whole thing. And I wanted to phone my friends and tell them to do the same.

For me, 2010 is notable as being the one where I discovered great lagers, whether Czech, German, English, Italian, American or beyond. Monsieur Rock ends my year with a perfect pint and a beautiful ode to the sublime Saaz hop.

Meantime Kellerbier

It’s unfiltered and unpasteurised, brewed and sold on site and made with local ingredients. That’s a pretty good start. With an aroma like sweet dough, strawberries and vanilla, there’s also a little butter in the best of ways, like a delicate version of butterscotch. The body is silky, glide-over-your-tongue rather than jump-up-and-down on it, before a dry, peppery finish with that ever-so-important hop quench that makes you go back for more. It’s very good. It’s just the sort of beer I’ve been craving since drinking in the Czech Republic. But it’s not a Czech or German recreation using Moravian malt and Saaz hops, this is London Lager, a new appellation Alastair Hook is chasing (the kellerbier is the unfiltered and unpasteurised version of London Lager – a new brew Meantime are producing – and it has the brewing yeast left in which is classic for the style – the ultimate kellerbier, or cellar beer, I’ve had is Pilsner Urquell). London Lager is made from East Anglian malt and Kentish hops and it’s brewed beside the Thames. The kellerbier version is only available in the handsome, copper centre of the Old Brewery, right beside the vessels it’s made in (why would you want to drink it anywhere else?). This is how beer tastes at its natural best; unfiltered, unpasteurised, unbelievably good.

Strangely, though, and in the interest of fairness, one tap serving the beer was excellent but the other was lacking a bit of life and lay flat in the glass (it barely came with a head on it when poured, which was a shame – this sort of beer needs a massively oversized glass and a four-finger head). If it doesn't have a thick, frothing head then watch out!

The image was from Travels with Beer. If you like beer and photos then that’s the place for you.

The most incredible drinking experience (so far)

We’re underground. Possibly as deep as 12m. It’s less than 7°C. We are just a short way into the 19km of cellars, somewhere amid the 32,000m² of tunnels. It’s dark and cold. There’s a mineral cleanliness to the air, the air which hangs still. The cobbled floors are wet, the white walls are damp, the ceiling arches high above us. Every crossroad of tunnels leads off in new directions, visible only for a few metres before it fades to black. A map shows us the full network, an unbelievable snaking myriad of channels carved out of the rock. We try and work out how far they stretch under the city; what landmarks they lay dormant beneath. How many men have worked down here? What was the beer they made like? What stories can they tell? Our guide is leading the way but we’re only following in a strange not-quite-concentrating kind of way, our legs moving but our minds filled with wonder and awe, open-mouthed like school boys who have just seen the T-Rex at the Natural History Museum. It’s when we pass by the giant oak casks that we all stop and stare. Magnificent and grand, blackened by time, they run along the sides of the cellars, stacked two high, filled with beer, just waiting. I silently say ‘wow’ and a cloud of breath disperses in front of me. Around another corner and the cellar is stacked with casks on both sides, maybe 40 casks in total around us. Two dark figures wait in the middle, slightly hunched. They start pouring beer as we arrive by them, serving them charmlessly without even a hint of a smile. Beer in hand, we pass through the narrow corridor between the barrels and into another cellar where we stop briefly, looking back to where we were served, like the ultimate beer theatre. It’s here, in the cellars underneath Pilsner Urquell brewery, that I have the most incredible drinking experience of my life so far. The beer is unfiltered and unpasteurised and it’s come straight from the oak barrel. We’re deep underground, it’s cold and mesmerising; the stories that this place could tell are haunting. The beer is a cloudy gold with a chunky white foam. It’s unbelievably smooth and rich, there’s a slight sweetness to begin and a herbal, dry bitterness to finish. It’s perfect. It’s unlike anything else I’ve had before. It’s undoubtedly one of the best drinking experiences in the world.


Does anywhere compare with this? Is there a better drinking experience? What’s the most amazing beer experience you’ve had?

The map of the cellars. The tour only walks around a tiny block in the middle, which you can just make out as the white lines are thicker with wear from fingers tracing our route. 

FABPOW! Tipopils and Pizza

I have a theory: any beer works with any pizza...

Pizza is an inherently simple, eat-with-your-hands food. It’s the stuff of our childhood but we still eat it as a grownup, which has a cheeky appeal, like eating milky bars or fish fingers. Pizza can be one from a box (shop bought or take away-ordered) or it can be made from scratch, satisfyingly gooey in the middle and crispy at the edges, topped to your heart’s desire. On the grand scheme of food-things, making your own pizza is joyous and fun and bursting with childish appeal, like having free-reign to decorate a banana split with sauces, sweets and sprinkles.

Tipopils is a lager from Birrificio Italiano and it’s one of the best lagers I’ve tasted. It’s made with four hop varieties (Hallertauer Magnum, Hallertauer Perle, Hallertauer Hersbrücker and Hallertauer Saaz), it’s a little sherberty to begin, a little herby and floral and a hint of fresh bread in the aroma, which mellows out to an inviting orange and pineapple fruitiness. It’s incredibly smooth drinking which creates a cuddle-effect before the bold hops stamp through and leave their lingering trail of dry bitterness. It’s got so much character to keep it interesting throughout the glass, making you want to drink more and more after each quenching mouthful. Remarkably good, enough to make me look for flights to Milan leaving in the next 24 hours.

The pizza was homemade, both the dough and the sauce (the most flour-dusted and sauce-splattered pages of any cookery book I have are the ones in Jamie Oliver’s Jamie at Home for pizza dough and tomato sauce). There were four of them; Lauren and I both topped two each – mine were dramatically better, of course (she used mostly sweetcorn and onion which, in isolation, suck as pizza toppings). One of mine was smoked pancetta, chilli and lots of mozzarella, the other was piled high with flat mushrooms, red onion, basil and mozzarella (although, as Reluctant Scooper says, the toppings aren’t relevant, it's pizza and beer and that's what matters). Both of the pizzas are umami-bombs calling for the fruity sweetness and fizz which Tipopils deals up, while the dry finish at the end cuts the richness of the cheese and tomato. The match is helped along even further by the Italian heritage of the headliners.

This was one of those dinners where every mouthful is a pleasure and you eat and drink until you are a food-comatose lump on the floor, covered in crust crumbs and spatters of tomato sauce, but still somehow sipping at the beer because it’s so good, eyeing the slices which remain.

Pizza and beer belong together, a glass in one hand and a slice in the other. Like meat and potatoes they work, whatever the infinite varieties of recipes permit. It’s the simplest of pairings and always works, whether it’s a can of cooking lager or a bottle of something special. Pizza and beer: what do you think? Is there any beer which wouldn’t work with pizza (I won’t believe it if there are!)? Are there any which work particularly well with certain pizzas?

I’m now going to eat the cold leftovers and I’m dribbling at the prospect.

Prague and Pilsen: The Executive Summary

Airport and a pint with Jan, our Czech host, Adrian, Tim, Pete and Peter from the Porterhouse - we begin; flight with no working toilet making for an uncomfortable entrance into the country; hustle onto a minibus and into the centre, dump bags in plush hotel, bust a groove to Zly časy (Bad Times); meet Evan Rail, drink a fantastic selection of beer, a sherbety Tambor 10° with a big Saaz hop finish, a Kocour Pale Ale, snappy branding and bold hops, trays of food, cheese and chilli, sausages cooked in beer, ribs - fantastic place; to one of the best bars I’ve been to in ages, a trip simultaneously back in time and looking to the future, the První Pivni Tramway (First Beer Tramway), serving BrewDog and Matuška while playing football from the 80s in a bar that looks like a grubby cafe; to Jáma (The Hollow) for more Kocour, more Matuška, a whisky nightcap and a hot dog on the way home (hot dogs all round except for Adrian who had a can of Pilsner Urquell); wake up in the middle of the night and see Czech babestation is blaring light and lovelies my way, hit standby, go back to sleep; bitch of a hangover only kicks in as we jump on the minibus for an hour drive to Pilsen, hang my head towards the window in hope that the fresh air will revive me; drop bags at great, quaint hotel, back on the bus to Chodovar, a tour of the cellars, the tanks cheekily poking out like bare buttocks, a not-ready special beer was passed around, making for a one-off drinking experience; this was followed by the beer spa, one of those unforgettable life experiences, lying naked in beer while drinking it (a fresh one, not bath water); back to Pilsen, a tour of the grand square before another brewery, this time Pivovar Groll, brewing in the imposing shadows of Pilsner Urquell, making a ballsy lager, hop-forward and full-bodied, a tour of the kit made us all want to stay for the night; to Pilsner Fest where we attempt to break a World Record which is so ridiculously complicated that we have no idea what’s going on; dinner under the brewery, our first unfiltered Pilsner Urquell, a revelation; Jan meets his cousin and he takes us to the Small Breweries Klub which is like a taxi rank meeting an ineffective DIY-ers shed, but one which serves great beers to glass-chinking drinkers; morning breaks, a tour of the tunnels under Pilsen is extraordinary, a strange stage show tells us the history of Pilsner Urquell (to test the quality it was poured on a bench and if whoever sits on it gets stuck then it’s good – try seeing that acted out by two enthusiastic Czechs, speaking just Czech); more unfiltered Pilsner Urquell; a tour of the brewery, wonderfully done to appeal to everyone, the walk through the cellars is mind-blowing, almost as mind-blowing as drinking the beer from a giant oak barrel, deep underground, a mouthful of silky beer, as cold as the air around us, as intoxicating as a beautiful smile; a walk around town, a quick beer, another quick beer in Pivovar Groll; a tour of Gambrinus, the biggest-selling beer in the Czech Republic, where a guy is so happy that they’ve started tours (this is the first day) that he suggests we all sing; another unfiltered Pilsner Urquell; to Pivovar Pašák, a tiny brewpub with coppers in the corner, a deeply fried meal and some great beer; onwards we beer travellers go, to drink Kout na Šumavě at Pálavě, a delicious 12° unfiltered lager, smooth, a faint orange pith Saaz bitterness, delicious; to Zach’s Pub for 19° porter from Pardubice outside in a cool courtyard playing jazz-funk, then for more Kout (10° this time), then a spirit Becherovka which tasted like bitter Christmas Pudding; morning, urgh; a film crew, who have followed us all weekend, get us to talk to camera; we go to Pivovar Modrá Hvezda (Blue Star), a small brewpub out of town which leaves us all buzzing with excitement after trying 5-6 of their great beers - my favourite, the 10°; to Purkmistr for lunch, beer and a brewery tour, another cracking unfiltered lager, a real glugger, great with ‘Mouth Scorcer of Cernice’ (deep fried chilli, a great beer snack); to the airport; to England; to home; to bed: to Czech Republic, wow, that was awesome.

This is the executive summary. More to follow...

Global Lager, Locally (aka The Little Things)

Two weeks on a little Greek island means two weeks of drinking nothing but ice cold lager. And that’s a good thing. When the air is hot and dry and the sun is shining then a glass of lager is what I want in my hand. Forget big hops, forget barrel-aged whatevers, forget anything prefixed with imperial, why would you drink anything other than something cold, thirst quenching and refreshing?

The ubiquitous Stella-Carling-Fosters-Carlsberg-Kronenbourg line-up does nothing except inject a sad, staid sense of déjà-vu, but go abroad and suddenly the choice becomes exotic with lesser-spotted brands and the local lagers, plus you’re on holiday so the usual rules are not applicable – you can have chips with every meal, you can sleep in, you can go to bed late, you can wear nothing but shorts and you can drink buckets of lager and not feel naughty.

But one thing did stand out: the difference between the lager brands. I had a variety of different lagers and came to realise that it’s the little things which have the biggest effect. The main global brands in Greece (at least where I was - Skiathos) were Amstel and Heineken. Beneath these were the Greek beers Mythos, Alfa, Fix and Pils Hellas. A few German lagers were around too, the odd Corona or dusty bottle of Budweiser (would you pay 5 euros for a Bud?) and the occasional can of Guinness.

Amstel was better than I expected. It’s got a honey sweetness and a good body that makes it ideal for the hot weather and considering it’s produced by Heineken it’s a lot better than the brand it sits beneath - I thought Heineken was the worst of the beers I had while away; there was nothing redeeming about it. Mythos and Alfa are everywhere, although Mythos is everywhere more. Pils Hellas is a budget brand, cheaper and 4.5% compared to the 5% of the others. It’s a bit thin and lacklustre but not terrible in the sun (just not great either). Fix was a new one to me although it has a long history. It’s smartly branded and stands out but it doesn’t have the shelf-filling ability of the others yet. Flavour-wise it’s okay but there’s something missing which means it doesn’t quite stand up to the others - it did have a nice fruitiness to it and it’s easy drinking. Mythos and Alfa are both full-bodied, there’s an underlying sweetness to them, a dry finish at the end, a ghost-like hint of citrus and they quench a thirst leaving you wanting more. But for me it’s Mythos which stands out above all the others. Why is that?

Drinking the beers it was the subtle differences which stood out. What makes Mythos the best is a touch of sweetness at the tip of the tongue and a full body to give weight in the mouth when the cold kills the flavour. The carbonation is soft and there’s a little citrusy, fruity quality which makes it great with salty food (or salty sea air). The others didn’t have this, but there’s also a je ne sais quoi quality, something hard to describe. It’s just better (although Amstel is a close second, I think) but then Mythos should be the best because it’s made specifically for the Greek market and the Greek weather, right?

  

There is a flavour similarity to big brand lagers across the world, but there are subtle differences with them all - Bud is different to Stella which is different to Kronenbourg which is different to Chang, yet they are all 5% lagers with similar flavour profiles. So here’s a thought: Mythos in England, even on the hottest day of the year, doesn’t taste great, but would Mythos work in Barcelona on a hot day? Would Estrella Damm be good on a Thai beach? Would Chang be refreshing on a sunny Greek Island? Are these beers made better for drinking them in the country they are produced (and not just because you might be on holiday which makes everything taste better – the rose-tint of sunglasses) because there’s something about them which just works better locally (with the weather, the temperament, the food)? Is there intrinsic value in drinking them ‘local’, even though they are global-scale products? How important is a local place for the global brands of beer?

FABPOW! Vegetable Chilli and BrewDog Zeitgeist

After yesterday’s post about food and beer and a weekend of eating and drinking (as well as Alan’s reply about the whole pairing game), here comes the first FABPOW! of the new year.

It’s bloody freezing outside and we wanted something warming but also healthy. As Lauren doesn’t eat meat we decided on a vegetable chilli. Nothing complicated, just onions, peppers, courgettes, carrots, mushrooms, tomato, spices (cumin, coriander, turmeric, paprika, black pepper, garlic, ginger) and beans, left in a big pot for an hour until rich and hearty and finished with lime and coriander. To cope with the sweetly acidic tomato, earthy-sweet vegetables, chilli heat and fragrant spice, you want a beer with enough balls to stand up to it all but not one that will knock it out with brute force. You want hops to tickle the chilli heat and you need something to soften the thick tomato sauce. BrewDog Zeitgeist is the answer. It’s smooth and roasty, chocolatey and has a lifting hop finish to clean the palate and play with the spice. Normal FAB logic is to go with an IPA but the roasted flavour in this dark lager just work perfectly with the vegetables and tomatoes and it also softens the chilli heat. A very worthy Food and Beer Pairing of the Week.

A Campaign for Great British Beer

Oliver Thring’s piece for The Guardian’s Word of Mouth has opened up the issue of lager and CAMRA. For me, it’s one of those annoyingly frustrating topics in beer that doesn’t look like going away and just gets more and more irritating, without the hope of resolution.

CAMRA (the clue is in the name) have built themselves around pushing and progressing real ale in Britain and beyond. They have a bad reputation but that’s an aesthetic thing which will take years to shift – it took years to grow it so asking it to change is a moot point. If it wasn’t for CAMRA then beer wouldn’t be where it is now. The trouble is, beer is moving on in the UK and the CAMRA-shackles are slowing it down because of their dominant name and standing in the industry. And this isn’t going to change. CAMRA won’t shift their key ideological stance and rightly so. LOBI are new into the debate (I've written about them before). They have nothing like the standing of CAMRA and I don’t ever expect them to. LOBI are lager, CAMRA are real ale and there’s a loggerhead in the middle which isn’t shifting to allow the two to work together. This is about the loggerhead.

I’ve had cask lager at CAMRA beer festivals and that’s not the issue; it’s the kegged version which crosses the line. Would I like to see keg beer at CAMRA beer festivals? I guess so. Why not? Tandleman (in a great post) points out that CAMRA don’t have a style or category for lagers, which leaves them in the ‘speciality’ section. I think calling it speciality is making it something ‘other’. I’d love to see a cask lager category added for judging and maybe this would encourage brewers, too. But, more lager needs to be brewed over a prolonged period of time before this will happen. As there isn’t the support for it, and it’s generally more expensive to brew, then will this happen?

It’s tempting to look at the US and their dispense system, which is more keg than cask. In terms of brewing they are the front-runners in the beer world right now (sure they don’t have the history, but their influence is undeniable). If more brewers are going to follow the US footsteps then maybe we will see more British beer made for the keg. Maybe this will then see more people generally (as in, the non-real ale crowd; as in, the masses) turned on to the delights of craft brews (the stigma of the handpump is a hard one to shift). I have no problem with keg beer and I’d like to see more of it. See: Meantime, Lovibonds, BrewDog.

CAMRA won’t change their essential belief and why should they. I don’t expect to see kegged, micro-brewed lagers at CAMRA festivals any time soon. I do expect to see more lagers but I also expect them to taste like pale or golden ales, which neither appeals to the lager market nor the real ale market (call it lager, make it taste like lager – I love Schiehallion because it tastes great but it doesn’t taste like lager as I know it). One question, though: LOBI represent lager but most (maybe all) of the brewers they support also brew ale, so do they promote the ale side of things, too? The debate just spins around and around.

For me, it is, and always will be, about Great British Beer. The yeast which ferments it doesn’t bother me. The dispense doesn’t bother me (pour it straight from a jug, I don’t care as long as it tastes good). A re-seeding to cask-condition doesn’t bother me. CO2 doesn’t bother me. The staling reputation of CAMRA does bother me, but as drinkers get younger I think it will change. GBBF shows how popular beer is, even if it is like a big theme park. As for lager and LOBI, Tandleman writes, “they must stand or fall by their own ability to penetrate a market which is likely to be indifferent to them. An inconvenient truth? Maybe, but the market will decide.” I completely agree. It’s hard not to. Craft lagers are going up against the huge brands and they won’t win. It’s logical for an organisation like LOBI to start with the real ale drinkers and work their way out from there – it’s a ready-formed market. Of course, the other side of this asks: will those out-spoken members of CAMRA, whose voices raise above all the others, accept lager? The institution may accept it; the (minority of) members may not.

I don’t like these constant ‘battles’ against CAMRA. I am a member but feel no reason to defend them unless they do wrong (if they banned cask lager then I’d have an issue, although it is still the Campaign for Real Ale...). They have downfalls but it’s those ‘downfalls’ which have elevated them, and British beer, to where it is now and we should all be thankful. From here British beer needs to grow. Anything that hopes to ‘challenge’ CAMRA or promote something similar has to start from the bottom and redress what has already been done. We’re a long way off that. This isn’t a CAMRA vs. Lager/LOBI debate and they have to work together, I just wish that there was a Campaign for Great British Beer - whatever it is and however it’s served - because I think the future of drinking in Britain is much bigger than just cask real ale.

I hope that the size of the debate on The Guardian will open some eyes to beer and give it a more prominent place. I like to think it deserves it. A lot of us drink it and a lot of us really care about it. Barm has also covered the story here, focusing on the CO2 side of things, in a good, to-the-point post.