Family bonding over flights

Sometimes, visiting a brewery is all about the beer. The chance to finally try beers I’ve read about or had recommended to me for months at a time can be tantalizing.

Other times, what makes the day enjoyable isn’t really the specific beers at all. It’s the downtime, the conversation, the relaxation.

On a scorching Sunday afternoon, my mum and I arrived at Brooklyn Brewery just as it was opening. We found some stools to perch on and ordered one of the signature flights.

The lager and the IPA I’d had many times before, but the brown ale was a pleasant surprise. Rich and deep, with a hint of malted biscuit and berries.

But the real surprise was the sour, or rather, how much my mum liked it. It was refreshingly tart and dry, with undertones of passion fruit.

I’d forgotten how much fun sharing a flight could be, especially with someone with different tastes. My mum has accompanied me to many a craft beer bar or real ale pub over the years, and I’ve learnt a lot about her preferences. She likes pilsners and lagers. Pales and bitters sometimes, but nothing with too much dry-hopping. Darker styles are more hit and miss, with the odd exception of Titanic Plum Porter.

But since I haven’t traditionally been a huge sour ale fan, I’ve never had the opportunity to gauge her appetite for that category of beers. So now, it turns out that we have a new drink to enjoy together. And since it’s a style that I’m a beginner in sampling too, we can learn about the different beers on offer at the same time.

All in all, not bad for a discovery made on a Sunny afternoon in Williamsburg.

Hard seltzer and hard to break routines

A couple of weeks ago, I met a friend at a local taproom. When I arrived, a glass of something transparent and fizzy was sat in front of her. Hard seltzer.

“I don’t like beer” she had explained previously.

Before you write me off as a somewhat selfish date, let me clarify that I’d chosen the taproom because I know that they typically have a couple of ciders available. Instead, she’d opted to give the seltzer a whirl.

Hard seltzer has been gaining popularity in taprooms across the country, or so I hear. I have nothing against hard seltzer as a drink, but there’s not much I like about it either. It’s bland, and the fizzy-ness without any depth of mouthfeel just rubs me the wrong way. That said, I can certainly see how having something a little lighter and healthier might appeal to some drinkers from time to time.

What I am concerned by is the culture of seltzer as a beer substitute. If it becomes a taproom staple, it makes it easier for people to perpetuate the claim that they just don’t like beer. Call me belligerent, but I’m just not ready to take all of those people at their word, 100% of the time.

In a recent Twitter conversation, a brewer told me: “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a husband and wife walk into the taproom and then leave because there wasn’t something the wife wanted.”

More than just the gender stereotypes (true as they be in the case) make me dismayed at this statement. I wonder how long it will be until taproom managers just ‘give up’ on asking pertinent questions to match the reluctant guest of a beer lover to something that might actually wind up knocking their socks off. Seltzer could be a substitute for that conversation. But should it be? Does anyone actually legitimately ‘love’ hard seltzer, or is it usually ordered as a last ditch choice, by the poor wife in the brewer’s anecdote, or by my friend whom I dragged to a microbrewery with me?

Shortly after my friend and I ordered our second round – another pint of fizzy alcoholic water for her, a beer for me – I slid my glass across the table to her. She sniffed at the dark mauve liquid inquisitively. I encouraged her to take a sip.

“It’s a fruited wheat beer”, I told her, explaining how the wheat produced a creamy mouthfeel. It was a beautiful pint too; fruity, tart, and perhaps importantly in this case, with no detectable hop flavor.

“That’s really nice” she exclaimed, seemingly surprised, turning back to her sparkling pint of transparence with a somewhat lackluster gaze.

I have a feeling she’ll be trying something different next time.

Finding cask ale in the desert

Every time I need a taste of home, I head to Sidetrack. It’s a tiny railway-side brewpub in Downtown Albuquerque. It’s a pretty far cry from my previous rail-station-adjacent haunt The Euston Tap (the toilets are in good nick for a start) but it can be equally tricky to get a table on a Friday evening. The real draw of the place for me is that they serve beer on cask; two from their small selection, all the time. That’s rare around here.

The first time I ever sampled one of their cask offerings, I have to admit I was a little disappointed; it was a stout that drank more like a nitro. But over the weeks and months, I tried a few more and I became more convinced. The brown ale was beautifully velvety, and the cask pumps added a smooth, easy-drinking quality to their bitterest IPA.

In the USA, cask tends to be served at cooler temperatures than back home. Right now, in the heat of the New Mexican early summer, I’m not actually sure that I’d truly want it any other way, but in the winter I’d love them to serve it a little warmer.

Cask is mostly a gimmick here. It will likely always stay that way, especially since the spirit of the experiment is often pushed needlessly too far. There’s an ethos to cask that perhaps isn’t fully understood stateside, at least not west of New England.

For example, I recently heard that another favorite taproom of mine would be starting to serve cask on Fridays. Excitedly heading to the bar, I asked the bartender which of the beers was being served on cask.

‘The mango sour’, she replied.

The thought of it made me feel physically sick. I’ll admit that my palate does struggle with (some) sour and farmhouse styles, so this wouldn’t have been my first pick in any world. But even so, this sounded like a pint destined to taste of stale fruit that had been left out in the sun.

Despite a few questionable executions, I’m still glad that the parts of the USA which share little in common with the birthplaces of cask ale are giving it a try. It means there’s innovation, improvement, and that ongoing possibility of one day wandering into a neighborhood brewpub, seeing a handpull upon the counter, and finding a diamond in the rough. Maybe even at the right temperature, though I shall try not to dream too hard.

Homebrew recipe – Not quite Hefeweizen

I brewed something pretty similar to this last year, and whilst the flavor, mouthfeel and clarity turned out great, I wished I’d gone a little heavier on the adjuncts (crushed coriander seed and orange peel) and it could have benefited from a little more carbonation.

This time around I fixed those issues, and it worked out. The extra carbonation gives this a luxurious creamy head. The flaked oats help to create a rounded mouthfeel, and the citrus and spice of the adjuncts contribute to a full palate experience. Columbus hops perfectly compliment these, with rich and dark licorice notes. It drinks very much like a Hefeweizen all round, but with oats instead of wheat.

Recipe below, for 5 gallons:

FOR THE MASH
9 lb 2-row pale malt
10 oz Carapils
10 oz oats
mash at 153F for one hour

FOR THE BOIL
columbus pellets 0.8 oz @ start
cascade hop pellets 0.4 oz @ 30 min
Finings @ 15 min
columbus pellets 0.4 @ 10 min
orange peel 28g @ 10 min
coriander seed 24g @ 10 min
columbus pellets 0.4 @ 5 min
centennial flowers 0.8 oz @ end

Ferment for two weeks at 63F using Safale 33 dry yeast.
Bottle condition for 4 weeks.

My homebrewing year

Around this time last year, I was setting up my first ever solo homebrew, feeling nervous. I’d previously helped out much more experienced brewers at the London Hackspace, and also brewed alongside someone who had a chemical engineering background, hence an aptitude for understanding the science of brewing from the word go. I knew I had a bit of catching up to do, but fresh from reading Radical Brewing, I was ready to dive in.

I decided to start small. I wanted to experiment, learn and grow, and I needed to do all that on a budget. I had the lovely people at Home Brewtique ship me some mini fermenters, and I planned out my batches diligently. I used past successful homebrews and online resources to give me the bare bones for recipes, and put my own spin on them. By doing small 1.5 gallon batches, I was able to save loads on ingredients while A/B testing with different variables. I took detailed notes and trawled homebrew forums for tips every time I got stuck.

This past twelve months, I’ve scaled up my production, refined my recipes, gotten 25 successful brews under my belt and learned loads. There really is no better feeling than cracking open bottles and sharing the fruits of my labor with friends and neighbors. Sometimes it’s important to celebrate small wins. I feel chuffed that I persevered at something that I feared I’d fail at, and I can’t wait to keep getting better.

white wheat

The paralysis of choice

Earlier this month, I returned to my university city, Nottingham, for an afternoon and evening of wandering between the local watering holes and reminiscing the good ol’ student days.

Anyone who has been to Nottingham will know that what the city lacks in sprawl, it makes up for in sheer pub density. It’s hard to walk for five minutes without happening upon several different places which would be lovely spots to spend an afternoon with a pint and a newspaper. For this reason, planning my Nottingham pub crawl required forward thinking and commitment to a plan. I narrowed the shortlist of my favourite pubs down to just eight. Drinking half pints would become necessary closer to the end of the evening.

We began the afternoon at Canal House, a pub operated by the Castle Rock brewery, set in a charming grade II industrial building next to the canal, complete with two resident narrowboats. As I stepped inside, many happy memories from my student days immediately flooded back. I headed to the bar, and my eyes were drawn immediately to the hand pull ale choices. I scoured the pumps for my old favourite, Castle Rock’s Screech Owl. I couldn’t find it, but I settled on a different pale ale from the same brewery instead.

As the bartender poured our drinks, I took a closer look at the various options on offer. The once small-but-perfectly-formed keg choice of stylish European lagers had exploded into a choice of more than 10 craft beers. Behind these, a tall fridge was well stocked with Belgian beers. Beside this, another fridge was filled to the brim with cans. I started to feel relieved that I’d made a snap decision on what to order, or else I might have been reading the menu for most of the afternoon.

“Is it like you remember?” my husband asked me.
My brow furrowed. I struggled to articulate how it felt to me like something had been lost from the place, even though all that had really happened was that more options had been added. I’d loved the pub for precisely its niche; the reliability of excellently kept Castle Rock ales, the chance to try the brewery’s seasonal ranges, and guest ales from other small local breweries, such as the fantastic Springhead. But now there was a smorgasbord of choice that was almost dizzying. I quickly realised the problem; were it not for the recognisable brick walls and beams lovingly decorated with pump labels, I could be anywhere. The pub had retained its charm, but the bar choice had lost its accent.

Afterwards, we walked to Canning Circus (via an obligatory photo opportunity with the Robin Hood statue) to the Hand and Heart. It’s easily the best cave pub in the city; wonderful ambiance and music, plus far less touristy than Ye Olde Trip. Here, there was a much smaller selection than back at Canal House, and I felt more relaxed for it. Although we’d already eaten, I glanced at the menu out of curiosity. It was short and perfectly formed, just like the cask and keg range.

As we sipped our beers, we talked about how we felt that choice paralysis can be detrimental to a great pub. The places I like best are curators as well as distributors. Changing taps and rotating bottles are great, but I really don’t need a year’s worth of drinking possibilities thrown at me all in one pub visit.

Next, we decided to visit a couple of the places that had sprung up since I last lived in the city – lest I allow my yearning for the past to get the better of me. We stopped for a fantastic oatmeal stout at The Overdraught, a taproom for Totally Brewed. Wittily named too, since the bar occupies a former bank. We also loved The Barrel Drop, a Magpie Brewery micropub nestled in an alleyway. We were lucky enough to catch the opening session of an open mic night, and the atmosphere was warm and welcoming.

We ended the night at the Lincolnshire Poacher, another Castle Rock pub a short stumble away up Mansfield Road, to the north of the city centre. Despite the pouring rain, it was bustling. In the corner, musicians were setting up for a session. The cask range offered a fantastic choice from both long-standing and new local breweries. Lining the walls behind the bar, the whisk(e)y selection was as great as ever. We sat in the back room, where the wooden tables and leather armchairs looked as battered and as loved and as lived in as I recalled.

“This place is just how I remember it” I told my husband, beaming with fuzzy, nostalgic joy. Finally, I felt like I was home.

 

The Gastropub Machine

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in Fulham for an early evening midweek drinks date. Despite being born in southwest London, this corner of the west has eluded me until now. London is often like that. Its sprawl and the sheer scale of paralyzing choice makes it surprisingly easy to leave entire areas untouched for years – even parts that are relatively close to home. I met with my friend at a charming corner pub which has maintained the brass rail around the bar in the style of a proper old boozer, whilst adding chic and modern touches.

Bottles of water and glasses sat on each table. It’s great to see more British gastropubs cottoning on to this trend. One of my favorite things about the casual dining scene in the US is the fact that water is brought almost the second one sits down, before any alcoholic drinks are even ordered. This takes the pressure off; many a time have I tried in vain to catch the attention of waiting staff to chase up my forgotten order of a water jug. Since this gastropub was an order-at-the-bar affair, having the water already placed out was perfect.

As I glanced over the menu out of curiosity, it struck me that the gap between pub grub and fine dining – both in terms of quality and cost – is gradually narrowing. Nowadays, the price of a couple of courses in a gastropub scarcely comes in any cheaper than a meal with wine at an intimate and dimly-lit bistro, but to Gen X and Gen Y, that has never been the point. The casual, low-stress dining experience with minimal table service is beloved by many who find the white tablecloth stereotype stuffy and unnecessary. The same millennials that devoured piled-up Sunday lunches in eclectic pubs, sat at chipped wooden tables, now earn tidy city salaries – but their tastes haven’t really changed all that much. Gastropub quality in the UK has therefore dutifully grown with its audience, and it goes without saying that the prices have too.

It got me wondering how far the gastropub machine can go. There’s a uniformity to the model, and whilst each establishment might have a signature dish, sometimes reading menus can feel like déjà vu. The rate at which drinking holes receive swanky refurbs in conjunction with new menus has become quite prolific.

Sometimes, I like to remember a time when triple cooked chips weren’t so frequently found with a parmesan and truffle sprinkling. And every time a place I love edges towards the hot-smoked-salmon-brunch end of the spectrum, I worry that the charm which I first fell in love with could eventually end up vanishing for good. It happens more and more; I stumble into a favorite Victorian pub to find that their simple and affordable bar snacks menu has been replaced by a three course extravaganza, and not one single main on the menu will pair quite so well with my pint of Harvey’s Sussex Best as that scotch egg would have done.

The whole thing sometimes makes me want a packet of Scampi Fries, enjoyed at a slightly sticky table adjacent to a fruit machine. I suspect that there are no such places left in West London, but I’d be very happy to be proved wrong.