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Christmas at The Gunmakers
The abundance of typos in the Guardian has earned the newspaper an enduring nickname: the Grauniad. For the benefit of those who are reading this from abroad, it's a centre-left newspaper that looks positively red when compared to the hateful, hard-right shite that makes up the bulk of Britain's press. It has its roots in Manchester, but is now produced in my manor - Clerkenwell, London.
I'd always assumed no-one checked it prior to going to print. How else can one explain the blatant errors that have dogged the paper since time immemorial? I was wrong. Earlier this evening I found the proofs of tomorrow's paper lying discarded on a table in our pub's back room. Clearly those tasked with spotting gremlins are drinking on the job. Mystery solved.
To all my customers who drink "lager top": thank you for allowing me to boost my gross profits. Someone seems to have convinced a large number of our regulars that putting a dash of lemonade in Carlsberg and Stella somehow makes them palatable. I owe that someone several pints, because that's what we're saving per keg thanks to this bizarre practice. Why not make my day, and order a full-blown shandy?
Myself and my old pal Dave - now manager of The Jerusalem Tavern - had a couple of pints of Pilsner Urquell (me) and Timothy Taylor Landlord (him) at The Crown on Clerkenwell Green yesterday. For some reason, Hello wasn't interested. Perhaps we'll have better luck with Heat.
Dave and I tried our hand at homebrewing last year. We drank our first batch with pals on Clerkenwell Green. A man of no fixed abode became involved. The full story is here.
Last year an old pub in Lewes, East Sussex, became famous. Greene King - owners of The Lewes Arms - told the landlord to stop selling beer from the town's own brewery, Harvey's. The locals organised a boycott. Against the odds, they won, after attracting the attention of national newspapers and enlisting the support of their local MP.
GK have now agreed to sell the pub to Fullers, London's leading ale brewer. The new owners will continue to sell local beer there, but at a price: The Royal Oak in Borough - Harvey's only London pub - will have to introduce a Fullers beer. Presumably that'll mean dropping one of the brewery's own range. Boo. Hiss.
The Publican has the story.
Today, I'm selling Hopback Summer Lightning and Adnams Bitter. An oldish geezer and his mate came in at lunchtime for a couple of pints. I'd not seen them before. "So are those the only bitters you've got?", he said after scanning the bar. Yes, I said. "But I don't like Adnams", he protested. I asked why. "It tastes too beery", he said with a straight face. Hiding my horror, I suggested he try the Hopback. "I've never even heard of that, no way" he said, his palms pointing in my direction. I fell silent. After consulting with his apparently mute marra, he ordered two pints of Guinness.
As he paid up and left, I asked what he does like. "Greene King IPA's the only bitter I really enjoy", he replied. I doubt I'll see him again, then.
 It started out as just a publicity stunt, but has ended up adding another curiosity to London's pub scene. Last year Speight's of New Zealand shipped a temporary bar around the globe and stuck it on top of Temple tube station. I wrote about it here. After a few successful months, they moved to permanent premises on nearby Essex Street. We dropped by for drinks and a quick supper last week.
The Southerner has a long frontage at street level, but behind it stairs lead straight down to the basement. The decor's virtually non-existent, with screens showing sport commanding attention.When we expressed an interest in the four draught Speight's beers, the manager poured us a rack of tasters. Old Dark is probably my favourite, but the hop aroma coming from that Pilsener deserves a mention too. In addition to the regular line-up, seasonal beers will be shipped across from New Zealand from time to time, including a Chocolate Ale for winter.
The Southerner is at 48 Essex Street, WC2R 1AP (map). I've added it to the London Beer Map.
"Thriving gastropubs buck market trend", says today's FT. The article is online here. I don't like the word "gastropub", but I can forgive its use as shorthand in a mainstream newspaper.
What this article highlights for me is that it's the pubs at the bottom end of the market that are falling by the wayside. They make up the numbers in those shocking statistics on pub closures released by CAMRA and the British Beer and Pub Association. That isn't to say the situation isn't lamentable, of course. Arguably, the fact that the industry's woes are concentrated in certain of its sectors makes things even more serious. The fact that a pricey, inner London gastropub makes a killing doesn't do you much good if you're skint, you live in a depressed town, and your only local's just closed down.
I wrote a piece on the decline of British pub culture last April - you can read it here.
 Jamie Oliver says that the British are more concerned with getting lashed than they are with eating well. That's what he told Paris Match in an interview this week. Having seen this pub sign (pictured right) while passing through a Cambridgeshire village, I'm inclined to agree. "REAL ALE, NO FOOD, REAL PUB", it says.
I'm not suggesting that every pub goes gastro, but since when is failure to provide proper hospitality something to boast about? Those of you who are CAMRA members will have seen my column in the last issue of BEER magazine on the subject of food in pubs. As I wrote in that piece, "it's all about balance: drinks, entertainment, conversation - and yes, food - all have their place, but none to the exclusion of others".
The real ale industry is adamant that no blame for Britain's binge drinking culture can be laid at their feet. It's difficult to sustain that view when so many within it retain a chippy attitude about food in pubs. If you drink beer but don't eat, you'll get pissed quickly. If you make up the deficit with unhealthy bar snacks and kebabs on the way home, you'll get fat. In short, you can't drink properly if you don't eat properly too.
Stonch's Beer Blog is shutting down for the bank holiday weekend. I'll be back on Monday evening. Pray for us as we brave the worst summer in memory with just an Argos tent above our heads.
If you've dropped by and are looking for some entertainment, try these old posts from the archives:
They thought I'd pissed myself in the night. When we woke up, all of our sleeping bags were damp. I reached down below to survey the damage, and was heartened to find my duds were as dry as a bone. So, it wasn't piss after all. I had one of those hungover flashbacks, where some blurry image of the night before becomes clear for a moment, explaining everything. When we'd retired to the tent, I'd been reluctant to stop drinking, so had taken a full pint glass with me. My attempts to drink it while lying on my back had led to some major spillage.
So I was in the clear. Dave wasn't so lucky. While we'd slept, he'd spewed his ring, poking his head out of the tent and howling into the darkness for Hughie and Bert. Unhelpfully, he'd chosen to release his stomach-soup onto my sky-blue plastic flip-flops, the only form of footwear I'd brought on the trip. To wash them, I'd have had to carry them to the pub loos, and that would have meant walking barefoot across a gravel driveway. I decided against, and just gave them a good shake to remove the bigger chunks before slipping them onto my minging feet.
That was August bank holiday last year. We camped at The White Horse in Edwardstone (nr. Sudbury, Suffolk, CO10 5PX, website, map). It's owned by our friends the Nortons. Once again, they're hosting Eddyfest, a three-day beer and music bash. We're off there tomorrow. Since our last visit they've built an eco-friendly microbrewery (great news) and a shower block for campers (even greater news).
 Casks on stillage don't look very nice. They're often battered and worn - some that turn up in my cellar look like they've rolled over landmines - and even at their best, they're hardly pleasing on the eye. Nevertheless, if you're serving real ale without a beer engine, the barrel's going to be on display.
It seems there's a solution - cask fronts. I'd never heard of them until I came across this photo. These were found in the attic of The Evening Star in Brighton during a recent refurbishment. They're thought to date back to the late 1930s. As can be seen, they were designed to be attached over the front of the barrel, with a space cut out for the tap.
I'd like to see modern breweries make these available for beer festivals and pubs that serve via gravity from behind the bar. Unless, of course, the brewery in question uses stupid branding, in which case the nekkid barrel would be preferable.
Tamplin's was founded in Brighton in 1821. In the twentieth century it was the town's major brewery, having swallowed up its local rivals. It was taken over in 1953 by Watney Combe Reid. At first the new owners expanded the brewery while retaining its original name, but in 1973 closed it down for good. Boo.
 In the summer of 2006, I visited De Halve Mann brewery in Bruges. There, I bought Around Bruges in 80 Beers. It remains one of my favourite books about beer. Others agreed - it sold out some time ago.
 A year later, as I began to dabble in beer writing myself, I got to know the authors, Chris "Podge" Pollard and Siobhan McGinn. They told me about their next project - a book in the same format as the Bruges effort, but this time focusing on London. I helped the pair with some of the research (euphemism alert), and they commissioned me to write a short, two-page piece which appears in the opening pages of the book.
This isn't just a London pub guide - that'd be boring. A range of licensed premises are featured, including restaurants, cafes, galleries, an independent cinema and a bowling alley. Naturally, there are lots of boozers in there too. Each of the 80 venues is given due attention, with plenty of photos. Podge and Siobhan have chosen one exceptional beer on offer in each place, and described it in detail. It's a wonderful way to discover London while enjoying the best beer.
Around London in 80 Beers has now been published by Cogan & Mater. You can buy it online here for £7.99/€11.99/US$19.99, including postage. I'd urge you to do so now. In case you're wondering, your purchase won't make me a penny (I've already been paid for my bit) - but you'll get an excellent book about beer and London.
The photo is of Podge and myself at the GBBF, tucking into an Italian beer.
It was a moment of triumph. The last bottle of Magner's was sold, and the Thatcher's Gold came up from the cellar to fill the empty fridge space. No longer would the foul, apple-pulp concoction be seen in our little pub.
Since then, however, I've found my new bottled cider policy has a major drawback. I'm just so tired of hearing staff explain to dumbstruck punters that, no, we don't sell Magner's, and no, we don't sell Bulmers either. They then have to launch into a pre-prepared monologue about how we do sell a nice English cider, and yes, you can have it poured over ice. It's wearing me down. Kill me.
I love posh pubs. On Saturday night myself and wee Rossie floated around Barnsbury enjoying the very best of that kind. Along the way, we encountered the most expensive pint of session bitter in the world, ever. Two (very nice) jars of Black Sheep came to £6.80 in The Albion (website). It was my round, too.
One consolation: Abi Titmuss was standing next to us at the bar. A veritable blast from the near past, she's very pretty in person, although she really does need to sort her roots out. The two-tone look isn't very becoming. Still, I suppose when everyone's seen you being blarted on by a sleazy Scotsman on t'internet, the state of your hair is the least of your worries.
On Friday nights I crack open bottled beers provided by breweries and distributors. The tasting takes place in our pub's cellar, before I share the beer with staff and regulars upstairs. Email me at stonchblog@gmail.com if you'd like your beer to feature.
 There's always a moment of uncertainty when you open a bottle conditioned beer. I'm disappointed when the cap pops off and nothing happens. At the other extreme, a gushing bottle indicates infection, wastes half the beer and stains your carpet.
For me, the best result of all is a wisp of vapour, rising like a smoke signal from the neck, persisting for a second or two as the beer breathes for the first time in an age. That's what I got with Total Bastard (11.1% abv), an as-yet unlabelled experimental brew from Sharp's of Cornwall. Perhaps the name's merely a working title - I certainly hope so.
A careful pour yielded a fizzing white head atop clear, amber-brown, liquid. Toffee apple and lovely booze hit my nostrils and set them on fire as I raised the glass. Snap, crackle and pop in the mouth. I enjoyed the indistinct but pleasing fruit flavours, coming forward with a burst of sweetness. The finish is fabulously dry. The yeast character, combined with the strength, reminds me of a Belgian trappist beer, with the proviso that this is a lot better than most of those. Total Bastard was devilishly drinkable and very enjoyable, if not enormously complex.
Thanks to Stuart Howe, head brewer at Sharp's (website) for providing this week's beer. He also sent us samples of Massive Ale, Honey Spice Wheat Beer, Single Brew Reserve 2007 and Chalky's Bite.
According to our latest poll results, 62% of you like pork scratchings. 24% agree with me, and recoil in horror when confronted with them. 13% are lucky enough not to have tasted the foul rinds.
In the pub, we've sold out of our first batch of scratchings. Based on that, it's my duty to put aside my own reservations and stock them permanently. Midlands Barmaid says she feels "vindicated".
You might find this t-shirt funny. If you do, you're entitled to your opinion. I won't judge you. You probably like this kind of thing too. It was on sale last week at the Great British Beer Festival. I doubt it came in sizes smaller than XXL.
Note to CAMRA organisers - don't let the twat who owns this t-shirt concession through the door next year. It's not necessarily offensive, just very, very sad. He makes you look bad.
Here's a shout out from mein freund in Deutschland, Andy Neil. He wants you to know he's only got a few places left on his 2008 Oktoberfest tours. If you want a hassle-free trip to Munich, email him. He'll sort you out with hotels, transport and tables in the tents. Available dates for his three day tours are 19-22, 23-26 and 26-29 September. See the Bier-Mania! website for more details.
Andy Neil's featured on this blog several times, not least in July 2007 when he took me on a week-long tour of Franconia. Together, we organised London's German beer fest in May. A former Army man, Andy set up Bier-Mania!, a tour operator, with his wife Evi a couple of years ago.
 "I've taken an executive decision and got us scratchings in". The snacks man had visited when I was down in the cellar, and purchases had been made without my consent. She tries to suppress that dismal Midlands accent, but there's no mistaking it: one of my barmaids is common as muck. Why else would she try and inflict such a foul, plebian foodstuff on our lovely, sophisticated clientele?
It took me a long time to realise I hated pork scratchings. It also took me a while to realise that that awful beard made me look like a total see-you-enn-tee, so the delay isn't too surprising. Put simply, eating pork scratchings will hasten the end of your life. Right after you open the packet and lift the grisly contents to your beer-soaked lips, take out your leather-bound organiser and put forward that meeting with Death.
The brand I'm now reluctantly selling is endorsed by CAMRA. What a surprise. Their beer festivals expose one to the most damaging of foodstuffs. Sadly, until we can empty that bloody bag, so does our little pub.
When the barmaid in question first heard about this blog, she said that she expected it to be full of angry diatribes about her and the chef. It took a while, but we've got there. Well done, love.
I give out so many nods and waves, it looks like I've succumbed to St Vitus' dance. So it is when I run errands along the local market street: the amount of pub regulars I encounter never ceases to amaze me. Every day I'm reminded of how untrue the myth of a faceless, unfriendly London really is.
Today, emerging from the bank, I spotted a bald-headed geezer I instantly recognised. Greeting him as a friend, though unsure of where I knew him from, we were soon in conversation. It was only then that I realised he wasn't an acquaintance at all. He was featured on Location, Location, Location a couple of years back, and his face had stuck in my mind. I asked him how his house on the Kent coast was working out. Very well, he said.
Obligatory link to beer: Location, Location, Location is co-presented by posh chubber Kirsty Allsopp. She's descended from Burton brewers, and a fully paid-up member of Britain's beerage.
 I promise you, I'm not making this up. I don't think my addled brain could have conjured up such a perfect trilogy. First, I reported on an abandoned Tennent's Super can, found in an EC1 backstreet. Then, in exactly the same spot, Carlsberg Special Brew.
Yesterday, as I passed by that storied step, a spent Skol Super lay prostate on the pavement. It poked its head from under a paper shroud, proudly claiming to be "a very strong lager of the highest quality".
Our phantom tramp seems determined to try every superstrength lager in Britain. Perhaps he's some kind of ticker. If I ever meet him I will shake the man by the hand. Then wash my hand. Several times.
Skol Super used to be 9.2% abv, but they've gone sissy and lowered that to 9%. It's brewed by Carlsberg UK in Northampton, like so many of Britain's worst beers.
When we arrived at the GBBF, my pal James was uneasy about my game plan. "We have to concentrate on the American beers", I insisted. "But won't they all just be horribly strong and totally unbalanced?", asked he. "They can't all be like that, stop being a loser", I replied. After grumbling his way through a Sprinbok burger, he relented and followed me to the array of casks at the international bar.
After starting with the woeful Cambridge House IPA - a tip from a gent in a clerical collar that tasted of rotten grapefruit - it didn't look pretty. Others just tasted of sugared, wet grass and alcohol. Just when we were about to give up, along came a real winner.
Victory Hop Devil is the best American IPA I've ever tasted. I'm pretty sure it's the best American beer I've tasted. Our cheek-puckering, palate-scouring session was worth it for the Victory alone. Throughout the day, I pressed it on others with utter confidence. It was my pick of the festival's delights*.
* But maybe not. Thornbridge Jaipur from Derbyshire just seems to get better every time I come across it.
 I get sent samples from brewers. That's good. I'm very slow to drink them. That's bad. You see, I'm a social, pub drinker. So here's the solution: I've been stashing the precious bottles in my pub's cellar, hidden from prying eyes and clumsy hands. From now on, I'll be cracking open beers I'm sent on Friday night, then writing about them here.
At around 9pm, everyone in the house had a drink in their hand and were well on their way to Friday night bliss. I sloped off downstairs. BrewDog Tokyo beckoned. It's a limited edition, 12% abv stout aged for a month with oak chips. There are only 2000 bottles in existence, and I'd been sent two of those by brewery MD James Watt.
A dramatic pour was needed to produce a brown head of fat bubbles. They quickly go pop leaving only a whisper of tan on the placid surface of the beer. I could tell a lot about the texture just by looking at it cascade from the bottle's neck - oily and lush. This is more interesting than your standard imperial stout, a style that's come to bore me a little. Instead of a simple bombardment of dark malt, bitter chocolate and coffee, you're also given a mouthful of fruit (assorted berries, methinks) and discernible hop character. It's also fabulously creamy in the finish - I love that.
After draining my snifter in the cool cellar, the fan kicked off noisily and reminded me of my duties up on deck. I took the rest of the beer with me and spread the joy. Lincoln Barman liked it, but then he likes caning anything - too much. Geordie Barmaid cautiously sipped away and seemed happy enough to finish her glass. One regular I gave a taste to couldn't get over how nice it turned out to be - he'd been a sceptic. Whenever I introduce anything novel and alcoholic to the pub, Luis the chef appears from nowhere to snatch it from my hand. Last night was no exception. "Is horrible - is worse than horrible!" was his verdict. You can't please everyone.
BrewDog is based in Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, Scotland. You can buy their beers - including Tokyo - on the brewery's website.
 Make no mistake about it, my Italian pals are very serious about beer. If you don't know that by now, you haven't been reading properly. Thankfully, they weren't wasting their time with notebooks and pens at the Great British Beer Festival. Instead, Manuele and the boys rampaged around Earl's Court in plastic Viking helmets and top hats.
Manuele introduced me to a fantastic Italian beer at the festival. Montegioco Draco from Piedmont is dark red and weighs in at no less than 11% abv. The contents of our 75cl bottle had been barrel aged, adding a sour edge to a spicy, yeasty brew. Lorenzo Dabove - better known as Kuaska - did the pouring. At one point, Podge pressed a glass of an Italian take on lambic into my hand too (I don't recall the name). As the co-author of LambicLand/LambikLand, you'd expect him to have plenty of opinions on a beer of that variety, but when I asked if he liked it, he said he hadn't decided yet. I didn't make his task any easier by necking half the glass before drifting off in an alcoholic haze. Beer from the scores of artisanal brewers in Italy aren't exported to Britain yet. I expect that to change very soon.
When it comes to beer and pubs, the news is often hard to bear. Not so today - check out this GBBF write-up on the BBC's website.
Maybe it was just because I was feeling fragile after my GBBF mission. Whatever the reason, when I made a snap decision to switch off the stereo, the pub became a much nicer place. In the lull between lunch service and evening trade, we're usually - but not always - very quiet. At 4pm yesterday, there were only three customers in the whole place. They didn't remark upon the silent speakers, nor did they get up and leave.
Our little Victorian pub, with its open and welcoming frontage, floral displays, tiny rooms and original wooden and flagstone floors, suddenly had the feel of somewhere far away from central London. When the place began to get busy a little later, no-one commented on the lack of tunes. We ended up having an unusually busy evening for mid-week. Groups that settled in for a drink or two stayed until late. More food was served than usual. The pub was far from silent - the chatter of voices, punctuated with laughter, is its own music.
 A wooden barrel that big can't be ignored. It stood at one end of the GBBF's international bar, set apart from the beers around it.
It was very early in the day. We'd opened with an agreeable snifter of Galway Hooker from central Ireland, before taking in Josef Greif Annafestbier for old time's sake. I'd met up with Podge, my good friend and fellow man of beery letters. We were discussing Around London in 80 Beers, his latest book, to which I'm pleased to have contributed a small section. That was when I saw the barrel. I needed to know what was inside of it, so bounded off. Alex Liberati of Brasserie 4:20 in Rome was behind the bar and came over to satisfy my curiosity. " It's very special, and very old", he said. Against my better judgement, I let him pour me a measure. Going by the name of Tsarina Esra, it's a product of Brouwerij de Molen in the Netherlands. Aged in the barrel from which it was served, it was oily, dark and immodestly potent (11% abv). It seemed even stronger than I'd expected, as intense heat crept out of the glass and down my throat. There was a touch of sweet sherry on the nose. I doubt that even the Tollund Man's doo-dahs tasted more peaty than this. My grandad smoked a wooden pipe. It reminded me of that. Not wishing to over-indulge so early, I tried to offload some of the viscous beauty on others. My wingman James thought it was "repulsive". Podge refused to take a sip, saving himself for later. I was on my own. That one beer gave me a flying start. My day had begun in earnest. I hugged a lot of people and talked far too much. Brouwerij de Molen (website) is the brewery responsible for Ron Pattinson's historical recreations, including the Whitbread Porter I tasted in March.
Predictably, I spent most of my time at the international beer bar. Almost as predictably, I didn't get on with most of the American beers I tried. Less predictably, I was so lashed on the way home that I bought Zoo magazine to read on the tube, something I've never done before. Presumably my drunken self wanted to ogle Gazza's daughter in the buff.
The Great British Beer Festival is on now at Earl's Court. It runs through to Saturday. For more details, see CAMRA's website.
Molested by a Swedish hangover, weary after very few hours of drunken sleep, I dragged myself across to the pub and awaited the arrival of the big green lorry. A 7am beer delivery wasn't welcome today. Our Brazilian cleaner (doesn't speak a word of English, I tell you) didn't give me any sympathy. The draymen were slightly more kind.
Last night my GBBF week began as I hosted a private party for Manuele Colonna and his crew from Rome. Manuele owns my favourite pub in the world, Ma Che Siete Venuti a Fa'. A horde of Italian beer nuts descended on our piccolo casa, mingling with my own chums. Fellow London bloggers Boak and Bailey and Krista joined in too. Between us we caned fresh casks of Landlord and this week's guest, Hopback Summer Lightning. The draught ales were the main attraction, but we also cracked open a case of bottle conditioned Hog's Back OTT, a 6% abv dark beer with a surprisingly sour, funky character. Manuele brought along a big bottle of a microbrewed Belgian saison (bugger me if I can remember what it was called, I don't take notes).
As the night progressed we added a few sambucas and tequilas to the mix (man cannot live on beer alone), while cranking the sound system up to maximum volume (sorry neighbours). When the tiny hours were upon us, a wayward young ladyfriend of mine led the Italian contingent off on a mission to Fabric. Myself and a vodka-infused barmaid stayed behind to clean up and close down ("I'll join you in the queue as soon as I've locked the doors" - yeah right).
I'll be seeing the boys from Rome again at the Great British Beer Festival's international bar, where they'll be working this week. The GBBF (website) kicks off on Tuesday, and runs through to Saturday. It's being held at Earl's Court in West London. I'll be there for opening session. I'll be wearing a polo shirt in a dashing Senatorial purple, and will have a big smile on my face. Say hello if you see me.
On Tuesday I'll be going to the Great British Beer Festival. As with last year, there'll be a range of cask-conditioned American beers on offer. If readers from the US could take a look at this list and give some tips on what I shouldn't miss, that'd be great (scroll down to the bottom of the linked page).
Around 15% of readers of Stonch's Beer Blog are from the USA.
 A barman shudders when he's asked to make a snakebite and black. Many refuse. Those that are willing will use the cheapest cooking lager, the nastiest draught cider. That's not possible in The Jerusalem Tavern, where Taddington Moravka and Aspall's Suffolk Cider are the only options.
Pictured right are two of our local village idiots, Weeks and Jonsy, enjoying their Friday night tipple. I took a sip. It was luridly pink and utterly foul.
Although we have a bash here in Britain, the Germans are masters of abusing beer by mixing it with other substances. In Pottenstein, we met a policeman who mixed the local beer with cola and kirsch before downing it from a litre glass.
It looks like Cain's of Liverpool really are heading for a fall. They've posted massive half-year losses of more than £6m. They were relying on the Bank of Scotland - their principal lender - to waive covenant breaches relating to certain loan facilities. It looks like the bankers have said no. On Friday the company's board requested a suspension in trading of its shares on the AIM. Fortune doesn't always favour the bold.
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