Gastronomy?

My last two posts have been about kebabs and burgers, but nevertheless I'm told this is now the seventh most influential "gastronomy" blog in the UK. That's very, very strange. The Wikia rankings are here.

Burger and chips

I've got a burger and chips hangover.

Yesterday, I did have about a dozen beer writers and twice as many microbrewers in the pub, so I had to show willing. Perhaps I showed too much.

I woke up today feeling pretty fresh. In our hearts we all know that's a precursor to the very worst kind of delayed hangover, but I kidded myself that I'd been granted a miraculous reprieve from my well-deserved punishment. I was ready to give up the booze-peddling and join the clergy, so grateful was I to have escaped the attentions of the morning-after demons. Alas, by two in the afternoon I felt absolutely dreadful.

So here I am, scoffing the least sophisticated thing on the menu. It's what I need.

Kebabs

There's a good article on the BBC website about kebabs. It reminded me of my profound disappointment on Friday night, when I was robbed of my weekly post-Betsey doner. Despite having a cast of thousands standing like mugs behind the counter, Rosebery Kebabs had run out of elephant's leg and fobbed me off with an effete sheek kebab. What a load of shite. It tasted like something you'd eat sober, rather than the nasty-but-nice drunken delight I was craving.

The lads at Rosebery are in the dog house, but it's still my favourite fast food joint in London. The global prize goes to Kebab Kid in Oxford. My man there wraps his dog meat and salad in naan bread. Genius. It's a fusion of Anatolian and Indian culture that Alexander the Great would be proud of.

Better red than dead

The new colour scheme has won a thumbs up from everyone who's been in. Perhaps they're just being polite. Percy the dog got very excited and started leaping all over the shop.

We've done the front of the pub, but we've only just started on the back room. It needs to be ready for Wednesday evening. We're hosting SIBA's South East AGM, so the pub will be full of brewers. Coincidentally, the committee of the British Guild of Beer Writers are also meeting here that day too. It's going to be a very beery day, but we're ready with a full cellar.

SIBA is the Society for Independent Brewers. The organisation was founded in 1980 as the Small Independent Brewers Assocation (hence the acronym). Among other things, its 400+ members participate in a reciprocal direct delivery scheme that helps to distribute quality beer across the country. Members range from tiny micros like Ascot Ales to large regionals like Fullers and Shepherd Neame.

Bar blogging

For the first time, I'm blogging from the end of the bar. I've had someone install wireless broadband in the pub (I don't know how to do stuff like that, and life's too short to acquire IT skills). I've got my laptop here. I'm typing. This could be the start of something beautiful between you and me. Sadly, I've got nothing to say. I'm drinking Bateman's XXXB from a tall, handled Birrificio Lambrate glass (my favourite drinking vessel). It's closing time. Good night.

Keighley

It was the most forlorn brewery visit you could imagine. On New Year's Day, we drove ahrough Keighley in West Yorkshire. We stopped by the Timothy Taylor plant. We peered over a metal fence. We saw a lorry and a lot of empty casks. There was no visitor's centre, no brewery tap - nowt. We got back in the car and drove away. I need to get a life.

The pub is RED

I've never decorated in my life, so tackling an entire pub was perhaps foolhardy. At first, my excuses for cutting corners were eminently plausible. Striving for perfection on a section of wall that's going to be permanently covered by a radiator, mirror or blackboard isn't really worth it. But as the day wore on and the sun went down, I started to be a little more slapdash. I chose not to make good some ropey work concealed by a door that's always open during trading hours. When the yawns set in, I was imagining myself employing extra staff simply to stand in front of my shoddiest finishes. Let's hope it looks alright in the morning.

Painting

We'll be painting the inside of the pub tomorrow. I've hated that horrible green since the day I took the place over, and because the paint job predates the smoking ban there's a hint of nicotine on the ceiling. While testing out a few different shades of red, we daubed the names of regulars on the walls, above the places where they normally sit. Pictured is Peter, enjoying a pint of Bateman's XXXB, the local paper and the baffled looks of passers-by.

Two things

Two things have been at the forefront of my mind over these last two days.

Firstly, the recession's really kicking in. A number of my regulars have been either made redundant or told an announcement is coming. It's dreadful for them (well, unless they hate their jobs and are getting a dirty big payout), and worrying for those like myself who rely on their custom. The chap who delivers our snacks - crisps, nuts and scratchings - reeled off a list of pubs and bars that he supplies that have gone out of business already. He's selling less of products at both the top and bottom end of his range: posh pubs are scaling back to appeal to newly cost-conscious customers, while low-rent boozers aren't doing any business at all.

The second thing that struck me is this: one of the Bush twins is really rather fit. Barbara, you're heavenly. An abundance of images like the one on the right would have made her dad's presidency far more appealing.

I wrote a post back in 2007 about beery heroes from the world of politics. Unsurprisingly, tee-total Bush didn't feature. I once worked in Parliament, albeit briefly. It was brilliant - the bars were really cheap.

An ale and mead fuelled musical revel

On Saturday 21st Feburary my pals from The Betsey will be holding their first ever music festival outside of the pub itself. Myself and some of my own staff will be helping to serve the ales and mead. The Magic Numbers are headlining. I hope you can come. Here's the flyer.

Oversized glasses

I'm experimenting with using oversized, pint-to-line glasses in the pub. Tom, the editor of What's Brewing, dropped off a couple of boxes last week when he held a meeting in our upstairs room. They're left over from the GBBF, so unfortunately they're covered in Shepherd Neame and Fullers branding, but they do allow us to serve full pints of ale without sacrificing a proper head. They're strange beasts, towering above our normal glasses on the bar. Customers seem happy enough, but am I going to regret the decision? After all, I'm now giving people more for their money than any other pub in the area. I must be mad.

CAMRA run a "take it to the top" campaign. I think it's unfair on the pub trade and should be stopped immediately. Is a flat pint preferable to a measure that's slightly short of a pint to allow for a proper head? I don't see how this can work in the North, where sparklers are used to produce a thick layer of creamy foam on top of the beer.

Litovel

A determination to drink decent lager in Britain has taken me to some strange places. Last year I visited Taddington Brewery high in the Peak District to enjoy Moravka at its source. I've even set foot in a dirty Wetherspoons - usually a no-no for me - to try Lučan. Thankfully, it isn't always so difficult to get my hands on a pint of something cold and fizzy that isn't utterly rank.

On Saturday night we stumbled across Litovel in The Reliance on Old Street (map). I've been aware of this one for a while, but can't remember ever trying it. It's imported from Moravia for a small group of London freehouses. Two versions were on sale. Dr. Robbles (remember him?) preferred the 4.2% "Classic", but I could detect a metallic twang. The 5% "Premium" was much better. The bar staff poured it properly, resulting in a thick, tight head that stood tall above the rim of the glass. The first sip transported me instantly to Central Europe. The diacetyl flavour (think butter) was unmistakably Czech. Then there was a firm beery body (because lets face it, most of the lager we drink in the UK doesn't taste of beer). To have drunk less than half a gallon would have been an insult to the brewmaster.

With a belly full of lovely, butterly Czech lager, we moved on to Cargo where Dryz was IDd by the bouncers, despite being only a few months shy of his 30th birthday. After much argument and assurances we were all the same age, they relented. After wading through a four-deep pile-up at the bar, I was pleased to see a nice, strong beer on sale: Innis & Gunn. I necked it straight from the bottle while my head throbbed with the kind of music I don't hear enough of these days. It was nice.

Before any of the geeks go apeshit, I'm not saying Litovel is an amazing, revelatory beer. I just happened to enjoy it on a night out. It's a lot better than most of the lager that gets sold in this country, and as it's available in a few good pubs in London I think it's worth writing about. In general, when I write about something in faintly flattering terms I'm not saying the beer or pub in question is da best in da world eva, innit.

Cricket

This morning chef found a live cricket in a box of Spanish salad leaves. He put him outside. The little chap has been clinging to the door frame ever since. It's started to rain heavily, but he hasn't even flinched.

John thinks we should kill him, just in case he's carrying a disease that will decimate Clerkenwell's delicately balanced ecosystem. Julia suggests bringing him inside in case he's cold.

I'm not sure what to do, but I'm determined not to get too stressed out about it. You can eat crickets, so we could put an insect-based dish on the menu as a starter or perhaps a light lunch. Apparently they taste of nuts and sunflower seeds when lightly fried. However, we'd only have enough for one portion, so it's hardly worth chalking it up on the board.

Overpriced

99p a pint? Not in these parts. I spotted this banner outside of the Wetherspoons outlet on High Holborn yesterday. Presumably Tim Martin thinks our local jakeys are particularly well-heeled.

Monday

When I made my escape from an office-bound existence, I thought that Mondays would stop being a day of misery. Not so. I'm denied a lie-in at the beginning of the week thanks to a beer delivery window that starts at 8am. If I'm even a minute late, I turn the corner to see the draymen about to drive away, threatening to leaving me beerless for the week. If I'm early, they don't arrive for hours.

The early start isn't the only thing that upsets me. Draymen can be clumsy. Because they're dealing with dirty big barrels of beer, the consequences can be spectacular. I wince as I watch each and every keg and cask come hurtling down through the hatch, before bouncing on an old crash mat and careering off toward something breakable.

After our disaster in June, I've tried everything to make the process foolproof, but it's no use. The fate of my cellar is in someone else's hands for ten minutes every week. I hate it.

Sharp's

The committee of the British Guild of Beer Writers organises a few trips each year. Basically, they're beanos paid for by breweries and PR firms. It's like being on a school field trip, except that almost everyone on the bus looks like the deputy headmaster. This week we visited Sharp's in Cornwall for a brewery tour, beer tasting and a whirl around the kitchen at Rick Stein's school in Padstow.

Stuart Howe, Sharp's energetic head brewer, took us around his big, white brewhouse. This is no micro: Sharp's was only founded in 1994, but already it's the South West's biggest cask ale brewer. Most of their output is Doom Bar, an enjoyable but unexciting 4% abv bitter. Recently, Stuart's been experimenting with stronger styles. The process began when the brewery partnered with celebrity chef Rick Stein to produce Chalky's Bite, named after his (now deceased) dog. I'll write about some of the beers we tasted after the tour tomorrow soon.

The photo shows Stuart holding forth as lots of writers scribble away. I'm not very good at being a proper journalist. I didn't have a pen, let alone anything to write on. Instead I decided to keep myself busy by taking photos. I didn't have a camera, so I used my mobile. Slick.

Hic

It's been a busy, boozy day in the pub today. It started with an early working lunch for the folks from Batemans, who were here to witness their XXXB go on as a permanent ale alongside Landlord. Today, for the first time, we offered four cask beers at once. In the evening my new wine merchant Andy held a tasting for regulars in the back room. He left behind lots of half-full bottles that are being caned in a slightly riotous atmosphere as I type.

Every cask tells a story

Beer barrels have long and eventful lives. Lots of those in circulation today bear the names of defunct breweries such as Whitbread and Ind Coope. I once handled a barrel of Hoegaarden that had travelled across the Atlantic and back again, judging by the US Surgeon General's warnings still attached to its face. I'd like to think there's a field somewhere near Burton-on-Trent where old kegs and casks are laid to rest, rusting away in the open air after decades of being thrown around warehouses, lorries and pub cellars.

Yesterday I took delivery of a cask filled with Tom Wood's Shepherds Delight from Lincolnshire. The barrel started life at Morrell's in Oxford. Morrell's went bust closed during my first year at university.

Brewing in Borough

They're brewing in Borough again. After a catastrophic systems failure last year (something to do with the electrics), the small micro plant at Brew Wharf closed for seven months. Now it's up and running again. Currently on offer are a Best Bitter and a seasonal: the very dark Winter Warmer. It's simple but lovely, and punches above its weight (4.5% abv).

While we sampled a couple of pints on Saturday afternoon, I spotted these two old boys. One enjoyed a flute of champagne, the other a pint of Pilsner Urquell in a tall, elegant glass. As different as they might be, the sparkling wine from France and the sparkling beer from Bohemia looked just right together.

Brew Wharf (website) occupies impressive premises on the edge of Borough Market in London. It's attached to Vinopolis, the wine museum. It opened in the autumn of 2005. The venue hosts a microbrewery, visible behind a glass screen in the restaurant area. I was pretty unkind about it last year, and stand by those comments. The prices are just too high across the board. Having said that, the attitude of the staff seems to have improved under the new manager.

What happened?

I've only been interested in quality beer for about five years. I've only been very interested in quality beer for about three years. Even in that short time, I've seen a lot of changes. InBev swallowing Anheuser-Busch was perhaps the most significant event for the global industry, but it didn't really effect me. It's the smaller things that have had an impact on my little world of hoonery.

Why did Sam Smith's stop selling Imperial Stout in their pubs? When I first developed a taste for excellent beer, the ability to order a natty little bottle of 7% abv magic in one of their many London boozers for a bargain price was an effing godsend. Back then, the comfort of a knockout beer was never far away in the urban jungle of London's Glittering West End. What happened? Bollocks to Woolies, give me my Imperial Stout back.

I think exclamation marks are pretty offensive. I considered using one at the end of that last sentence. I resisted. I stuck to my principles. I'm proud of myself.

Dance of death?

If you watched BBC News the other day, you'll have seen the splash about the decline of Morris dancing. Apparently it's going to die out within 20 years. I doubt it, somehow. George Alagiah smirked as he introduced the BBC's package, and so he should: it's hilarious to see grown men with ribbons on their tits, jumping in the air and banging sticks together. Like all folk traditions, Morris dancing survives because it's fun. That's why it goes down so well at beer festivals. The blokes doing it are enlivened by a few pints and their audience is well oiled (the presence of beardy middle-aged men helps).

Jason, a reader of this blog and regular at my pub, is a young(er) Morrisman. He's pictured here on the Sun's website (he's the bloke on the left). There's also a video of him and his chums in action on Youtube.

The Maltings

Perhaps we don't deserve to be rich in this country anymore. We don't make anything, after all. Take a look at a town like South Shields, where I grew up. The Victorian town hall, elegant parks and torch-bearing statuary leave no doubt: once upon a time, this place mattered. But the industrial era is over, so it doesn't anymore.

Well, we still make some things in this country. We still brew beer, locally and well. The Jarrow Brewing Company in business at The Maltings in South Shields since 2006. It's the first brewery in town for many decades.

There's a large bar above the brewery. Sadly, the plant itself isn't visible to drinkers. The interior design goes too far in trying to emulate the elegance of an old-fashioned pub. The glass display cabinets, framed pictures and wooden partitions crowd in on the island bar and create a claustrophobic feel in what could have been a much more relaxing place. Top marks for effort, though.

The beer is fantastic. I've rated Jarrow as a brewer since I first tried their beers here in London. In The Maltings I encountered Caulker for the first time. It's a golden, hoppy ale that doesn't let the side down. Rivet Catcher is the main event, and the brewery's most popular product. It's been named Champion Beer of the North East in the past, and I think Jarrow are unlucky not to have won the national award for this 4% abv golden bitter. It's smooth and clean tasting, but then there are very distinct fruit flavours too. It's one of those beers that doesn't need any improvement - a perfect recipe.

Jarrow Brewery has a basic website. The Maltings is at 9 Claypath Lane, South Shields, Tyne and Wear, NE33 4PG (map). It's very close to the town's beautiful town hall, but otherwise the location's a little grim. In other news, Coolio is the most irritating person Lucy Pinder's ever met.

Morrissey Fox Oz and James

Everyone's been asking me what I thought of the beery programme on telly last night. I think Neil Morrissey and Richard Fox were in it. I didn't see it. I'm much more excited about Waterloo Road returning to our screens in ten minutes. Neil Morrissey's in that too. If you have opinions about this programme I didn't see, let me know so I can bluff it out. Oh, and while you're at it can someone send me daily updates about Newcastle United? I can't bear that look of disappointment when I reveal I'm the only Geordie in the world who doesn't follow football.

UPDATE: I'm a dunderheed and no mistake. Apparently the programme in question was hosted by Oz Clarke and someone off Top Gear (as well as not following football, I'm also a non-motorist, so I've never heard of him). Waterloo Road was shit because Mika isn't in it anymore.

London's biggest brewery to close

InBev have announced this morning the closure of the Stag Brewery in Mortlake, West London. It's part of a wider restructuring of their UK operations. At the moment, American Budweiser is produced at the massive riverside site. It used to be home to Watney's, the defunct London brewing company associated with the very worst keg bitter.

Fingers in ears

It's been two years and three days since I started this blog. Since then, my life has changed immeasurably. But you don't want to read about that. The first post I wrote was about The Crown Tavern on Clerkenwell Green. It meandered all over the place, and ended up nowhere (the post, not the pub - the building's stationary). I've learned to be more succinct since then. I think that's a good thing.

I was in The Crown on Sunday night, with my pals John, Scott and young Percy the dog, who seems to have doubled in size over Christmas. I had a hankering for a few pints of Pilsner Urquell after seeing it in a movie I watched the other day (I Served the King of England, if you're interested). Product placement works for me, clearly.

There was a traditional folk session on upstairs in the Apollo Room, a space that was once used as a music hall. We were among the only spectators, but the chaps with the instruments seemed very happy anyway. A moustachioed gent in the classic denim tracksuit (shirt + jeans) sat astride the back of a sofa playing his fiddle, before leaping to the floor. He stalked around the group, asserting his status as alpha male among string-pickers. One enthusiastic wifey called out for a pair of spoons, then added a remarkable syncopation to the mix.

I'm not really sure whether the group were any good. I don't really care. However amateur it might be, this kind of finger-in-ear folk will always strike a chord with me. It reminds me of my childhood and how I first fell in love with pubs. My dad was a folk singer when I was young. We used to go to festivals as a family and stay in B&Bs. My mum would take me to see whatever sights the town had to offer (a few in Whitby, fewer in Rothbury), then we'd meet my well-oiled father and watch him sing in smoky pubs.

I learned how to pronounce Kirkcudbright. More importantly, I learned about the ineffable magic of the British pub when music and laughter fill the air and beer fills the glasses.

Forgive me for the hopeless photo. I never carry a camera, and when I want to capture a moment I have to use my mobile phone. The Crown Tavern is at 43 Clerkenwell Green, EC1R 0EG (map). They sell some excellent imported beers from bottle and keg, but the cask ales and the food aren't so hot.

We're open

There are pubs that get busy within minutes of opening time. The Royal Oak in Borough springs to mind. When the latch comes up on a Saturday, it's never long before the tables begin to fill and the bar is besieged. Well, we're not there yet. We do have a reliable regular - a photographer who looks a little like a shorter, grey-haired Pierce Brosnan - who likes to get in first, sink two pints, then get out before the lunchtime trade begins. Sometimes our first customer is Peter, who always rolls up on a bike. He perches at the end of the bar in the corner by the window. It's the most prized spot for regular drinkers, opened up since I sent that big nasty coffee machine off to the knackers yard.

For us, this is the first day of business for 2009. Although I'm not overcome with joy at the prospect of trading during a recession, I agree with Pete Brown: we need to stop talking about the "death of the pub". However bad the economy gets, I just can't see people giving up entirely on such an important part of their social life. Having said that, I think pubs geared toward those on lower incomes really are going to suffer. They're already dealing with the effects of the recession and the government's determination to price poorer drinkers out of the market via taxation. Now there's something else to worry about. Just this week Wetherspoons launched an audacious bid to monopolise the bottom end of the market by offering pints of ale and bottles of lager for 99p.

Selling beer at little more than cost price is unsustainable in the long run, so I can only imagine this publicity-grabbing gambit is aimed at killing off the competition. In areas where the chain has a presence (read: almost every urban centre) this might be the final nail in the coffin for businesses that we euphemistically call "community pubs". If that's something you care about, don't give Wetherspoons a penny of your earnings.

Yes, I'm back from my hols. The pub's open for business again, and so is this website. I had a fantastic break on Tyneside and in Yorkshire. I visited two Northern breweries and stood forlornly outside of another. I've been to loads of great pubs and drunk some fantastic beer. Oh, and in the early hours of New Year's Day I found myself locked outside in York in my underpants. It was very cold indeed. Least said, soonest mended.