Saint Mars of the Desert interview (video)

I chat with Dann and Martha about brewing in the USA and Yorkshire. And pissing on your own chips.

Leaving Boston

I rise just before nine. No rush has been my motto this trip.

The first thing I do is to ring reception to ask if I can check out later. I get a delay until 1 PM. That'll do. I've learnt that you have to ask for stuff. What's the worst that could happen? They could say no.

When I check in for my flight, I’m offered an upgrade to business class for 402 euros. Bit too rich for me, sadly. Though the thought of a flatbed is extremely tempting.

Time for some crap TV and lazing around in my trollies. What fun. I also polish off a couple of bottles of homebrew I was given. Leftover competition beers. I’m always wary of taking homebrew on a flight.

I realise that I'm on the 14th floor. But it jumps from 12th to 14th. So I'm really on the 13th floor. Weird how superstition still has a hold.

The plan for today is elegant in its simplicity: dump my bags in the hotel and wander down to Cambridge Brewing for a pint or 38.

It’s hot. Uncomfortably hot. Maybe sitting inside wasn’t the best decision as there’s no airco, only fans.

I remember meeting Todd Alstrom when I was over here with the family. We struggled to walk through the snow and ice I may have to move outside where at least there’s a breeze.

I’ve ordered a House Lager. Just 4.5%. But I did have quite a bit of hotel whiskey earlier. I don’t want to get too mad quite yet. My flight is after 8 PM.

House Lager 4.25% ABV
Cold. I’m happy about that. And not crazy. I’m definitely going off crazy beers unless they’re Imperial Stout. Or Imperial Mild.

It’s cool just to hang out for a bit with no aim, other than having a few beers. Back to the work shit tomorrow. Though where it will be, I’m not quite sure. All this shit I need to get done as in a week I’ll be in Madrid doing something I don’t understand.

Odd being probably the most prolific beer writer. Yet not a professional. As many assume I am. I need a fucking agent to sort the financial shit out.

Been really on top of the notes this trip. Both the scribbled stuff in the pub and electronic notes back in my hotel. I think I’m getting the hang of this. Finally.

Why do I feel so at home in the US? Easy. It was my home for 18 months. I know how shit works here. I made a conscious decision in 1987 to leave the US. Now I feel myself wishing six months or a year over here. Probably long enough to put me off again – as I remember all the reasons. Like hooking up with an old girlfriend and remembering why it all fell apart in the first time around. Wouldn’t stop me giving it another go, mind. The US, I mean, not an old girlfriend.

Fuck, the brewery is close to the bar here. With nothing inbetween. Just saw a brewer climbing into a mash tun just 5 metres away.

Wing Suit 4.5% ABV
Session IPA with rye. Fuck, that’s cloudy. I’d have sent it back a couple of years ago. But I guess anything goes now. It smells like the mango and orange juice mix I used to drink in Melbourne. Just cloudier. Weirdly savoury in the mouth. I’m dead confused.

I had a weird and very complicated dream this morning involving a murder disguised as suicide and confusion over pills. Yes, that is with a double “L”. I never did manage to understand what was going on. Which is sort of a metaphor for my life.

“Didn’t you just murder someone?” I asked someone who knocked at my door.

“Yes.”

Just weird enough not to be really scary. The victim looked like someone I worked with in Leeds in the 1980s. Not totally convinced by the murderer’s attempts to recreate realistic blood splatter. And why was my niece Jackie running down the cycle path on all fours?

Why do I write? I always have since I was a child. Sort of a compulsion. And who I am. Being a writer – other than hanging around on the dole – was the only thing I ever aspired to. For a long time, I never thought it would happen. Then I discovered writing about beer and pubs.

I need some food. Only had a few mouthfuls of yesterday’s leftover sandwich. What to have? Chicken quesadilla or a fried chicken sandwich? After changing my mind about a dozen times, I go for the latter.

The sandwich isn’t bad. And handy for later. Don’t want to rely on the food on the plane. It’s often shit.

Back at the hotel, I retrieve my bags and get a cab. Amazingly, this one seems to take me by the most direct route to the airport. There’s a first. Boston’s taxis must be the worst in the First World. Maybe in all three worlds.

As I’ve some time before boarding, I have one double Jim Beam, no ice, in a bar. Just the one. Out of a sense of tradition.

With my pushing on boarding I’m soon sinking into my seat. The one next to me is handily unoccupied. Perfect for dumping my stuff on. I watch a little stuff on the entertainment system. But not for long. I need to get a good kip. Because I’ll be working as soon as I get home.

I soon drift off into a surprisingly deep sleep.




Cambridge Brewing Company
1 Kendall Square,
Cambridge,
MA 02139.
Tel: +1 617-494-1994
https://www.cambridgebrewingcompany.com/

Sunday in Boston

I awake feeling quite knacked. The last few days have taken their toll. Way too much standing around.

There’s still no wifi. This is starting to get really annoying.

I drag my bags up to Providence Station. A group of young Russian men overtakes me. I really am becoming a feeble old twat. Especially if hills are involved. Really can’t cope with inclines no more. I genuinely have no inclination to climb. I blame the Dutch for being too cheap to build any hills.

The station surprisingly crowded. I try to buy a ticket.

"A one way to South Station, please."

"Is that on the MBTA?"

"Yes."

"Then you need to get the ticket on the train."

When the train comes in, it's half a dozen double-decker cars. Which seems a bit overkill, given how few people were on the train out. And that was a weekday.

How wrong I was. The train is mobbed. I'm lucky to get a seat. Who are all these people? I can spot some who had obviously been at the conference, based on their T-shirts or Briess bags. But there are also lots who look like students.

I’m an early boarder and can grab myself a seat and space for my bags. Others aren’t so lucky. There’s a constant back and forth of seat seekers.

Why are passengers only allowed to board via a couple of doors on US trains? Seems a crazy way to operate. Especially on a crowded train like this one. Makes it much more difficult to distribute everyone evenly. And longer to board. Much about American train travel seems weird to European eyes. Not just the skeletal service and ancient rolling stock.

The ticket costs me $10, while on the way out it was $11.50. I’m going slightly further, too.

There's a reason I'm headed to South Station: there's a direct connection on the T to Kendall station. Which is right next to my hotel. I don't want to take a taxi here if I can avoid it. Boston taxi drivers angry me up something crazy.

I check in and rest up a little in my room. And drink some of the beer I've accumulated. My plan for later? Mead Hall and maybe CBC. They're the reason I chose this hotel. No point making your life more complicated than necessary.

I wander along to Mead Hall. There’s some Jaque D’Or artwork on the wall still. Cool – Pretty Things aren’t forgotten.

I’ve started with a session beer:

Captain Lawrence Cookie O’Puss Imperial Stout
It’s black as fuck, but just 8% ABV. Just barely a Double Stout, really.

So glad to be here again. One of my favourite US beer bars. Sorry. I should be telling you about the beer. Thick and roasty, as black as Trump’s stubbed toenail. Not bad at all. If that appears faint praise, it isn’t.

This is a decompressing day. Calming down on my own after a hectic conference. Which was fun, but involved way too much standing.

Since passing 60, I’ve noticed my body can’t take as much craziness as even when I was a spritely 50-something. Listening to my body’s complaints and slowing down are important if I want to hit 70 in good nick, let alone 80.

Not sure I want to do so many US trips in such a short space of time again. Knackering and I’m not sure that I appreciated them all. Though I still probably wouldn’t change anything.

I’ve not eaten anything today so far and it’s 5 PM.  Unless you count beer as food. I really should have something solid. The wild boar meatballs are tempting. So I order them.

They aren’t joking when they write “small plates”. I’m fine with it, mind. Don’t want to occupy too much valuable beer space with useless ballast.

I was fascinated to learn that the wild boar in the USA were originally domesticated European pigs that escaped and reverted to feral form.  How does that work?

I had been thinking that bringing my coat was a waste of time. But it’s been raining here today and the temperature has fallen quite a lot. It’s actually quite pleasant at the moment. Though it hasn’t been that bad anywhere so far. Not like the hell that was North Carolina.

The bloke next to me chomping on a burger just dropped some of his cutlery on the floor. And didn’t bother picking it up. He wasn’t using it, but I would never have let it lie like that. Been raised better than that.

The wild boar meatballs were very nice, but a bit skimpy for $15. I’m tempted to order more food.

Schilling Fall of Babylon 9% ABV
Stronger, but in a smaller measure. Wings and throundabouts. More burnt and less rich than the last one. Odd, as it’s stronger.

I get another one. Probably my last here. I’m starting to fade, though it isn’t late. The disadvantage of being an old twat.

The list is very heavy on IPA and sour beers. I’ve seen much worse, though. How dangerous must it be to update that draught beer blackboard? It’s up pretty high. And it doesn’t look as if it’s detachable.

I don't stay out that late. I have just the three beers. Though they are all Imperial Stouts.

I start feeling a bit peckish. Rather than get room service, I run down to the hotel's restaurant and get a carry out pulled pork sandwich. It comes with a big pile of chips. That's OK. I've eaten fuck all while I've been over here. I've only had a handful of proper meals.

Enough of a whisky sledgehammer remains to pat me into deep sleep.



Meadhall
4 Cambridge Center,
90 Broadway,
Cambridge,
MA 02142.
Tel: +1 617-714-4372
https://themeadhall.com/

Providence express

I don’t get up too late. I’m speaking at 15:15.

A train from Back Bay station at 10:30 will get me to Providence by 11:40. Sounds perfect. I should be checked into my hotel and have my bags dumped by 13:30.

I risk another taxi. The station is close enough for there to be little scope for cheating. And it’s virtually in a straight line. But you never know in Boston.

Getting to Back Bay station 45 minutes before the train leaves me time for a breakfast sandwich just down the street. At a health foody sort of snack place called B.GOOD. But they have exactly what I’m after: an egg, bacon and cheese sandwich. A suitably bacony start to the day.

Back Bay station is a bit gloomy, being underground. Which isn’t unusual in the US. Especially city stations. They do have some nice old photos of stations in the region. While I’m waiting an Amtrak train rolls in on the opposite platform. Looking exactly like all the other Amtrak trains I’ve ever seen. They must have built a shitload of those carriages.

The carriage of the MBTA train I’m taking looks 50 years old. At least. And is virtually deserted. Neither good signs for the future of public transport here. It’s not the oldest and tattiest carriage I’ve ridden in the US. That honour goes to a New Jersey Transit train I took with the family some years back. Totally fucked, that was, with big splits in the upholstery..

Unlike the New York to Philadelphia route, there is at least some stuff that passes for countryside. Not just rotting factories interspersed by the odd patch of trees.

Providence station is a modern, but dreadfully bland, concrete affair. Located reasonably centrally. Unlike Atlanta’s Amtrak station, which is two states over. It’s only a few minutes’ walk to my hotel. All downhill. I’d forgotten how hilly Providence is. Especially compared to Amsterdam. Though even Newark is hilly compared to Amsterdam.

I get checked in and stroll over to the convention centre. People start coming up to say hello before I've even registered.

As soon as I have my lanyard and glass, I head into the main hall in search of beer. It doesn’t take much effort to find some. Surprise, surprise: it’s an IPA of some description.

I’ve time for a few more beers before showtime. And to chat with various random people.

It’s one of the biggest audiences I’ve spoken to. I get some pretty good laughs. And do quite a bit of swearing. I bash it out in exactly 45 minutes. Hurrying along at breakneck speed. 58 slides is a lot to get through in under an hour.

David Lavery comes up to chat when I’m done. I met him a few years back in Colonial Williamsburg and we’ve been corresponding by email. I’ve brought along a couple of books for him.

Back in the exhibition hall Kristen England rumbles noisily up and is his usual snarky self. The personality might still be neon, but his socks toned have down 40 or 50 shades since Chile. That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to be blinded.

Stan Hieronymus joins us. He missed my talk because he was judging. Rather him than me. Three full days of judging in Chile took the shine off it for me.

I bump into more people: Doug Piper, Brad Smith, Pablo from White Labs and many others.

I notice Horst Dornbusch seated nearby. I don't go up and say hello. What could I say? “Hi, you fucking charlatan.” That wouldn’t get me anywhere. And I prefer to avoid unnecessary conflict. Even on the internet, nowadays.

We watch the keynote speaker. The audience is ginormous.

David, Stan and I decide to climb College Hill towards Brown University to get some food. On the way we pass the Union Station brewpub, which is, unsurprisingly, totally mobbed with a queue of conference attendees queueing to get in.

Climbing the hill isn’t great fun. I’m really unused to hills. Still, it’s more pleasant than last time I came this way, when I was here with the family. That time it was freezing cold and snowy.

There are some lovely mansions on the way up. Some in typically ornate late Victorian style. Others which look considerably older.

Finally, we get to the top. Where we plump for a Mexican place, Baja's Taqueria. I order a rather nice burrito with some sort of roasted pork. Dead tasty. I don't eat it all, saving half for later.

Final event for today is for pro night. Where I meet loads of other people I know. Averie Swanson, James Czar (who hosted me in Cincinnati last year), John Mallett, Chris from Maryland Homebrew. It’s good to see Averie again. We met in Chile in 2017. I’d been expecting to see her when I was at Jester King earlier this year, but she’s moved on.

John Mallett suggests I do something at Bells in Kalamazoo. I'm up for that. Crazy name, dead cool brewery, someone I really like. That's a whole stack of wins.

I don’t stay out too late. Back in my room, I finish off my burrito. It still tastes ace.

Even the aching of my feet can’t stop me running headlong into sleep. Especially with a following wind of whisky.




B.GOOD
131 Dartmouth St,
Boston,
MA 02116.
Tel: +1 617-424-5252
https://www.bgood.com/


Baja's Taqueria
229 Thayer St.,
Providence,
RI 02906.
Tel: +1 401-808-6141
https://www.bajasrestaurants.com/

Boston bound

It’s been a few years since a spoke at the NHC, the big home brewing conference in the US. Back in 2014.

I don’t want to go into why it’s taken me five years to return.

A short but crazy trip, as Dolores would describe it. Especially due to a lack of revenue generation.

“It’s just costing us money.”

“But it’s good exposure for me.”

“It’s still costing us money. When will you finally make a profit out of this beer shit?”

I’ve no answer to that one.

I’m in no rush. My flight is quite late, not until 5 PM. Giving me loads of time to doss around, watch Homes under the Hammer and finally pack my bags.

Not too much to pack this time. No books and no beer. And only clothes for five days. My trolley bag is alarmingly light. I worry that I must have forgotten something. Something dead important. I haven’t. I’m sure of that after checking for the third time.

Just as I’m about to leave, I notice that the flight has been delayed by an hour. Due to “technical difficulties”. Slightly worrying on a couple of counts. A bit of the plane is broken. And who knows how long it will take to fix. Glad I spotted that. Time for another cup of tea.

I’ve encountered delays before that were like a creeping barrage, but less fun. Starting off as an hour, but advancing another hour every hour. Finishing up as a 5 or 6 hour delay. I’ve no connecting flight or appointments but I can do without multiple extra hours being added to my journey time.

Bit of a panic at Haarlemmermeerstation when I realise that the 397 has been diverted again and isn’t stopping there. I get the 62 one stop to Olympic stadium and pick up the 397 there instead.

There’s just one dodgy taxi driver hanging around the bus platforms. His heart doesn’t look fully in it. The cries of “Taxi!” are quite subdued. It is a bit hot. I think the heat is getting to him. And the minimal interest from potential punters.

I panic a little at the landside Albert Heijn when I can’t find an omelette and bacon baguette. Luckily, there’s one left. I’m a creature of habit. It reassures me in places of uncertainty. As airports always are. Whisky helps, too.

I love having pushing in boarding. Even though it’s fairly quiet today. Midweek, I guess. And not quite school holidays. Checking in my bag and security only take a few minutes.

Dolores had a €5 discount coupon for Schiphol duty free. Meaning I can get a litre of 10 year-old Bowmore for €35. Result. I only get three Famous Grouse miniatures this time. More cost-consciousness. And liver preservation.

They must expect people to be drinking miniatures in the airport. You aren’t supposed to take them on a plane. What else could you do with them? Pour them down the bog? I’m not complaining, mind. Way cheaper than a bar.

This time the flight is from Pier E. Freeing me of the temptation of the Murphy’s pub, which is on Pier D. With the warnings from Dolores on spending still firmly lodged in my skull, I would have passed, anyway. That’s easy to tell myself, knowing temptation to be out of reach.

A father, holding two small boys, explains what a baggage train is. “It’s OK honey, he’s just getting heavy.” He explains to his wife. The joys of fatherhood.

It’s fucking hot here for an airport. Maybe I should just drink my last miniature. That should cool me down, shouldn’t it?

I’m struggling to open it. Reminds me of that time in Ebermannstadt. Waiting for the Schoolkid Express and frantically trying to unscrew the top of my impulse Schnapps. All the time sweating profusely. So many happy memories of crafty spirit drinking.

A Belgian woman has the seat next to me on the plane. At least that’s what I guess, based on her accent. Not one of the really crazy ones so it’s possible she’s from just this side of the border.

I watch a couple of films, but the selection isn’t great. That’s the downside of KLM-operated flights. Far worse entertainment options than on Delta flights. I flip out my laptop and watch some episodes of Taskmaster instead.

As well as my flight being delayed an hour, we wait 45 minutes on the tarmac for a gate. At least immigration isn't too bad. Probably because it isn’t that busy.

I feel that anxiety again when my bag doesn't appear immediately. Am I at the right carousel? Yes, I can see AMS on the bags gliding past. Has my bag been lost? No. Eventually my rather tatty grey trolley bag pops out. Phew.

I grab a taxi and we're soon weaving our way through Boston's motorway labyrinth. Where the fuck are we going? We seem to have gone much further west than my hotel. Why the hell are we heading out to Boston College along the River Charles?

The cheating bastard hasn't taken the shortest route. I hate Boston taxis. Some of the least reliable in the US. I’m too tired to make a fuss. Instead, I silently fume in a very English way.

It's 10 PM by the time I've checked into my room. I had planned on going out for a beer and something to eat, but I'm too knacked. Instead I go to a nearby 7 11 and get a sarnie and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.  What a glamourous life I lead.

The hotel isn’t the most fancy. Pretty basic, really. But the prices for this night were totally ridiculous. This was the only vaguely affordable option anywhere central. On the way back I’ll be staying in a far nicer hotel for less than half the price. And in a much better location.

I don't stay up late. I need to be up fairly early tomorrow to catch a train. Wouldn’t want to be late for my own lecture.

Given my level of knackeredness, stumbling into sleep isn’t a problem.

Book tour day twelve - farewell to Boston

It's my final day in the US. My schedule is completely empty. What to do? I think you can guess.

I'm done with Boston taxis. I decide to take the T everywhere today. I start by walking to the tram stop closest to my hotel. Luckily my monster bag is lighter than when I arrived in the US. With all the presents I brought distributed, it's just full of dirty clothes and af ew bottles of beer.

Cambridge is where I'm headed. To another of my favourite pubs, Meadhall. It's in the bit of Cambridge dominated by MIT and related industries. Plenty of people here with a few bob in their pockets.

I nip into the Coop before Meadhall. To buy some last-minute presents for the kids. I get Lexie an MIT T-shirt and Andrew a book about WW I. I know he'll like that and he needs a new book now he's finished the one about the Zulu War.


Why do I like Meadhall? It's not just the beer selection, though that's pretty good. No TV's is what really makes it for me. Plus the food is tasty. And it's pleasant, airy space.

I continue my IPA theme. I start off with a Flower Power, then move on to All Day IPA. Let's see if I can do that name justice. I've several hours before my flight. Don't want to get legless.

I've mentioned on Twitter that I'll be spending the afternoon in Meadhall.

"Are you Ron Pattinson?"

"Yes."

My god. Someone has come looking for me. His name is Aleszu. He has some questions for me which I'm happy to answer. I always am. Very obliging chap, I am.

I realise this is the first proper drinking session all trip. I slurp dowm multiple beers over a few hours and feel that warm fuzziness creeping up on me. I finish off the All Day IPA and have to move onto something a bit stronger. It's a pity they have no Dark Mild.

Taking the T to the airport is much less trouble than I anticipated. That's the last time I'll be taking a taxi to/from Boston airport.

My flight is overnight and as much of a pain as it always is. I get about 3 minutes sleep before I give up and go back to watching a film. I can't wait to get home.









The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer
http://www.amazon.com/Home-Brewers-Guide-Vintage-Beer/dp/1592538827


Meadhall
4 Cambridge Center,
Cambridge, MA 02142.
Tel: +1 617-714-4372
http://www.themeadhall.com/

Book tour day eleven - back in Boston

I'm flying from Ronald Reagan National Airport, which means I can take the subway there. I just need to change once.

There has, indeed, been 6 inches of snow overnight. But it isn't that cold, just about freezing. There's not a huge amount of disription and flights seem to be operating normally.

As I'm already checked in, I only need to drop off my bag. But the US Airways bag drop off is pretty chaotic. I end up queueing with everyone else. It's a bit crap, really. As I've plenty of time. - and my flight is delayed - I've plenty of time. Even the security check doesn't dishearten me too much.

I've time for a beer, and a whiskey, before my flight. So why not, eh? I've hardly drunk a drop the last couple of days. It's an odd feeling, knowing that the business part of the trip is over. There'a a strange void. What should I do?

Boston is a great town. I always have a good time here. It just has one tiny little fault: the taxis are crap. As we pootle along through various tunnels, I suspect we're not going the shortest. My suspicion is confirmed when we emerge into the light. We're down by a part of the bay not between the airport and my hotel. Cheating bastard. The driver doesn't get the usual tip.

Ensconced in my hotel room, I email Dann and Martha, asking if they fancy a beer or two this evening. They suggest Deep Ellum. I don't need any persuading. It's one of my favourite pubs, nit just in Boston but the whole USA.

Given my hatred of Boston taxis, I consider walking there. But it's just a little too far. Bugger. I'll have to take a cab.

The taxi driver just about speaks English, or something vaguely resembling it. He hasn't heard of Cambridge Street. It's only one of the city's main thoroughfares. He tries to set off in the wrong direction until I point him the right way. He guarantees me the fare won't come to more than $13. That's reassuring. Unlike his knowledge if the city.

True to his word, the journey costs less than $13.

Dann and Martha are already inside. I'm surprised how awake they look. They had an early start (a very early start) and have been brewing at Buzzards Bay all day. For once, the brewday went like clockwork.

We eat a little cheese and sausage. And chat about beery topics. I keep thinking that there's something I should be doing, somewhere I should be. The trip has been so busy, that's been the case most of the time. I've nothing to do but sip, talk and eat. So much leisure is disturbing.

I don't make Dann and Martha stay out late. I appreciate them making the effort to come out at all. Martha calls me an Uber cab. So much more pleasant than normal taxis. The drivers even seem to know their way around the city.

Just one day left. A totally free day in Boston. What will I do?







The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer
http://www.amazon.com/Home-Brewers-Guide-Vintage-Beer/dp/1592538827


Deep Ellum
477 Cambridge St,
Boston, MA 02134.
Tel:+1 617-787-2337
http://www.deepellum-boston.com/


Buzzard's Bay Brewing Inc
98 Horseneck Rd.,
Westport, MA 02790,
Tel: +1 508-636-2288
http://buzzardsbrew.com

Book tour day two - Boston still

Unsurprisingly, given my state of knackeration, I slept well that first night. But more importantly I woke up at the right time.

I'd a breakfast appointment with Dann and Martha. They took me to a diner in Somerville for exactly the breakfast I needed. The type of egg and bacon combination that always gets the day off to a good start. That and lots of coffee.

I've pretty much abandoned breakfasting in American hotels. It rarely comes included and a diner always trumps it for atmosphere, price and often quality, too. There's something I love about American diners, and I'm sure it's not jsut a false nostalgia engendered by film and TV. Just like London cafes, they offer a glimpse into daily life and daily lives. And they sell bacon. What's not to like?

Bellies full, we dropped by the Pretty Things office, also in Somerville. We needed to pick up the stuff for that evening's 1955 Brown Ale launch at the Independent, located just around the corner. Then on to the Independent to start setting up. Decorating tables, hanging up banners, that sort of thing.

A love of dressing up is one of Pretty Things' best features. Once again, they didn't disappoint. Dann has a particular knack for getting the facial hair spot on. I think you'll agree that this was another triumph:

Made me wish I'd got a costume, too.

We didn't idle around listlessly before the evening event. Dann filled the afternoon with and industry event in their office. Where, as a special treat, there was cask Double Brown. Sorry all you craft fan boys, but, once again, here was proof of the superiority of a well-handled cask over keg. It wees all over it. Every day of the week, every month of the year.

Pulled through a sparkler, both the head and carbonation level were spot on. It's not just in flavour where cask is a clear winner. It's also in drinkability. The higher temperature and lower carbonation help it ease its way down your neck almost unnoticed. A few pints quickly evaporated as I chatted with old friends and new acquaintances. There would be little time for chatting later on.

The evening in the Independent was busy, loud, slightly anarchic, but loads of fun. Given the crowds, noise and general boisterousness, it was just as well I really did say just a few words. My shortest talk of the tour by at least an hour.

I'm so occupied by signing books and chatting to punters that it's only when I'm back in the hotel that I realise I forgot to try the other Pretty Things beers being launched, Grampus. A double-mash monster of a beer. Then again, given the length of the day, sticking to the modestly-strengthed Double Brown perhaps wasn't such a bad idea.

Having an early start the next day, I didn't stay up late. We were all off to New Yotk City for more events, more beer and hopefully lots more fun. We'll find out how that went next time.





The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer
http://www.amazon.com/Home-Brewers-Guide-Vintage-Beer/dp/1592538827





The Independent
75 Union Square,
Somerville
Tel: 617 440 6022
http://www.theindo.com/

Book tour day one - Boston

Just as well my plane was on time and the queues at immigration short. Because my first appointment was a mere two hours after my scheduled touchdown.

Arival at Boston ran perfectly smoothly. Unlike departure from Amsterdam. Mistaking my natural sweatiness for anxiety, I got nearly the full security works. It stopped just short of getting my grillox out. Dontcha just love air travel?

I had enough time to unpack my undies, log on to the internet and catch my breath a little before Dann and Martha (of Pretty Things) picked me up and whisked me off to the radio studio. Where I was set to appear on Digradio's Good American programme.

http://thegoodamericancollective.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-good-american-radio-show-feat_8.html

It was my first radio appearance, but, having done plenty of podcasty things and Skype interviews, nothing too daunting. We chatted a bit about our latest collaboration: 1955 Whibread Double Brown. A beer I kept telling everyone was in my book, The Homebrewer's Guide to Vintage Beer, until I realised it was one of the recipes I'd had to cut for space reasons. Whoops. It was a couple of days before I twigged.

I was dead pleased when Dann suggested spending the evening in Deep Ellum. I'd feared I might not have the chance to drop by one of my favourite bars in the US. Especially as they had the 1955 Double Brown on tap. We'd cracked a bottle during the radio show, but I'd only got a couple of mouthfuls.

It was packed. Which I guess is a good sign. It was Friday night, after all. We had to wait for a table, trying not to get too much in the way of the waiting staff.

My only complaint was the mood lighting. I struggled to read the beer menu. Not that I tried much (anything? I can't remember) other than the 1955.

By the end of the evening I was stuggling with fatigue, too. But I managed to prop my eyes open until 23:00 or so. Then off for a well-earned kip. In preparation for a busy day.






The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer
http://www.amazon.com/Home-Brewers-Guide-Vintage-Beer/dp/1592538827



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Boston brewday

Not Boston, really, but Westport. This is a short film put together by Martha about the brewday of 1939 Younger's No. 1.

Boston

Westport, really, I'm going to talk about today. It's a small, rural community down in the south of Massachusetts, close to the border of Rhode Island. It's where Pretty Things do their brewing, in a building that looks, from the outside, like a shingled barn.

It's not like that inside. There, its industrial purpose (and construction) are obvious. Even without all the shiny stainless steel that defines modern brewing kit. As I've said before, the new generation of breweries are similar across the world, with their conicals stretching to the ceiling.

Last week me and Andrew accompanied Dann and Martha there for a brewday. A very special brewday. One I've waited long for. Finally, finally, I'd persuaded someone to brew a William Younger's recipe. And not just any old beer. Younger's No. 1, the definition of a Scottish Strong Ale. Or Strong Scotch Ale. Whatever you care to call it.

There was another brewer along for the day. Jeff Biegert, from New Belgium, a brewing buddy of Dann's from way back. There was a special reason he came along. A reason closely connected with the beer itself. And something typical of Younger.

Scottish brewers were never big users of sugar, but there was one adjunct they embraced wholeheartedly: maize. Mostly in the form of grits. And what do grits mean? A cereal mash.

"You can use flaked maize if you want, Dann." I told him, expecting him not wanting to fiddle around with a cereal mash. Not only didn't he mind, he positively wanted to give it a go.

"I've only done one once, years ago. I'd like to give it another try."


It turns out that Dann's one cereal mashing experience had been shared with Jeff. So he decided to invite him down for the brewday.

Maybe it was partly for the help. Help carrying sacks of grits up to the brewing stage. Oh no. Memories of Beau's and the sack upon sack of oats the poor brewers had to lug up to the mash tun surged back up the drainpipe of my mind. I really should try to pick more brewer-friendly recipes.

The malt was mashed first. That safely done, it was time for the cereal mash.

Once all the grits were in the Lauter tun and mixed with hot water, the anxiety began. Would the grits convert. We kept taking out a little and tasting it, to see if it was turning sweet. I can see why they're called grits. They've got a very gritty texture, especially at the start of the process. Little seemed to be happening at first, and Dann became ever more nervous. After a few samples we wondered: is it getting sweeter? Is it converting?

No need to fret. The mash sweetened and it was obvious there were no problems with conversion. Not that I'd been worried. Then again, it wasn't my money on the line. Or about to be poured down the drain. The wort from the grits was pumped over to join the rest of the mash and we were done. Mashing, at least.

Being there during brewing was handy. I could do my throwing in hops thing. But also me and Dann could discuss the hop additions, even as the boil was underway. We settled on 20 minutes for the last one. A slightly arbitrary decision, but one based on the practices of the period. (I haven't mentioned that yet, have I, the period? 1939. That's when the original beer was brewed.)

The hopping wasn't the end of my contribution. Though I know from analyses that No. 1 was a dark beer, the grist contained nothing darker than a little crystal malt. As brewed, the wort was a pale amber, way paler than the finished beer should be. I know how they got the colour: caramel. Scottish brewers loved colouring up their beer with caramel. Dann added a little caramel at a time, and brought back samples for me to look at.

"Is this dark enough, Ron?"

"Naah, needs to be darker than that. Think Dark Mild."

"About the colour of Old Peculier?"

"That's the one."

Makes me feel much more deserving of my name in the credits, having made that contribution.

The 1939 Younger's No. 1 is currently bubbling away in a conical. I can't wait to try it.

Back from Boston

I'm just back from a week in cold and snowy Boston. Lots of fun, but the weather was a bit limiting. Very busy, too.

I drank a random selection of Pretty Things stuff, Stouts, a few IPAs, beers people gave me and whatever looked decent in whichever pub I was in. Met old friends, made new ones and generally had a good time. I even spent a few hours with the family.

But I'm not here to talk about my time in Boston. Well, not directly.

We'd been advised that the Coop on Harvard Square was the cheapest place to buy Harvard stuff. But mostly it sells books.  I couldn't resist taking a look at the beer section.

And there was really a section. Even though it was labelled "Wines and Spirits", there were a decent number of books. About 30 times as many as you'll find in a large German bookshop. Mostly American stuff, but some by British authors.

It gave me a chance to take a look at some books I'd heard about, but not seen. You can probably guess what's coming next. I had a simple way of checking their accuracy: look at what they said about the history of IPA, Porter, Stout and Mild.

I'm not sure what's more depressing: the errors or the fact that they all repeated the same ones. I don't think anyone had researched any further than the BJCP guidelines.

There was one unique to a single book. Something about Russian Stout, saying that it was really a type of Barley Wine and not a Stout in the modern sense at all. Quite an impressive garbling of history. Mixing up the stories of Burton Ale and Russian Stout.

I'm pretty sure it was in "The Complete Joy of Homebrewing" by Charlie Papazian. But I'm not sure, because I looked at 8 or 10 books. Does anyone own a copy? If you do, could you send me the passage in question? It's not that long.

Boston and snow

What a pain in the arse the weather has been here in Boston. Snow, lots of it, Wind,  scarily cold. Needles of snow jabbng your skin,

Just crossing the road, it was.

That's Dolores and Lexie walking back from the shop. I would have gone with them. But I don''t do shopping, Unless it's for beer.

Scary that I can  name more friends in Boston than Newark. Bloody Lincolnsire.

The big event is just two days away - my book-signing in Meadhall. Do come along if you're in the area,

I'll be shelterig until tomorrow.

Bloody snow.