Museums

I rise at 8:45. I'm such a good boy, me.

I have time to write up yesterday before the kids get up. It starts pissing it down just as Alexei rises.

"I guess that rules out visiting Niagara Falls." Alexei says.

“Correct. I don’t fancy a day of getting wet.” I reply.

“You’re always pretty wet, Dad.” Alexei quips.

“Haha, very funny.”

“At least I’m funnier than you.”

We had two options for today: visit Niagara Falls or go to a couple of museums in Toronto. The latter being our bad weather plan. Looks like we'll be implementing that.

When Andrew finally drags his sorry arse out of bed, the kids go to the supermarket for some food. Not for breakfast. For later. We have other breakfast plans.

I find what looks like a really good diner between here and our first museum stop; the Royal Ontario Museum. We jump in an Uber and get to the Golden Diner at around noon.

It’s really pissing it down. Just as well it’s only a short dash to the stairs down to the door of the diner.

It's quite a bit larger than the other two diners we've visited. With very much a retro feel. Lots of four-person booths. Though it’s a squeeze for just the three of us. It doesn’t look like it’s been remodelled in many decades. Exactly the sort of diner I like.

The menu is larger, too. We're seated in a booth with a flickering light, which is slightly disconcerting. It doesn’t make reading the menu any easier.

“What does that say?” I ask Andrew, pointing at the menu. “I didn’t bring my glasses.”

“Why on earth not? Given how blind you’re getting.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I’m turning into your carer. You’ll be asking me to wipe your bottom next. No wonder you invite us along on holiday. What do you do when you travel on your own?”

“I get by OK.”

“And probably remember to always take your glasses with you. Unlike when you’re with us.”

“I remember most of the time.”

“Occasionally is more accurate.”

“Fuck off.”

“Winning the argument with your dazzling wit again, eh, Dad?”

For once, we all order a breakfast. Even Andrew. The breakfasts are very competitively priced, with Andrew's only around $13 Canadian. Andrew gets himself a bottle of Molson. I ask for a gin and tonic. But they have no tonic. I just get a shot of gin and mix it with the orange juice that comes with my breakfast.

Which  includes something called peameal bacon. What the fuck is that? Turns out it’s back bacon with a crust of peameal. It’s pretty tasty. Is that just an Ontario thing?

The food is pretty good. Even Andrew manages to eat most of his. Me and Alexe gobble down what he can't manage. Alexei always has a healthy appetite.

Another Uber soon has us at the Royal Ontario Museum. Which is pretty busy. We’re wearing coats on account of the rain. But they’re a bit too warm when we’re inside.

We have a limited amount of time and restrict ourselves to a couple of the rooms. Kicking off with the Chinese and Korean bits. Followed by Africa and the Pacific. Finishing with the first nations. Unfortunately, the latter is a little rushed. Which is a shame as they have some fascinating exhibits.

Yet another Uber takes us to the Toronto Railway Museum. Which is right next to the Rogers Centre where we saw the baseball yesterday.

It's quite a small museum, with most of the rolling stock exhibits outside. The rest is in part of the former roundhouse. They have a pretty good train simulator which Andrew has a go on.

Once we're done, we drop by the Steam Whistle Brewery, which is also in the roundhouse. It's much busier than yesterday.

The beer range isn’t the most extensive. I have the hazy IPA again. Which is OK, if sludgy. The kids stick with Pilsner. At least for the first round. Andrew then switches to cider. He’s quite keen on cider, as is Alexei. They usually give it a try, when it’s on draught.

They're showing the Blue Jays game, which is taking place just a couple of hundred metres away. Then suddenly it changes and England vs France for World Cup third place is on.

"I'm surprised that they switched off the baseball to show this.” I remark.

“They probably expect the Blue Jays to lose again.” Andrew chimes in.

“That’s probably true.”

England are frustratingly good in the first half. With their second team. 

"Why didn't they play like this against Argentina?" Andrew asks.

“Good question.” I reply.

We leave at half time, as I'm recording the game on Ziggo. With England 4-0 up.

It takes us a while to return to our hotel, as we get caught up in the traffic leaving the baseball. We barely move 200 metres in 20 minutes. Once clear, though, we’re back in a jiffy.

Back in the hotel, we rig up my flipflop to the TV and start watching the second half. France is like a different team. Getting the score back to 4-3.

"Why didn't France play like this against Spain?" Andrew asks.

“Another good question.”

“Or in the first half, for that matter?”

“Couldn’t be arsed?”

“That’s a bit stereotypical isn’t it, Dad?”

“I just meant that it didn’t really look like that they were trying. Not that they were typical lazy Frenchies.”

“Daad.”

“What?”

“You can’t say things like that.”

“I told you: I didn’t mean that.”

“But you just said it.”

“To say that I didn’t mean it.”

“I give up.”

A flurry of goals at the end of the second half leaves the score at 6-4 to England. Easily the most entertaining game of the World Cup. And I'm sure way better than tomorrow's final will be.

Game watched, we head off to the Distillery District. Which is just around the corner. Easy to reach on foot. And home to a couple of breweries.

We start at Old Flame Brewery. Which claims to have won the most awards for Canadian craft Lager.

“That sounds just down your Strasse, Andrew.”

“It does.”

Andrew likes a good Lager. And he is, indeed, very pleased with his Helles. My Dunkles isn't quite up to the same standard, but still decent. 

Which is more than can be said for some of the karaoke going on just behind us.

“Do you fancy moving on, kids?”

“Can do." Alexei says. "There's another brewpub just down the street.”

Which the Mill Street Brewery indeed is. It only takes a minute or two to get there. Even old slowcoach me.

On entering, a waitress takes us through a couple of rooms to a table towards the rear. It’s pretty full.

We order beers and think about ordering some side dishes. Which we do. Kicking off with gyozas and prawns. Both of which are excellent. So good, we order more food. Pierogis and poutine.

"That's easy to remember. They both start with the letter p." Alexi says, helpfully.

The kids order another beer. After more than five minutes, it hasn't arrived. We ask our waiter and he seems to have forgotten.

"I'll bring you free beers." He says, apologetically. Which he does.

"I really like this place." Alexei says. "If it was in Amsterdam, I'd come every day.”

Praise indeed. 

“It’s a nice enough place, but I wouldn’t want to come every day. Unlike the Cardigan Arms, where I could happily spend the rest of my life.” I reply.

“So, for another couple of months?” Andrew says, cheekily.

“Fuck off, you twat. I’m good for at least another year.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, the way you’ve been coughing.” Alexei says.

He has a point. Which I prove with a bout of coughing.

“See what I mean?” Alexei exclaims triumphantly.

We don't stay out too late, leaving at around 23:00.

Back in the room, I drink some of the Canadian wine I bought earlier. and the kids get stuck into some beer. While watching “It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia”.

I turn in at 00:30. I need my kip. And want to be up early for travelling. Yippee!



Golden Diner
105 Carlton St., 
Toronto, ON M5B 1M1.
https://golden-diner.com/


Steam Whistle Tap Room
255 Bremner Blvd, 
Toronto, ON M5V 3M9.
https://steamwhistle.ca/ 

Old Flame Brewing Company
43 Tank House Lane, 
Toronto, ON M5A 3C4.
https://oldflamebrewingco.ca/pages/contact-us


Mill Street Brewpub Distillery District Toronto
21 Tank House Lane, 
Toronto, ON M5A 3C4.
https://millstreetbrewery.com/en/pubs/toronto-brewpub  

Islands and baseball

I rise at 8:30, brush my teeth and start writing this nonsense. I have an hour or so before Alexei surfaces.

"What's the plan for today, Dad?" Alexei asks.

“A diner breakfast is always a good place to start.”

“And after that?”

“A trip to the islands. And, of course, the baseball tonight.”

A quick search on the internet throws up the George Street Diner.

"It looks like a classic diner." I say to Alexei, showing him some photos.

“Cool.” He replies.

Eventually, Andrew shows his face. He's up for the diner. Though I doubt he'll be eating. He doesn't do breakfast. Often, he doesn’t do lunch, either.

The plan is breakfast, then a ferry to the islands. As we're running a little late, we get an Uber rather than the tram. We roll up at the diner just after noon. We're lucky and can get a booth.

Again, it's licensed. Andrew gets a tin of lager. While Alexei and I plump for coffee. I order a standard breakfast, Alexei a large one. Andrew isn't going to have any food. Until the waitress tells hm that at busy times, everyone has to order food.

"Why not get a single pancake?" She asks.

“OK.”

He manages to eat the pancake without any trouble. It does look quite nice, thick and fluffy.

The breakfast is pretty good. So I order a large gin and tonic to go with it. I am on holiday, after all.

It's a little after 13:00 when we leave. Which is cutting it a bit fine for the 13:20 ferry. Even though our Uber comes pretty quickly, we're still a few minutes late. The next ferry isn't until 14:20. We have to hang around.

As it gets closer to the time of the ferry, it starts filling up on the quayside.

"I hope we'll be able to get on." I say pessimistically.

“Always positive, eh, Dad.” Andrew retorts.

“Just realistic.”

“You always say that. You’re so predictable.”

“Consistent is how I’d describe it.”

It turns out there was no need to worry. We even get seats. It's not a long journey. Just 10 minutes or so. With wonderful views of the city skyline.

We're headed for a beach on the other side of the islands. Alexei wants to have a dip in the lake. While he changes in the changing rooms, Andrew and I settle into the Beach Bar.

“There are no doors on the changing booths. I had to go into the toilets to change.” Alexei complains. Before heading off for the lake.

It’s a tin of Strongbow for Andrew. Double Jamesons for me. With two ice cubes. It's quite warm in the sun. We switch seats to find some shade.  I wouldn't want to get sunburnt.

We have a couple of rounds while Alexei is away, with Andrew switching to draught Molson. I try to buy a round when Alexei returns. But my fucking credit card won't work again. What the fuck is wrong with it? I get Andrew to pay instead.

We're aiming for the 17:00 ferry back to the city. We get to the dock 15 minutes before departure. And there's quite a queue.

"I hope we can get on." I say.

"Don't start with that stuff again, Dad." Alexie replies.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Stop being so negative.”

We do get on. But have to stand. Not such a problem as it's only 10 minutes or so.

Back at the hotel, we do a bit of quick shopping at the supermarket. Bread, cheese, milk. That sort of stuff. And some beer. I get a six pack of IPA called Amsterdam Boneshaker.

No time to hang around. We have tickets for the baseball tonight. Another Uber gets us to the ground a little after 19:00.

We need entrance 2. Which involves a lot of climbing. Which isn't really my thing at all. The last part in the stand is really steep.

"This would really freak your Mum out." I remark to the kids. I mean being so high up.
It's even freakier because the roof is closed.

“It freaks me out a bit, too, Dad.” Andrew says.

We missed the first innings of the White Sox. Where nothing much seems to have happened. That’s all about to change, though.

After a couple of innings, I say: “How about some beer?”

“I suppose that means you want us to fetch it.” Alexei says.

“Well, you wouldn’t want to make your poor old Dad do all that climbing.”

“Always playing the oldie card, eh?”

The kids do go and fetch tins of beer. Large cans of Budweiser for them, IPA for me.

It’s another high-scoring game. The White Sox get five runs in one innings. Then three in another. Then four. The Blue Jays hit several home runs. But with no-one on the bases, they only get a single run.

The massive video screens are dead impressive. But are flashing stuff so often, accompanied by booming music, at any little break in play, that it becomes rather distracting. And stops the crowd from getting any proper chants going.

A bloke a few seats along does try to get a chant going a few times. “Let’s go Blue Jays.” He shouts. It’s not the most inspiring of calls. A couple of times he does get others to join in. Until the stadium starts blasting music out again.

With the Blue Jays way behind, the crowd starts thinning out after the seventh innings. We leave during the last innings. Mostly because I wanted to be sure of getting to the Steam Whistle Brewery over the road before it closes.

It’s located in a former roundhouse, right next to the railway museum. The interior has impressively high ceilings. And not that many customers. It is late, though.

We arrive just before last orders. The kids get Pilsners, I go for an IPA. It's not the greatest one I've ever drunk. It's OK. We only have time for the one.

The crowds have dissipated a little when we leave the brewery. Though, as the police have closed off some of the roads, we have to walk a bit before we can get an Uber.

Back in the hotel, we eat a little and watch some What We Do in the Shadows. I turn in at 01:30.



The George Street Diner
129 George St, 
Toronto, ON M5A 2M6.
http://thegeorgestreetdiner.com/



Steam Whistle Tap Room
255 Bremner Blvd, 
Toronto, ON M5V 3M9.
https://steamwhistle.ca/ 
 

 

A day in Toronto

I rise at 8:30. Obviously, both kids are still sound asleep.

What do I do? Brush my teeth and pour myself an eye-opener. Then start writing this crap. I have to write up stuff on the go, otherwise I forget half of it. That's what happens when you're an old bastard like me.

What's our plan for the day? A diner breakfast to start with. Then a wander around town.

The air isn't quite as bad today. Though still far from clear. It's about a 15-minute walk to White Lily, a compact little diner. Which, fortunately for us, is licensed. I get myself an IPA, Andrew has a cider and Alexei a coffee.

It's exactly the sort of place I want to breakfast. Me and Alexei both go for the standard breakfast with bacon. Andrew orders no food. He isn't really a breakfast person. Unlike me and Alexei.

It's an excellent breakfast, with proper hash browns. Grated raw potato fried up, not one of those horrible triangle lumps.

On the way back, we drop by a supermarket. Where the kids get themselves some beer. While I buy some fruit and cheddar. Oh, and some milk. I need something to mix with the Jamesons.

We laze around for a while back in my room. And watch Cartoon Network.

“What's the Michelob Ultra like?”

"Watery." Andrew replies.

I take a sip.

“Fuck me that's almost completely tasteless.”

“It's not as bad as Bavaria Pils.”

“That's a very low bar.”

He switches to Molson.

“At least this has got some flavour."

At 16:00 we take a tram into the city centre. First, we have a wander to look at the old City Hall. Which is a lovely building. We then carry on to House of McGrath. A brewpub where I'm meeting the brewer, Jeffrey Kurkowski.

He comes to greet us as soon as we get through the door. And soon we have glasses of Kellerbier in our hands. It's very good. I chat away with Jeff, while drinking some of his beers.

I was really looking forward to the Pilsator, brewed to a recipe I sent Jeff. I so love me a Pilsator. And it’s several decades since I last drank one. This one is pretty good, with fairly decent hopping. Jeff has to fetch some from the tank, as it hasn't been packaged yet. 

Next, he gets me a Doppelbock, also straight from the fermenter. It’s also excellent. I have quick tour around the brewhouse, which is quite compact.

After a few rounds we get an Uber to Granite Brewery, another brewpub. It has quite a pub-like feel. Which is reinforced by the presence of cask beer. I get a Best Bitter, which is rather pleasant. And very easy to drink.

We order some food. Burgers for me and Alexei. Nothing for Andrew again as he isn't hungry. Now there’s a surprise.

We have a couple of pints, then it's closing time. We take an Uber back to our hotel and have a couple of drinks before it's time for me to go to bed. Though the kids stay up later.

In minutes I'm in the land of slumber.



House of McGrath
75 Victoria St, 
Toronto, ON M5C 2B1.
https://www.mcgraths.com/


Granite Brewery & Tied House
245 Eglinton Ave E, 
Toronto, ON M4P 3B7.
http://www.granitebrewery.ca/ 
 

Flying to Toronto

It's not an early start. Our flight isn't until 17:50. Leaving us plenty of time for last-minute packing.

Schiphol is much emptier than I feared. Twenty minutes sees us through all the annoying shit. Passport control is the emptiest I've seen it in years.

We drop by the duty free. The malt whisky is all stupid prices. But there's an offer of 2 litres of Jameson for 40 euros. That'll do.

The lounge is reasonably quiet, too. I have to pay for one of the kids.

“Make sure to eat and drink loads, Lexie. We want to get our money’s worth.”

“You always say that, Dad.”

“Doesn't make it any less valid.”

I know Andrew won't eat fuck all. He never does. Not sure how he survives on the tiny amount he eats.

I'm soon braced by a brace of whiskies. The kids go for boring old Pils.

Alexei gets stuck into the food. Which isn't bad today. I join in the food fun after warming up with a couple of whiskies. Even Andrew eats a couple of wraps. Just to prove me wrong.

We wander down to our gate after the "Go to gate" message comes up on the screen. We're very obedient.

We're further back in the plane than usual. The kids wanted the extra legroom of an emergency exit row. I sit behind them.

It's a relatively short flight. Just 7.5 hours. I've got used to much longer ones. Anything under 10 seems brief.

The food is . . . like KLM food. The main meal is just about edible. But too much rice and not enough chicken.

I watch some stuff on the in-board entertainment. Project Hail Mary, Guardians of the Galaxy, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. It passes the time. Probably not something I would watch at home. Any of them.

As we approach Toronto, it looks pretty murky outside. Forest fires in Ontario. I hope that I'll be able to breathe.

All the entry formalities are soon achieved and we jump on an UP train into the city.  It’s a pretty decent service, going along at a good old whack. Taking us to Union Station, a very grand, neoclassical stone building.

From where we take a taxi. It’s not that far. But definitely too far to walk with luggage.

“It smells like barbecue here.” Alexei remarks. “That must be from the forest fires.”

The smoke is noticeable. But not choking. We seem to have missed the worst of it. Which now seems to have moved on to the USA.

Once checked into our hotel, the kids venture out to a convenience store for some snacks and soft drinks. While I get my flipflop fired up.

I've recorded the England World Cup semi-final on Ziggo so we can watch the game. We rig it up to play through the TV. So we don't all have to stare at the tiny laptop screen.

Of course, Argentina wins in the most annoying way possible. The bastards. I don't know if I'll bother watching the final, as I find both teams so irritating. Thankfully, there's enough Jamesons to take off the edge of annoyance.

It's around 6:30 Dutch time when I turn in. Almost getting up time back home. The whisky helps my body to work out that it’s sleepy time.
 

 

A few hours in Toronto

My wake-up call is at 4:45. I'm already awake when the phone rings.

I don't piss around. A quick check of my email then it's down to reception to check out.

I take the tunnel between the hotel and terminal this time. Last night I made a scary dash across four lanes of traffic, dragging my bag behind me. Not the kind of thing I want to do on a regular basis. Thankfully it's pretty quiet - not so surprising given the ungodly hour.

I go straight through to airside and head towards the gate looking for somewhere to have breakfast. It doesn't take long to find somewhere. I sit down and order eggs, bacon and potato things. Plus coffee and orange juice. Eggs count as one of your five a day, don't they?

There's something novel about this United flight. The bugger is on time. Not that it particularly matters, as I've hours to kill in Toronto. Around eight, in total.

An annoying amount of time, that. Long enough to make you contemplate leaving the airport, but short enough to make you wonder if it's worth it. And worry about getting to and from the city. Especially with my experience of Toronto traffic last weekend.

Fortunately, there's a a simple solution. Gary Gillman, a regular commenter here, lives in Toronto. I missed him last weekend as he was out of town. This seems like the perfect chance to finally meet. We've arranged for him to pick me up at the airport. Sure enough, there he is when I emerge from the terminal.

It's still pretty early and the roads aren't too busy as we head into town towards Gary's apartment. Once we get off the motorway, he explains abour the neighbourhoods we're driving through. Toronto is a diverse place, that's for sure. I realise that I've barely dipped in a toe in terms of getting to know the city. Oh well, something for me to do next time.

Gary lives in one of the city's many residential towers. But one of the older ones. The view, as you can see, is pretty amazing:

Gary has a load of Canadian beer and whisky lined up for me to try. We kick off with some retro beers from bigger breweries. They're mostly OK. Though anything is likely to taste good sat out on the balcony looking out on the Toronto skyline.

It's all very civilised. Definitely much nicer than numbing my arse in the airport. We have a pleasant light lunch with Gary's wife, who, like him, is a lawyer.

We've just enough time to take in one last pub, the Granite brewpub. He suggests it because they specialise in cask beer. You don't have to ask me twice if I want to drink me some cask. That thirst is never sated.

It's reassuringly pub-like inside, with lots of dark wood and a bank of handpulls. This will do nicely. I've obviously only seen a fraction of Toronto's beer scene. Not surprising, really, given the hugeness of the place.

We drink a little excellent cask beer then it's in the car and back to the airport. Nice to have finally met Gary. And to have done something useful with these few hours.

In the duty free shop, I get a bottle of Canadian whisky Gary had recommended.

I have a final Maker's Mark in one of the airport's iPad bars. Where I check my email and order bourbon at the same time. It's actually dead handy when you get used to it. The bar overlooks my gate. Also dead handy. I can wait at the bar until my group is called. Which is exactly what I do.

I do my best to rest on the plane. When I land at Schiphol, I'll hve just enough time to go home for a shower and a change of clothes, then it's straight in to work.






Ah, I'm getting all nostalgic about these plugs, now my reports on the trip have finally drawn to a close. What fun it's been. Not for you? It's been something, I know that. We'll just have to disagree about exactly what it was.

Buy my book:

The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer.







Granite Brewery & Restaurant
245 Eglinton Ave E,
Toronto, ON M4P 3B7.
Tel: +1 416 322 0723
http://www.granitebrewery.ca/

Chicago day one (part one)

Time for the next journey. An international one, too. That's always extra special fun. Especially when travelling to the US.

I don't bother with breakfast in the hotel. My flight is at 10 am. I want to be there in plenty of time and I'm pretty wary of Toronto traffic, having seen the congestion at the weekend. Today is Monday. I decide to get a taxi at 7 am. I get an orange juice and a coffee while I'm waiting for the cab to trundle up. Breakfast proper can wait until the airport.

The traffic isn't as dreadful as I'd feared. I've still more than two hours until my flight leaves. But I immediately check in and go airside. Or at least start going airside.

It's all a bit strange. After I check my bag, it isn't whisked off on a conveyor belt but handed back to me. I'm told to take it off that way, so that's where I go. And find a long queue waiting for the security check. My favourite part of flying. There's a flight soon to Beijing, which explains the number of Chinese in the queue. After a while we're told to walk a couple of hundred metres to another security queue. Now isn't this fun. We're on a queue crawl.

We were told it was shorter. The queue, I mean. Doesn't seem appreciably so to me. There are several returns on the taped-off snake. I'm glad I showed up early. Why do I still have my checked in bag with me? One of the reasons for checking it in is so I don't have to lug it around the airport.

I picked up one of the US customs forms on the way to the initial queue. I thought I could fill it in before I got on the plane. So much easier when you're not crammed in an economy seat with the Samoan sumo-wrestling team either side of you. I realise why those forms were lying around and why I still have all my luggage when I emerge from security, my belt in hand and my shoelaces untied, to another queue. One for US immigration.

I'm actually pleased. For two reasons. The queue isn't that long. And it means I won't be pissing around after landing in Chicago.

The US immigration officials are always polite and often quite friendly. Quite a contrast with the bastards at Schiphol who keep picking me out for special attention. Ha ha, they couldn't get me this time - my initial destination was Canada, not the USA.

Right, all the official crap is out of the way. Time for some scran. There's bound to be somewhere selling a Full American. Always is, places like this. I decide to get as close to my gate as possible before my bacon and egg-based feast. There's a bar/restaurant on the right pier that's just the job.

Soon I'm staring wistfully over a plate of fried things at the planes outside. My mind is a wonderfully empty space, doing little but regulate chewing and breathing. Sometimes you just have to switch off. Especially when you schedule is as busy as mine.

I refuse a coffee refill. Time to get to the gate. It's surprisingly quiet, given the flight is due to leave in 40 minutes. I find a seat and start reading. After a while I get concerned about the lack of activity. Checking the screen, I see that the gate has changed . . . . as has the flight status. It's now "delayed awaiting aircraft" and the departure time has been pushed back an hour. I move to the new gate and continue reading.

The news doesn't get any better. It's the old trick of only slowly revealing how bad the delay will be. It starts as an hour and gradually edges up to two.

I wander back to the restaurant and sit at the bar.

"Double whisky, please."

"We can't serve alcohol before 11 am."

What? Never come across an airport, even in Britain, with that sort of restriction.

"I'll have a coffee, then."

The waitress remembers me from before and lets me have it for free. Guess my right to a refill didn't lapse first time I walked out the door.

There isn't even a gate assigned to the flight now. Where to sit? The bar is prickling with iPads, I guess. You're allowed to use them even if you don't buy anything. That's what a sign says. So that's what I do. Start fiddling with an iPad. I can check my mail. And write a blog post.

Other delayed travellers around me are doing the same, fiddling with iPads. After a while they start ordering drinks. First coffees. Then a bottle of wine. Which gets me thinking. Ordering is so easy. Just a few taps on the ipad and a Wellington Imperial Russian Stout and a double Maker's Mark are on their way.

Finally the delay stops increasing and the time to departure begins to tick down. The incoming aircraft appears to great rejoicing. At least in my heart. I may be only an hour late for my 2 pm appointment, if I'm lucky. Thankfully I've had a chance to warn Mike that my flight is delayed.

It's after 2 pm when we take to the air. I'm just glad to be on my way. And that I'll make that meeting. It's special because . . . . well, we'll discover that next time.







The main reason for my trip to Canada and the USA was to gently encourage sales of my fantastic new book:

The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer.

Toronto day two

Ah, the days are just rattling by. In a crawly sort of way. I'll have to see if I can get through this one in a single post.

It's Sunday 8th June, date of the first event on this leg of my tour. A homebrewers' event held, appropriately enough, at a homebrew shop.

Last night was a pretty late one. Midnight was really 6 am for my body. I'm impressed that I lasted that long. But when beer is involved my stamina is remarkable. I'm that dedicated a pisshead.

You can tell this hotel is an old building. I can feel the uneven floorboards through the carpet and there's plenty of creaking going on when someone walks along the corridor. Yesterday Jordan told me it was built as a home for the Gooderham family, owners of Gooderham & Worts, at the time one of the largest distilleries in North America.

The event isn't until noon, but is out in the boondocks, in Toronto's northern sprawl. It'll take a while to get there. Now 9 am. My mind is telling me to get up and go down for breakfast. My body disagrees: stay in bed, it's saying. A tricky one. Eventually my mind wins and I descend in the rickety lift.

I've noticed a trend in North American hotels. First time was in March in Brooklyn. You used to have to pay for breakfast, but did at least get a fry-up option. Always handy for calming the stomach and evening the shakes out of the hands after a heavy night. Now some hotels offer a free continental breakfast. Yippee, you might say. Except the food choice is extremely limited and . . . the plates, cups and cutlery are all disposable. Not exactly classy.

At a couple of these breakfast travesties I've found zero to eat, it being all jam and cake and flavoured yoghurt. Finding something I can theoretically eat often leaves me no happier: like the processed cheese less appetising than its plastic wrapper I encountered in Brooklyn.

They've got boiled eggs here, which is something. But the roll I lay it on is so dry I feel it sucking the last moisture from my already parched mouth. I abandon it and get more orange juice.

The Chinese girl on the next table is watching a film on her laptop as she breakfasts. Good idea. Distract yourself from the food.


I've still 90 minutes or so before I plan leaving. I use them wisely lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. Not really sleeping, more a stupor. I can't even be arsed to switch on the TV.

When I tell the taxi driver the address, he asks "Is that in Toronto?" "Pretty sure it is." He looks it up on a map. For quite a long time. He's struggling his way through the street index. I resist the urge to tell him that it's in alphabetic order. Eventually he finds it and off we head.

"How long will it take to get there?"

"About forty minutes." Plenty of time to stare aimlessly out of the window, I think.

The suburbs to Toronto's north are no less sprawly than their sprawly neighbours by the airport. And no prettier. The roads are surprisingly crowded for a Sunday morning. I'll remember to avoid travelling around the city during the week. If this is anything to go by, it must be like Bangalore on a bad day.

Toronto Brewing at 3701 Chesswood Drive is where I'm headed. It isn't a single address so much as a small complex. Finding the right bit takes a while. We do some driving around until I spot a sign. It's hidden around the back. The driver forgets my box of books in the boot and was about to driven off with them until I reminded him. Sort of need those. That's the whole point to being here: selling books. Well, that and making friends and talking beer with people who genuinely want to talk about it. Unlike my miserable family.

I'm doing one of my standard homebrewer events: I supply recipes and local home brewers brew thyem. The format works really well, especially for me as I get to taste the beers. Me getting beer is a pretty big thing. For me. I talk bollocks for a while, sorry, explain the historical context of the beer, the brewer says something about brewing it, then we all knock some back. Practical history in, er, practice.

They've brewed a decent variety: strong Mild, XXXXK, Grodziskie/Grätzer, Brown Ale, AK, No. 3 and IPA. There's even one in a cute little pin. It's a bit odd when customers pop in as we're doing our talking and drinking thing. I'm doing most of both, loquacious boozer that I am. The beers are pretty good, even the ones that really needed longer to mature. I'm happy to drink all of them.

Zack, whose shop it is, has arranged a table and chair for me to do my selling and signing thing. Which I do for a while.

I'd not expected food. The chicken barbecued on bourbon barrel chips is a welcome plus. Tasty stuff. I have two chunks, which is a lot for the new diet-conscious me. Not for the old gutsy bastard me, but I'm trying to keep him chained up in the cellar with Tarquin.

Peter Friesen offers to drive me back into town for a few beers. It takes a while. The traffic on the return is even worse than on the way. There seem to be a few design flaws in the road system.

It's started raining by the time we park up. I've no coat with me so we enter Bar Volo pretty sharpish.

"This is where craft beer in Toronto started." Peter tells me. It's been around for nigh on 30 years, having been founded in 1985. Back in the dark days.

Another tiny brewery is somehow squeezed in behind the bar. Breweries seem as common as Bet Lynch around these parts.

I'm pleased to see not just a single beer engine, but a set. They've six cask beers in total, plus 26 kegs. Unfortunately, yesterday they held a cider festival and many of the taps are still pouring apple-based drinks. Never one to change hobbits, I order a cask beer, Punters Gold. English Golden Ale, it's described as. Can't fault that as a colour guide. Maybe a bit heavy on the citrus hops to be truly English, tasty though.

Peter has gone for a dry-hopped cider. His face tells me he won't be ordering another. Pretty weird, I think when he gives me a taste. Yeah, not sure I could drink a whole one . . . but I do. When I order the next round I inadvertently get one for myself. My own fault for paying more attention to the ABV than the description.

I hate wasting drinks. Even weird ones. It's not that bad. Just . . . odd, in a not totally good way. I finish it anyway.

We don't stay very late. Peter has a long ride home and I'm flying to Chicago tomorrow.

I walk back to my hotel. Oh look, what's that? Somewhere called Spirits. I quite fancy a whisky. The power of suggestion, eh?

"A Lug Tread and a double whisky, please."

"What type of whisky? We've a special on Jameson, $4 a shot."

"That'll do nicely. Straight up, no ice."

At the other end of the bar, two off-duty barmaids discuss men, music, waitressing embarrassments, random concert violence, and how effing cold it was last winter. "That's why I left Manitoba, weather like that."

Their chatter distracts me through a few whiskies then it's home and bed.

I'm so excited. Tomorrow I'll see Chicago for the first time*.




 
*Other than O'Hare. Airports don't count.






Time for the obligatory book plug on the feeble grounds I was in Canada and the USA to promote it:

The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer.












The Clarion Hotel & Suites Selby
592 Sherbourne Street,
Toronto, Ontario M4X 1L4
Tel: 416-921-3142
http://www.clarionhotelselby.com



Toronto Brewing Co.
3701 Chesswood Drive,
Unit 115, Toronto,
Ontario M3J2P6
http://www.torontobrewing.ca/



Bar Volo
587 Yonge St.,
Toronto, ON.
Tel: 416-928-0008
http://blog.barvolo.com/


Spirits Bar and Grill
642 Church Street
Toronto, Ontario
M4Y 2G3
Tel: 416.967.0001
Email: goodtimes@spiritsbarandgrill.com
http://www.spiritsbarandgrill.com

Toronto day one (part two)

Alan Mcleod originally said he wouldn't make it to Toronto until around 17:00. Then an email arrived saying he'd be able to escape earlier than anticipated and should be hitting town in the rearly afternoon.

And sure enough there he is, as chatty and jolly as ever. He joins me and Jordan at our table, but doesn't join us for a drink. He still has his car with him. Being a lawyer, he wisely stays off the booze when any driving is involved. One slight problem. He needs to drop off the car at his hotel before he can start enjoying himself properly. And his hotel is out by the airport. Which is miles away.

Alan is gracious enough to watch me and Jordan continue to get our mouths wrapped around more beer while sipping an iced water. If only I possessed such self-restraint. I wouldn't be such a fat bastard, for one thing. We finally relent to Alan's sad puppy eyes and are preparing to leave when Peter Friesen arrives. Damn good timing, that.

I'm not quite sure why, but our plan involves Alan driving us all out to his airport hotel for car ditching tyhen us all coming back into town in a taxi. On reflection it seems crazy, but I was a few pints into the session when I agreed. Beers has a way of making the oddest ideas appear totally logical.

The hotel is in a weird 1970's wasteland. A concrete colony of chain hotels stretched out along the airport's approach roads. Neither atmospheric nor particularly convenient unless you're flying. But it had one very important thing going for it: price. Alan couldn't find a reasonably priced room in the centre.

After bailing out of our return taxi we rush inside Indie Ale House. I really do rush, having been beerless for more minutes than I care to remember. It's bright, modern and full of young people. I count anyone under forty as young, old fart that I am. I could be the father of every other customer other than Alan. Another odd feeling to stack up with the ones from earlier in the day.

Not that I've anything against this sort of thing. Youth hanging around in pubs, I mean. It's what I did when I was their age. Though I avoided places like this like Watneys*. I stuck to pints of Mild and the company of old men. But I've changed as I've aged. Mostly because that type of drinking experience isn't really possible any more. Also because I realise any culture without a constant influx of the young is doomed to wither and die as its devotees dodder.

There's a fair percentage of women, too. (Something else my youthful haunts lacked. Unless you counted barmaids.) Not that I find it odd. It's much like the trendier places in Amsterdam in that respect.

Tucked behind the bar there's a brewery. One of the shiny modern type I saw so many of in San Diego. Crammed into a space that seems just slightly too small. They must employ slim brewers.

I'm in pleasure mode and having fun, not scribbling frantic notes. What was that beer I just had? What's the one in my glass now, for that matter? It doesn't matter. As it tastes good and the chatter is flowing as freely as the beer, who cares? I certainly don't. Not as if the vast majority of you will ever get to try it, anyway.

It's still light when we emerge bleary-eyed and stagger off to the next destination, 3030. Look to the bottom of the page and you'll see why it's called that. Neither that imaginative nor memorable. It's a barn of a place, divided into two bars by a curtain. We head to the rear one, which ends in a stage, as it's the emptier. Bit of a mistake that as a band turns up and makes conversation if not impossible, more effort and less fun than I like. We decamp to the front room as conversation is the main reason we've assembled. Alongside drinking beer, obviously. But I don't need to mention that, do I?

We end at another brewery, Bellwoods. It's popular. A bit too popular. We have to queue to get. I consider saying "Don't you know who I am?" to the nice young lady on the door, but think the better of it, anticipating a "No - now fuck off, you sad old git" reply. We eventually squeeze our way in and sit at a rustically rough table with a view of the shiny things. How much of the world's stainless steel is now tied up in brewing kit? A fair percentage, based on my recent North American experiences.

I get that paternal feeling again looking around the room. Do they have old men's bars this side of the Atlantic? Maybe hidden away out of sight somewhere.

We eat some meat thingies and bread, served on a plank of wood. That wouldn't impress my son Andrew. He hates all the trendy modern food serving methods. "Can't they afford proper plates, dad?" is a typical comment. I'm more relaxed about this sort of thing. What's on it tastes pretty good.

Not sure what time I get back to my hotel. Midnighty-ish I think it is. I can afford to be fairly late. I haven't that early a start. My first event is all that's planned and that doesn't begin until the afternoon.

We'll be hearing all about that next time.






* Early CAMRA reference there.





I was in Canada and the USA to try to convince a few more suckers to buy my new book:

The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer.














Indie Ale House
2876 Dundas St West
Toronto.
Tel: 416-760-9691
info@indiealehouse.com
http://indiealehouse.com




3030
3030 Dundas Street West,
Toronto.
Tel: 416-769-5736
3030DundasWest.Reservations@gmail.com
http://www.3030dundaswest.com/




Bellwoods
124 Ossington Ave.
Toronto, ON M6J 2Z5
Tel: 416-535-4586
info@bellwoodsbrewery.com
http://bellwoodsbrewery.com/

Toronto day one

Another tour, another set of travel reports to write. It feels like being back at school.

The little time I spend at home is now consumed by writing about my travels. Life could be worse. Every day could be much like the last. I should enjoy the excitement while it lasts.

My schedule is as punishing as ever, kicking off with two nights in Toronto. It's a city I've not visited before. Only my second time in Canada, too. My only previous experience of the country was a few nights in rural northeastern Ontario. Where I brewed a beer at Beau's and hung out at their festival back in September 2012. I had a great time and unexpectedly got a chance to practice my French. But I'd not seen big-city life, other than rushing through the Montreal suburbs going to and from the airport.

I divvied up some extra dosh for more legroom on the flight out. Well worth it. I've no twat in front of my reclining his seat down into my lap. Plus there's just one seat next to me. There's so much legroom that the burly Russian sitting by the window can go for a leak without me needing to stand up.

I've brought Boak and Bailey's "Brew Brittania" with me. Travelling is about the only time I get chance to read anything long for pleasure. Though I do catch myself looking at the footnotes, curious to see their sources. That's not really what you'd do on a 100% pleasure read. Old habits are like Bruce Willis.

Once they get to the 1970's, they're retelling events I lived through. It's both slightly unnerving and highly illuminating to see them narrated in a coherent way. I thought I knew the story of the CAMRA's birth, but it turned out to be both more complex and character-driven than I had realised. I'd noticed the tensions around the formation of CAMRA Investments without realising how deeply in had split the movement.

The stuff about the SPBW was mostly news to me. I'd been aware of them, but, other than seeing their stand at beer festivals, they'd had little direct impact on me. Having learned more about them, I'm tempted to join.

Some of what was recounted form the 1970's really resonated with me. Like The first big national CAMRA festival at Covent Garden. It was in the summer I left school. Me and Martin Young, one of my classmates, made the trek down from Newark. It really did look as if the market had been moved out the previous day. We had to queue a while, but were lucky enough to get in. I recall drinking a pint of Yorkshire Clubs Dark Mild. The brewery was taken over and closed not much later.

It was another moment of bizarre recognition when a couple of places in Leeds were mentioned: CAMRA pub the White Horse and the Brahms & Liszt. I was once refused a drink in the latter for looking too much like a hippy. Sort of put me off it. I never had any trouble in the more down-to-earth pubs. Bloody yuppies.

The description of the machinations around the Beer Orders was informative, too. I'd only seen the affair through CAMRA eyes at the time. And though "Government Intervention in the Brewing Industry" has since informed me of the big brewers' side and in particular Guinness's perfidious role, I'd heard little of the publicans' view.

The personal connection weakens after the 1990's, if only because, living abroad, my personal links with the British beer scene have loosened.

Hang on. This is supposed to be a travel report and I've ended up writing a book review. May as well throw a conclusion out. Well written - but I'd expect no less from them - and with loads of good stories about the individuals who drove the quest for better beer. It kept me entertained even while my arse was aching from hours of sitting.

I got a free copy, obviously. I'd have been pissed off if I hadn't, seeing as I had my publisher send them a copy of mine. Though I would have bought one as it's a pretty damn useful book for anyone interested in recent British beer history. And you know me. History is my thing. I've also met the authors once, exchanged multiple emails with them and my name appears in the acknowledgements.

Where was I before I wandered off? Sitting on a plane enjoying extra legroom. Let's continue.

I arrive in Toronto on time and start hunting for Peter Friesen. He's organised my Toronto event and offered to pick me up. Somehow we don't manage to connect. Me forgetting to charge my US phone before leaving didn't help matters. After a while of trudging around outside I get a taxi.

Despite being Saturday, it takes forever. Partly because Toronto sprawls so much - the airport is miles out, despite not being at the city's edge - and partly due to road works. Nearly an hour later, I roll up at my hotel.

The cab ride has left me with the impression of a schizophrenic city. On the one hand, there's the low suburban sprawl of houses and light industrial units. On the other, clumps of residential tower blocks, slowly forming into a forest around the lakefront and downtown. Like a combination of Hong Kong and Melbourne. Don't think I've ever been to a city quite like it.

The hotel is in a rather grand 19th-century mansion. I arrive with not long to spare before an appointment with beer writer Jordan St. John. He's taking me for a tour of the city's cultural highlights. Only kidding. It's a pub crawl. At least I hope so. I've just about got my head sorted from the travel and time jump when he trawls up in the hotel lobby.

He suggests kicking off at Stout. Who am I to argue with a local? It's about a ten-minute walk away. On the way I get a chance to see a bit more of the city. Its schizophrenia is confirmed, with towering  new flats alternating with remarkably English-looking Victorian terraces. Stout is a on a street of the latter, with tram tracks running down its centre. I think: "The kids would love this." Though maybe the kids aren't quite as into PCC cars as they were age nine. I keep forgetting that they're nearly adults.

Stout's billing as an Irish pub might have put me off, had Jordan not assured me of its good beer selection. It's pretty hot and we sit on the patio at the rear. They have a cask beer. Churlish to to start there. Great Lakes Canucklehead. A golden Paley Aley sort of thing topped by a deep collar of creamy foam. Pretty effing brillarific. Especially as it's my first beer in a while.

Jordan shares my love of history, beer and beer history. We've plenty to chat about. He tells me about the book he wrote with Alan Mcleod on the history of brewing in Ontario and the new one he's writing by himself about the brewing in Toronto.

The Canucklehead slips down so sweetly that I order another. Food is ordered, chewed and digested while we wait for Alan (Mcleod) to show up. More beer is consumed, too. An Imperial Stout because, well, I'm on holiday and I can do what I want.

I'm easing into the day, Canada and the tour. Relaxation, like the beer, flows through my body like a low voltage electric shock. Only more pleasant. Just a few hours in and the fun is already palpable.

Next time Alan arrives and I finally meet up with Peter Friesen.








You may have forgotten, but I haven't. The main point of my trip was to tart this:

The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer.

Brew Britannia: the strange rebirth of British beer
Jessica Boak and Ray Bailey
http://boakandbailey.com/book-brew-britannia/







Stout Irish Pub
221 Carlton Street East,
Toronto, Ont. M5A 2L2.
Tel: 647-344-7676
email: info@stoutirishpub.ca
http://www.stoutirishpub.ca

Ontario Beer
A Heady History of Brewing from the Great Lakes to the Hudson Bay
Alan McLeod and Jordan St. John
http://www.dundurn.com/books/ontario_beer







Great Lakes Brewery
30 Queen Elizabeth Boulevard (Map)
Etobicoke, Ontario
M8Z 1L8
Tel: 416-255-4510
http://www.greatlakesbeer.com