Birra artigianale a Sorrento pt. 2: Birrificio Sorrento

Before we left for Sorrento, whilst scouting around on the internet looking for beer information, I made an exciting discovery – there is actually a microbrewery based in Sorrento – Birrificio Sorrento. I couldn't wait to try their beers, and even emailed them for a list of stockists so that I could make sure I did. The full list is included at the end of this post.

Birrificio Sorrento has been in operation since 2009, although it appears that they initially brewed using other breweries’facilities for several years. They have had their own small kit since 2013 from which they produce two core beers – Syrentum, a golden ale made with local lemons, and Minerva, a red ale with oranges. I love the use of local ingredients which is, as I understand it, a hallmark of birra artigianale – in the absence of an indigenous beer tradition, modern brewers look to their bountiful produce for inspiration, approaching their beers as part of a wider culinary landscape. This creativity is, to me, far preferable to simply aping Belgian or American brewing. Like many Italian craft beers, which are rarely housed in your basic glass bottle, Birrificio Sorrento’s are beautifully presented in bottles that look more likely to hold sparkling wine. This, again, seems part of a strategy to have beer taken seriously at the dinner table and, in my experience, local restaurants serve them in an ice bucket, the only time I have ever been served beer in this way.

Sorrento is justly proud of its enormous, gnarled lemons. Images of the fruit appear on most of the merchandise on sale in the tourist shops and, of course, they are used in limoncello, the delicious local liqueur. Peel from the lemons also makes its way into Syrentum, which is a magnificent beer. It pours golden orange with a dense, moussey white head, and an aroma bursting with fresh citrus. It tastes, unsurprisingly, of lemon, but not in an extreme or obtrusive way, and tastes fresh and natural, far removed from a synthetic radler. The citrus flavour works because it complements the fruit flavours already in the beer, which seem to be primarily from the yeast, with that faintly sulphuric note you find in Belgian tripels. These ester flavours add depth to the beer beyond the lemon. Syrentum is the easier of the brewery’s beers to find in Sorrento – I found that restaurants that do stock Birrificios Sorrento's wares invariably opt for this over Minerva. This could possibly be because the beer’s clean citrus body compliments the local seafood, but since I don’t eat fish this is pure conjecture.  I've thought about it a lot since returning home, and I sincerely hope I can drink it again someday.

Minerva, a red ale with oranges, doesn't move me so strongly, good though it is. A familiar yeast strain from Syrentum instantly reveals itself, and the two beer’s profiles are quite similar. Here, though, the freshness of the lemon is replaced by a marmalade-like spiciness. The zest treads delicately across the tongue, with a faint prickly sensation, but finishes sweet. I couldn't help but crave the cleaner, more refreshing taste of Syrentum, though I’ll acknowledge that if I was being truly fair, I wouldn't even compare the two.

These two beers form Birrificio Sorrento’s core range, though they do make others, presumably on an occasional or one-off basis. One of these is Parthenope, which I found in bottled form in Vizi e Sfizi, a shop in the centre of town. This beer is quite unlike the other two – it’s a stout made with nuts. In contrast to the beers I’d been served in ice buckets, this one chills in cold water in a bidet – no fridge in the hotel room, you see. It does the trick, anyway, as I don’t like dark beers to be too cold. Parthenope is very bitter and dry, in much the same way that nuts are. The effect recalls the oak tannins picked up in barrel-aged beer, or even red wine. It’s rich and full-bodied, drinkable and satisfying, but some softer chocolate notes might have balanced out the aggressive bitterness. It’s a good and interesting beer either way, and one you should try if you do happen to find it.

I was very impressed with Birrificio Sorrento – all three beers are very accomplished, and Syrentum is an absolute cracker. Sorrento is a lovely town, one well worth visiting regardless of any beer recommendations. But if you’re there, I’d urge you to seek out Birrificio Sorrento with your evening meal.

Birrificio Sorrento stockists (as per an email sent to my by the brewery in June 2015) - Restaurants: Ristorante Pizzeria Aurora, Ristorante Il Buco, Ristorante The Garden, Ristorante Tasso, Ristorante Antica Trattoria, Ristorante Le Basilica, Pizzeria Acqu'e Sale, Ristorante Inn Buffalito. Shops: La Botegga della Birra, Vizi e Sfizi, Bottles Shop, The Garden, Inn Buffalito Concept Store

Birra artigianale a Sorrento pt.1

Last year, at my suggestion, we spent our summer holiday in Edinburgh. We had a great time, visiting the zoo, taking a late-night walking tour of the city’s haunted spots, checking out the art galleries and drinking lots of very good beer. But it was very cold and rainy – during the trip, I purchased not only an umbrella, but a wool hat, too. We had to move hotels on the last night because there was a mouse in our room. So whilst we had an excellent trip, glamorous it was not. When Sidony suggested a more Mediterranean climate for this year’s holiday, I wasn't about to argue.

We settled on Sorrento, a beautiful town on Italy’s Amalfi coast. Not much of a beer destination, but then this wasn't a beery holiday. But when I stopped to consider the cool, refreshing holiday beers I could enjoy, I shuddered at the idea that I might have to drink Peroni. It’s not an awful beer, but it’s not a very good one, either, and the holiday beer novelty would be diminished by the fact that it is inflicted on us in most Italian restaurants in the UK. With this in mind, I couldn't resist digging around for a couple of leads towards good beer in Sorrento.

It didn't take long to find a good drop, as it happened. On our first night, tired and hungry, we wandered into pretty much the first pizzeria we foud. On the beer menu there, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst Heineken and Peroni, was Super Baladin. The name rang a bell, though I couldn’t quite place it (I later realised that it was from this post from Jeffrey Bell, and that Baladin are actually one of Italy’s early pioneering craft breweries). Caramel-coloured, with a big, fluffy white head, smell of caramelising sugar. The taste is very sweet, with marzipan and toffee apples alongside stone fruits. At 8%, it’s surprisingly light drinking, and a savoury malt profile and very high carbonation make it super refreshing.

The next afternoon we visited Bar del Carmine, in the town’s bustling Piazza Tasso. It's a pleasant but fairly ordinary touristy bar, except they have a small birra artigianale section on their drinks menu, so you can sit and take in the sights of the Piazza – mostly people almost getting hit by cars – whilst enjoying some excellent Italian beers. There are more from Baladin here, so next I tried their NazionAle, the first ever beer brewed with 100% Italian ingredients. Whilst there is a good hop bitterness which balances some rather sweet malt, my overriding impression of the beer was of a Juicy Fruit-style Belgian yeast flavour. When I looked it up later, I was surprised to find that it contains bergamot and coriander – I’d like to think my palate hadn't let me down completely, as coriander is often used in Belgian wit beers (Camden Town’s interpretation uses bergamot, too).

Baladin Super Bitter is also on offer at Bar del Carmine, a version of Super Baladin spiked with American Amarillo hops. Amarillo’s peachy flavour gels perfectly with the caramelised fruit flavours in the original beer, and it gains a moreish bitterness which is not overdone. I like it even better than the original.

One intriguing recommendation from my internet research was La Botegga della Birra, a bottle shop and bar in Sorrento, which we visited the next day. It’s a funny little place, with the vibe of a sports bar or, worse, an Irish pub – check out the leprechaun on the beer menu. It is neither of these things, of course – draught La Chouffe and La Trappe dubbel occupy the bar rather than Guinness, and the likes of Peroni are thoroughly absent. We were offered a beer menu but, if you visit, you may as well ignore this. The proprietor was most apologetic, but explained that transporting imported beers to Sorrento isn’t easy, and he can’t reliably stock everything listed. His response when I asked for a good Italian beer couldn’t have been more enthusiastic, though, and he brought a selection to the table, none of which were on the menu anyway. For best results, I’d suggest going in with this question from the beginning.

I chose Nora, another from Birifficio Baladin. I’d heard of the beer before (it was featured on the Beer O’Clock Show, if memory serves), but hadn’t made the connection to Baladin. The initial swig is a big surprise – the word ‘spicy’ may be overused in beer tasting notes, but to me, this is a big mouthful of hot black pepper. There’s a tremendous depth of flavour to this beer – it seems to stimulate all areas of the palate at once. A savoury note recalls tomatoes and herbs - though I realise it currently sounds like I’m describing a pasta sauce rather than a beer, it does taste of beer, too. Peaches and sweet oranges complete the picture. As it happens, the spice is ginger, not pepper – should have guessed that. Nora also contains Kamut, a grain used in ancient Egyptian brewing, and myrrh – not going to beat myself up about failing to identify those ingredients.  It may sound unusual, but if you see it, I’d urge you to try it. I might not have if I’d read that description but, going into it with an open mind, I was taken aback.

Back at Bar del Carmine one afternoon,  I opt for Sumera from Birrificio Karma, based in Alvignano, about 25 miles to the north of Naples. Spelt makes up a portion of the grain bill here, and the initial impression is a sweet, vinous quality. There’s a touch of dry, Belgian-like yeast, along with honey, candy sugar and oranges. It’s satisfyingly full-bodied, with a bitter bite of the sort you find in good lager. These qualities, alongside lively carbonation, make it extremely refreshing on a hot, sunny afternoon.

I'd also seen Il Chiostro beers in a few shops and was keen to try them. This microbrewery is based not far away in Nocera Inferiore, and their range appears to stick more to classic styles - wheat beer, Belgian blonde, but also some more niche styles like Scotch ale and Irish red - than the inventive approach of breweries like Baladin. One evening we stop for a drink at The Garden, a lovely restaurant with a seperate wine shop cum bar on the busy Corso Italia, and here I have the opportunity to sample a couple. First, I choose Once Upon a Time. There's no clue as to the style anywhere on the label, and the lady at the bar can only tell me that it is an ale. It pours black with patches of dark, translucent red around the edges of the glass, and with a big and persistent beige head. Surprisingly, it's quite tart, like a Flanders Red, but with roasted malt flavours like a porter. (Confusingly, Google the name of this beer and most information refers to a 13% Belgian-style quadrupel. This beer was 8.5% and, whilst I'm not sure exactly what style they were going for, quadrupel was certainly not it.)There's sour cherry and tobacco going on here, with a dry finish like red wine. The Belgian bruin which I try next is very similar, but those fruit flavours are less tart here - more like glacé cherries, providing a little sweetness to counteract the sour bite.

But only a true dullard would go on a holiday like this and insist on the finest craft beers at all times. One place I was determined to visit was the dodgily-named Foreigner's Club. I'd loved this place when I last visited Sorrento as a ten year old boy, pestering my parents to return again and again. Returning now, I can see why - the view of the Mount Vesuvius on one side and the coast jutting out on the other is beautiful. Birra Moretti will never taste better than it does up here - so good that I had to stay for another.

Then, of course, there is Sorrento’s own craft brewery, Birrificio Sorrento. More on their beers in a second instalment soon.

Burning Sky Vatted Porter

Porter disappeared from Britain in 1974. In fact, the version brewed by Guinness until that date had only been available in Northern Ireland, so drinkers on the mainland would have been deprived of the style even earlier. This explains why the Californian Anchor Porter may, having been brewed since 1972, be the oldest porter still in existence. 

In fairness, porter had been in decline for many years – since the late 1800s, in fact. Ron Pattinson's invaluable research suggests that, as porter’s popularity took a dive, so did the quality of the beer, as breweries looked after it less carefully. It’s gravity also gradually dropped - before the First World War, stout and porter had been barely distinguishable, but later, stout became the stronger beer. Whilst some drinkers might have turned to stout, popular tastes leant towards unaged X ales, which evolved into what we now call mild. From the 1920s onwards, porter was not a mainstream beer.

The style returned, briefly, in the late 1970s, and several breweries made porters in the 1980s.

Nowadays, porter's history is, along with that of IPA, one of beer's most treasured origin stories. But that period in which one of Britain’s richest beer traditions completely ceased to exist seems to have left a cultural scar on the current wave of small breweries. Most British micros now make a porter, and several excellent examples hail from the style’s spiritual home of East London. The renewed interest in the style also incorporates a corrective investment in porter’s past – many porters are based on vintage recipes. Even Guinness reportedly raided their archive of brewer’s logs to inspire their Dublin and West Indies porters, launched last year.

But modern brewing techniques are very different to those of porter’s heyday. Few of these historical recreations, interesting though they are, taste much like the original beers would have. The most significant difference is the age of the beer – traditional porters would have spent months in a huge aging vat, sometimes as long as a year. And, inevitably, wild yeasts, including brettanomyces, would have made their way into these vats.

Burning Sky’s vatted porter is the first I've encountered that recreates this aging process. A batch of porter is deliberately spiked with brett before spending five months in an oak vat. It’s a great idea and, in terms of process, not so vastly difference to the other special beers made at Burning Sky – the barrel aged, semi-sour saisons, or the Flanders Red.

Towards the end of last year I tried the porter which is presumably the basis of this version, and it was excellent. Much of its richness and bitter, roasted flavour is retained here. There’s coffee and bitter chocolate, as we might expect, along with some toast, and carbonation is low. The sour note you'd expect from the brettanomyces is not so pronounced as I expected – the label suggests that this beer can either be drunk young, or kept for some time, and I’d be interested to see how a little more time in the bottle might change it. As it stands, the brett certainly alters the flavour profile of the beer, and it is still a recognisably great porter, so perhaps that’s for the best. The time in the oak brings, for me, an acidity that recalls red wine, a depth of flavour that even leans towards a slight saltiness, and some tart cherry notes which gel nicely with the coffee and chocolate.

My bottle came from the fabulous Trafalgar Wines. The beer is harder to find online than I expected but, if you’re quick, you can snap up a handsome 750ml bottle here. 

London Smoke porter & chipotle BBQ sauce

With BBQ season firmly upon us, smoked beer is never far from my mind. And since my BBQ beans cooked with Beavertown Smog Rocket porter went a while ago, I decided to tweak the recipe to make a rich, tangy BBQ sauce that I could store in my fridge in anticipation of my first BBQ of the year. I only made a few changes – a little less passata, a little more beer. Some added mushroom ketchup (which I use as a vegetarian alternative to Worcestershire sauce – if you don’t mind the anchovy content, you could use that instead) and tamarind sauce for extra depth and tang. And some chipotle chilli, for added smoke and a fiery kick.

Having used Smog Rocket already, I didn't want to go with the same beer this time around. Smoked porter is undoubtedly the way to go – the smoke is appropriate, and the roasted malts match the sweet treacle in the sauce. So this time I've opted for Five Points’ London Smoke. It’s a big beer in many ways – rich, boozy, full of coffee, chocolate and currant flavours, amongst others. The smoke is not hugely pronounced, but gives a meaty background that will work. It’s quite bitter, so an extra touch of sugar is needed.

The sauce tastes great. If you eat meat, I imagine this could make for a really special burger. And as you tuck into your juicy half-pounder, you might pity me with my dry, lifeless soya patty – but you needn't bother, because I've come to love the ‘hockey puck’ veggie burger. Especially with one of these on top.

Ingredients      

• 1 chopped onion

• 1 tsp smoked garlic powder, or 2 cloves fresh smoked garlic, minced or crushed

• 1 tsp chipotle paste or half a dried chipotle chili, deseeded and finely chopped

• Generous pinch of smoked paprika

• Pinch of oregano

• 200ml Five Points London Smoke, or other smoked porter

• 150ml passata

• 1 tsp black treacle/molasses

• 2 tbsp tomato puree

• 1 tbsp soft dark brown sugar, plus an extra pinch

• 1 tbsp Dijon mustard

• 1 tbsp red wine vinegar

• 1 tsbp mushroom ketchup or Worcestershire sauce

• 1 tsp tamarind sauce

Method

• Fry the onion on a medium heat for about 5 minutes, until soft and golden.
• Stir in the smoked garlic, chipotle, oregano and smoked paprika and fry for another minute or so.
• Add the passata and stir in all of the other ingredients and season. Retain a small amount of the beer (around 10-15ml) and keep to one side.
• Reduce the heat as far as possible whilst keeping the sauce at a simmer. Stir frequently to make sure it isn’t burning, and simmer for around an hour, or until thick, checking the seasoning several times. It’s unlikely to ever become quite as thick and gloopy as a bottled BBQ sauce, but use this consistency as a guide.
• Once you reach your desired consistency, remove the pan from the heat and set to one side to cool.
• Once cooled, transfer the sauce into a blender or food processor with the remaining beer. Once smooth, return to the blended sauce to the pan.
• Whilst the sauce reheats, wash and sterilise a jar. To do this, thoroughly wash the jar with washing up liquid and hot water, but don’t dry it. Then place it in the oven upside down on a baking tray and turn on the heat. After a few minutes, turn it the other way up. Keep checking it, and when the moisture has dried, remove it from the oven. Fill it with the warm sauce and fit the lid tightly. Once the jar has cooled, put it in the fridge until ready to serve. 

Silo and the Old Tree Brewery

I've been wanting to eat at Silo, a restaurant tucked behind Brighton’s North Laine, for a while. Perhaps you've heard of it – it’s the UK’s first zero-waste restaurant (read more about the concept at their website). Admirable and important as that is, it was the ‘plant’ options on their menu that caught my attention – these are often vegetable ‘steaks’, slabs of fried potato or cauliflower. This appears, on the face of it, such a woefully misguided and inadequate attempt at a vegetarian main that surely no chef would include it on a menu unless it was actually a brilliant idea.

Inevitably, there are those who turn their nose up – read online reviews and you’ll find complaints about the plywood chairs (uncomfortable) and mason jar glassware (kooky), perhaps missing the point in that these items are reclaimed and so in keeping with the restaurant’s ethos. You can’t win here – I’m sure damning reviews along the lines of “you say you’re sustainable and yet these chairs are clearly mass-produced in China” would soon appear if they did anything else. It’s always funny to imagine these people sitting, sour-faced, shovelling their grilled slab of broccoli furiously around their plate, and it made me all the more determined to eat there.

Silo also houses the Old Tree Brewery. Their biography on the Silo website leans towards self-parody at times (“Thomas Daniell and Nick Godshaw had a chance meeting on a train after an anti-fracking film showing”), but their approach is genuinely interesting, inspired by “pre-industrial” methods of brewing. This includes, where applicable, the use of foraged ingredients. They also use ‘intercepted’ fruit in their soft drinks and ciders – essentially, fruit that would otherwise have gone to waste. This is exciting to me because not only is a relatively high-concept restaurant taking beer (not to mention the even less fashionable cider and perry) seriously, but actually making it an integral part of what they do.

When I visit, there is a nettle beer on offer – this is an ancient tradition, a fermented drink made with nettles, but none of the other integral ingredients of beer. Usually, I doubt I’d give it a chance, but I’m determined to taste one of the in-house brews, so I order it. It’s very good- there’s a balance of tart and sweet flavours which reminds me of dry cider, with a big citrus tang and bitter herbal notes from the nettles. The other Old Tree offerings are a perry and a lemon and lime mead, but I opt for Idle Bo, a stout from Bartleby's, a small brewery based in Hollingdean in Brighton. Bartleby's is an obvious partner for Silo – they’re a worker’s co-op, producing unfined beers which they deliver by bicycle, and similarly committed to minimising waste. The stout is rich with treacle and aniseed flavours, but lacks any kind of carbonation or condition and is served far too cold. It’s also a little thin-bodied, which actually works when accompanying my food, but probably wouldn't satisfy otherwise. There’s a decent beer in there somewhere, but this isn't the way to serve it.

The food, by the way, is fantastic. To start, I have a heritage tomato salad with smoked quinoa and what I think is some kind of tangy cheese curd. Despite my fascination with the veggie steaks, I actually end up going for a beetroot risotto, which has the ideal consistency and is packed with pieces of sweet and earthy yellow beetroot. I’d highly recommend a visit, especially as you won’t be fobbed up with some pseudo-premium lager for the sin of daring to stray from the wine list.

Pelforth Brune: A certain 'je ne sais quoi'

I've mentioned my fondness for Pelforth Brune here before. When I was a teenager, my dad used to do the occasional ‘booze cruise’ to Calais, returning with a few 6-packs of Pelforth Brune amongst the bargain cases of wine, and it was probably the second beer (after London Pride) that I enjoyed that wasn't a standard light lager. If I didn't think he would read this post, I might even admit to having pinched the odd bottle from the stash in his shed  and taken them to gatherings at friends’ houses, feeling very sophisticated whilst shunning the lukewarm Carling in favour of a French import.

And then, once I left home, I didn't taste it for years. It is available in the UK (online retailers like the excellent Beermerchants stock it, for example), but not a common beer by any means. And absence made the heart grow fonder. As I became more interested in beer, I’d often think of Pelforth Brune; what was the deal with that crazy sweet French beer I used to surreptitiously sup as a teen? Was it a brown ale? A lager? I longed to sample it again.

In the meantime, I trawled the internet for information, piecing together a little background information on the beer and the brewery. Pelforth dates back to 1914, and was originally named Pelican. The name changed in 1972, adding the Anglo-sounding ‘forth’ because they used English malt in their beer. English beers were popular in 1930s France, and Brune was first brewed in either 1935 or 1937 (the date varies from source to source) to satisfy this demand with a domestic product. The brewery was purchased by Francaise de Brasserie in 1986, who were then bought out by Heineken two years later. Pelforth remains a Heineken brand today and, whilst its scarcity and somewhat unusual profile might seem exotic to me, it is very much a common, everyday beer in France – it is the most popular dark beer in the domestic market, and one of the highest sellers of any variety.

One of my online searches was fruitful – I found a great blog by Toby Cecchini, detailing his own small Pelforth Brune obsession, and his post answers some questions I've often pondered. For example, the beer is listed as a brown ale on sites like Ratebeer and Beer Advocate – it has a lot in common with traditional English brown ales, and its body and malt profile is no less substantial than many I've tasted. But I've often suspected that it is bottom fermented, which Toby confirms. The term ‘double malted’ which appears on the bottle’s label has never meant much to me either – turns out it refers to the combination of lightly-kilned and caramel malt. As Toby points out, this means that the beer isn't made from entirely roasted malt – caramel malt is a liquidised roasted malt sugar. If this sounds like a money saving shortcut imposed by the Heineken corporation, you may be surprised to learn that it has always been this way.

A great passage from Toby’s blog describes reactions to his professed love for Pelforth Brune;

“I've had friends drag me back bottles of it, with disbelief. Truly? With all the haut de gamme products one might purloin from Paree, you want this beer from the supermarket? This reaction is a mere shadow of what the French themselves exhibit when I regale them of my love for Pelforth Brune. Most of them smirk acidly, trying to parse whether I'm being facetious or not. Imagine some excitable French nerd sputtering on about his deep love for Miller High Life.”

This leaves me wondering whether either side of this argument is truly tasting the beer for what it is. Of the small number of beer drinkers who will admit to a fondness for Pelforth Brune, few will mention it outside of the context of happy memories of French sunshine. Ben McFarland, for example, designates the beer as “classic” in his book Boutique Beers, whilst adding the disclaimer, “There may not be those do not consider this a classic”. For him, though, “it’s like that Madeleine dipped in tea was for fellow Frenchman Marcel Proust”, taking him back to his student days in France. Those of us who like it seem quite determined to like it, just as those who wish to dismiss it as unsophisticated macro fare are unlikely to give it a fair chance.

I have a 650ml bottle of Pelforth Brune in my possession. When my band played in Paris some weeks ago, we decided to politely decline a kind offer of floor space in a cramped apartment and treat ourselves to a budget hotel for the night. I bought the beer to drink in the hotel room (everyone knows hotel room beers are a rare treat) but, on arrival in an especially grim branch of Formule 1 in a less than inviting neighbourhood, I lost all desire to drink it and went straight to bed instead. Much as I like the beer, I wouldn't normally bother to bring any back home with me; but it remained in my bag and, as it joined the rest of my stash, I wondered how it would taste when drunk on my sofa. It was unlikely to match up to the memory of the last time I tasted it, in a roadside restaurant hallway through a leisurely bike ride between Nice and Juan-les-Pinnes.

It pours an attractive reddish-brown, with a beige head. The aroma isn't hugely inviting – it’s a little acidic, and reminds me of Harvey’s Bloomsbury Brown. The taste is actually not dissimilar either, although perhaps this is closer to a big, malt-monster of a Scotch ale – caramel sweetness is dominant, with no notable hop presence at all. That malt is full of interesting flavours – there’s a little chocolate, but mixed with cereals, a bit like a malted chocolate milkshake. Banana, plum and cola are all present, alongside a nutty, marzipan note. This is possibly characteristic of certain French yeast strands – I've noticed it in the occasional Biére de Garde, especially Jenlain.

It’s unlikely to be to everyone’s tastes – I can imagine many might find it too sweet – but there’s genuine complexity here. I can’t pretend to be objective, because I want to like Pelforth Brune based on happy memories I associate with the beer. But if you haven’t tried it and you do happen to be ordering from Beermerchants, I’d urge you to take a punt and try it for yourself. And if you don’t like it, book yourself a holiday in France and see if that changes your mind. 

More Euro beers; Paris, Eindhoven, Antwerp

Not two weeks after we returned from our European tour (which I wrote about here and here), I was back off to Europe with The Soft Walls for a few more shows on the continent. As ever, I was on the hunt for good beer, and here’s what I found.

Last time we were in Paris, time was too tight to go looking for beer though, to be honest, I had little inclination to do so. I know there is good beer in France, but you have to try pretty hard to find it – you can walk past countless interesting looking bars, only to find they serve nothing more exciting than Kronenburg or Leffe. After we soundcheck, we go to meet the promoters for tonight’s show at a bar down the street and, as the subject of beer comes up in conversation, one of them informs me of a good beer bar just around the corner. After dinner, we head over to check out La Fine Mousse. It’s a trendy place with an air of a yuppie wine bar, and some of the bar staff seem to be actively trying to promote stereotypes about Parisian nonchalance. But the atmosphere is good, and the tap list strong – plenty of French beers alongside Belgian, Dutch, British and other imports. My first choice is Special Bitter from Brasserie du Mont Saléve. Although it tastes nothing like an English bitter, dominated as it is by US-style grapefruit and sweet orange hop flavours, it is refreshing and sessionable in much the same way. It’s very clean and fresh-tasting, perfect for a summer evening, and, though served from keg, I think it would make a very fine cask beer. Next up is Thiriez Etoile du Nord. Billed as an English saison, this was originally a collaboration between Thiriez in Escquelbecq and John Davidson from (now defunct) Swale Brewery in Kent. The hops are all from Kent, and the beer comes off something like a malt-driven, bready English golden ale spiked with peppery saison yeast. It's great, and perhaps this one might work well in the cask, too. Worried about drinking too much before we play, I leave it at that, though I would have loved to have stayed and sampled some more of the French beers. The general neighbourhood, as well as the bar itself, are worth visiting if you are in Paris – the atmosphere here is great and a lot different from the usual tourist areas of the city I’d visited before.

The next day we’re off to Eindhoven in the Netherlands for the Eindhoven Psych Lab festival. Happily for me, Van Moll, a brewery based in the city, has a stand at the festival. Whilst watching our pals Doug Tuttle play a ripper of a set, I sample a beer I’d been eagerly awaiting – Dougal, a Belgian golden ale brewed with Chanterelle mushrooms and Rochefort yeast, and brewed especially for the event. It instantly tastes great – spicy yeast flavours leaning more towards sharp apple and rhubarb than the soft, bubblegum flavours you sometimes find in this style – though I assume the mushrooms are a bit of a gimmick, a light-hearted nod to the psychedelic leanings of many of the bands playing the festival. But after a while, I swear I can detect a certain earthiness, which works very well with the dry finish of the beer – everything comes together perfectly. Not so good is the Doerak IPA, which is like cloying Fruit Salad sweets with an aftertaste of cheddar cheese. It doesn’t put me off, though, and I decide to take the walk across town to visit the Van Moll brewpub.

Simple though the journey is in theory, I soon find myself deeply involved in my apparent new favourite hobby – wandering around unfamiliar European cities in an increasingly fraught state, searching for beer bars. This time, for a refreshing change, I’m doing it in the middle of a thunderstorm. When I arrive I’m pretty well drenched, and very thirsty. Luckily, the bar is great, worth the journey – large, bright and cosy. There are six house beers on offer, though not all are brewed on the premises, alongside some guest beers and a wide selection of bottles - many of the locals are drinking Thornbridge Halcyon or Kernel export porter. I go for Van Moll’s Gizmo IPA, which quickly extinguishes that thirst. Earlier in the day I’d had a bottle of Goose Island IPA, and Gizmo reminds me of that, though fresher, more nuanced and more bitter than the Goose, which was maybe past its best. Funky Lambertus next, intriguingly described as ‘dubbel + the funk’. This beer would appear to be a blend of St. Lambertus, Van Moll’s dubbel, and Mud and Funk, a brett-aged imperial stout collaboration between De Mollen and Anchorage. I haven’t tasted either beer in isolation, but the combination really works – initially, it’s a huge burst of very ripe bananas, but the typical fruit cake dubbel flavours are sacrificed in favour of cheek-puckering, tart green apples.

We’re back in Belgium the next day and, having not made much of an effort to explore the watering holes of Brussels on our last trip, I’m determined to get to a great beer joint in Antwerp. Kuliminator comes highly recommended, and I can’t wait to get there, racing off as soon as we’ve packed up after our set. This journey is relatively painless, through eerily empty streets. The occasional cry from a small bar or living room reminds me that it’s the Champion’s League final, but I couldn’t care less. The bar, when I get there, has a similarly serene atmosphere – very quiet, with classical music playing, and a perfectly peaceful environment for contemplative sipping. The place is a sight to behold, too, resembling an old eccentric’s living room more than an internationally renowned beer bar – there’s stuff everywhere, not all of it beer related, and no less than five cats running around. I love it, but even if you didn’t, you’d stay for the heavyweight beer list. My knowledge of Belgian beers isn’t good enough to truly appreciate its wonders, though I’m amazed to see that bottles of Chimay from 1981, many years before my birth, are available. I choose a glass of Avec les bons voeux, from Brasserie DuPont, from draught. I’ve never strayed from the brewery’s style-defining saison, but this is every bit as good, a huge hit of orange sherbert with a comforting booziness and quenching dry finish. Next is Petrus Aged Pale, which I’ve been wanting to try since hearing about it on the Beer Talkers podcast a while back. It’s the base beer for the Brabandere sour red and brown ales, and the late Michael Jackson encouraged them to release it in its own right.  I have no doubt that aging any beer in oak barrels significantly affects its flavour, but this beer seems to have picked more of a musty, leathery wood flavour than most. Perhaps that doesn’t sound appealing, but it is delicious, and adds background to the bracing sour cheery and raspberry flavour that is upfront (to be clear, the beer contains no fruit – these flavours are just naturally in there). It’s a terrific beer which I hope I can drink again soon. I wish I could have stayed until closing, delving ever further into that epic beer menu, but I can’t. I heartily recommend you do – it’s worth making a special trip for.

Thanks again to Dan, and to Doug Tuttle and Trouble in Mind Records as well as everyone else we met and watched us play. These shows were an amazing experience for many reasons, and I’m only scratching the surface of how fun this all was by discussing the beer.