The blanche is as sharp and spiky as a retro punk haircut, a refreshing draft that lets coriander spiciness and lemon barley sweetness mosh-pit its way to the clean finish. There’s a brune and a blonde hanging around on the beer card as well, while there are some bottles with a Belgian theme as well. All brewed somewhere else in the building, by Guillaume Denayer, who used to work at Caracole and Rochefort. His last job before coming here was in a crisps factory and he was bored and wanted to get back into brewing. Brew-kit is Austrian, a stainless steel combination polished to the sort of perfection that the ancient Greeks would have had on their shields to trap Medusa with her reflection. He brews 15 different beers. Back in the bar, I note a mini Mannikin Pis peeking out from behind the glasses at the back of the well-wooded bar and the restaurant space has Bruegel-lite paintings on the wall. The staff hover about in brasserie-default uniform (aprons, black, you know the form), while the menu includes Flemish-style cuisine. The bar at which I sit has chrome piping, wrought iron work flourishes on the gantry and I continue to enjoy the wit. Where am I? Oh, sorry forgot to say, BrasserieMetropole, St Petersburg.