Lager of the week — Mongozo Premium Pilsener

Gluten-free beers. Good cause, filthy stuff in my experience, and you have to feel sorry for someone who likes a beer but can’t stomach the barley. Several years back I was sent a gluten-free beer. It was Hell in the Pacific in the mouth — Lee Marvin and Toshirô Mifune battling it out on a small Pacific island translated into varnish and Cherry Blossom boot polish rattling each others’ cages on my tongue; I remember thinking: well at least it’s wet. Result: have stayed clear of them until now.

In the middle of researching a ‘whither Pilsner’ piece for All About Beer, I spot that Beer Merchants have got a g/f Pilsner from Huyghe, under the Mongozo brand (was the ‘banana lambic’ I sampled in an Antwerp beer festival in 1996 one of theirs I wonder?). It’s Fair Trade and organic as well, but I’m not chucking my hat onto that particular ethical table. A quick email to BM’s Phil Lowry and he sends me a couple (along with some other Pilsners, thanks Phil — the Rothaus Tannen Zäpfle is monstrously glorious, a cavalry charge of noble hops) and with a sinking heart I pour myself a glass…

Believe it or not it’s great to be wrong, especially when it comes to beer. This Premium Pilsener is easily the best g/f beer I have tasted. For a start it tastes like a good version of a Pilsner, even with rice in the mix (I’m a firm believer of rice in risotto rather than beer but that’s for another debate and there are respected brewers of my acquaintance who will actually argue that rice is not the devil) — it’s pale gold in colour with a nose that’s suggestive of bitter lemon, though lacking the sour-sweet poke in the eye of a lemon. There’s a mineral-like firmness on the palate (rather than that flabby syrup-sweetness you get with many commodity lagers), a pleasant sweetness in the mouthfeel and the slightest of bitter finishes that gets me going back for more. Gluten-free beers have obviously come on since I last carpet-bombed my palate in a good cause. 

Monsieur Rock comes to Rock

To Rock to see Monsieur Rock (Jean-Marie, that is, of Orval). He and Sharps’ brewmaster Stuart Howe are birthing a collaboration beer born of Howe’s trip to Orval in June (I tagged along, a poor man’s Boswell to Howe’s jangly Johnson). No name to the beer yet (what about Monsieur Rock?), but when I arrive, the mash has happened and the wort is running off into the kettle — onto a bed of whole flower Saaz hops I note, giving off that beautiful delicate aroma that strokes and stimulates  every olfactory pleasure zone in my brain (this is the German way of brewing Rock tells me and then writes in my notebook, Vorderwürzehopfen). No more hops will now be added until it is dry hopped in the conditioning tanks. As Howe buzzes about, checks this and checks that, issues commands and confides with his brewers (he’s not as fierce as he’d have you believe), Jean-Marie stands purposefully at the top of the gantry, seemingly commanding the surrounding mash tun and kettle (it seems to me that brewing for those at the top of the tree seems to be about waiting). He’s on good form despite his luggage being lost in transit. Last time we met he’d let slip that Petite Orval (the monks’ drop) would be made as a stand alone brew sometime this year (rather than being watered down) — and it now has been. It’s 4.5% with lots of dry hop character and will be sold (in both bottle and keg) at the Orval café when it reopens next year. Being a bit of an Orval fan we chat about this and that and he casually and unthinkingly drops crumbs of information that I find fascinating— during his early time at the brewery he discovered the recipe for a dark Orval, which was brewed just once but ‘it had a problem’ and never saw the light of day (so to speak); contemporary Orval gets a 45-minute boil but when he arrived it received three hours; what was the result I ask? ‘No head in the glass,’ comes the reply, ‘all the proteins had been dissolved’. Over to Howe’s office we drink Chalky’s Bite with a Cornish Pastie, and then get a glass of Howe’s DW, which is being sold for £10 with all profits going to charity. This is a magnificent beast of a beer: 10.6% in alcohol, hopped with amarillo, cascade and willamette, with amarillo also called up to dry-hopping duty. This is Sauternes as beer, rich, but the sweetness being mellowed by the bitterness, tangerine hints and pineapple blasts on the nose, a fruit salad of desire that I reckon would hold its own in any grapple with a stinky Stilton. Then we try the wort of the unnamed beer (I still reckon Monsieur Rock) — it’s as pale as a lemon that’s just seen a ghost, while the cereal, grainy worty nose has lemony notes in the background and the bitterness is tight and shrill (Howe looks worried but Rock reassures that it will mellow out in tank). I suspect this will be a barnstormer of a beer, something Rock heartily agrees with: ‘This will be the greatest beer ever made in England,’ he laughs, which is not arrogance but the sense of play and fun that this delightful brewmaster brings to his art, yet he’s also someone who garners respect throughout the brewing world (as we talk he gets a text from Mikkeller asking if they can send him some beers and mention something about a Nordic Orval). I now forward to this nameless beer (I still think it should be called Monsieur Rock) and so should you.

The techie stuff: lager malt, Saaz hops, two weeks in fermentation, two-three months in cold condition; bottom fermenting and secondary fermentation in bottle (‘not sure what yet,’ says Stuart with a smile as I suggest Brett). 

Glassware glassware glassware

Glassware, glassware, glassware. It’s the accepted truism that the right glassware for the right beer is the right thing for the right time. In a bar at Taunton today with fellow Guild member Bill Bradshaw (pretty good snapper, see his pix here) and, in order to wash away the taste of fusebox dipped in water that the beer of a local micro had given us, I order a Staro for myself and Bill gets an Estrella Damm. Look at the glass, one of the best I have seen, the right glass etc etc. Unfortunately you get to taste the beer: vanilla ice cream in a lagered beer is not something I am familiar with. My Staro is a plain old nonic isn’t bad, but the Damm is…well damned awful. Moral of the story, get the glass and the beer right. You can spend a lot of money on the externals but if the internals aren’t right then what’s the point…

I quite enjoy a glass of Estrella at La Boqueria in Barcelona when I’m practising my dreadful Spanish before moving onto the Mahou Negra but in the middle of Taunton…

Sheffield is the best beer town around

Let the debates begin: Sheffield is the best beer town around. See my latest piece in online magazine Sabotage Times on why here (BTW I also recommend reading Rohan Ricketts’ footballer dispatches here, they’re a far cry from WAGs etc). 

Come to Hay-on-Wye this weekend for books, beer and bibulous banter (phew)

Tim Hampson and I are doing a collaborative beer tasting at the Hay Ale & Literature Festival this Friday at Kilvert’s, Hay-on-Wye (see here for more insider stuff). We’re on at 8pm, trying to keep people from vanishing after they’ve been rocked by Pete Brown at 7pm, while next day Pete, Zak Avery and Melissa Cole will be strutting their stuff. Tim and I will be doing a kind of ‘He said North Wales, He said South Wales’ gig. I will be doing the northern angle and Tim the southern region (will he include Stella?…). Both of us will feature three beers each and we’ll just riff on the subject, taste the beers, maybe read some literature (my plans for reading some Welsh have been scuppered by my mother’s low estimation of my pronounciation so George Borrow has preambled to the rescue) and just have a good time. The whole festival looks like a thrilling event with over 50 Welsh beers (that would have been a job 20 years ago), a lot going on and of course the lovely place of Hay as a backdrop. If you’re in the area why not drop in, we don’t frighten easily. And if you want to get a glimpse of what you might be in for here’s some footage of myself doing Otley’s O-Garden at the Rake for the drinks website Drinkprice.

How to make a brewmaster smile

Unsmiling, pony-tailed brewmaster; ornate tattoo on leg. At the table he sits, the beers he makes brought into play at the behest of Brits (plus American expat Evan Rail who acts as interpreter). Pivovar Modra Hvezda in the village of Dobrany, a hotel brewpub opposite the the market square; Sunday silent. Where are all the people I ask, thinking of the bustle and briskness that enlivens my local over Sunday lunch. Most at home or visiting families I’m told. I know that if I lived in this rather appealing village I would be here most Sundays studying the substantial beers of brewmaster Petr. Here he’s been since 2003, a refugee from Pilsner Urquell (oh look is that a smile creasing across his face as he recalls his past employers? Go on you can do it). The creator of an excellent range of beers, all of which he’s brings out for us to try as we sit in a small ballroom with a stately family feel. 10˚ is unfiltered, orange coloured in the glass, topped with a firm head of foam. Nose of crushed grain and barley biscuit, a fresh, life-enhancing aroma that wakes me up to the endless possibilities that good beer brings. Resiny hop notes tingle along as well. For a 4% beer there’s a lot going on and I haven’t even had a swig. Oh go on then. In the mouth it’s bittersweet, full flavoured and dry and bitter in the finish. Gorgeous, we concur. Unsmiling the brewmaster remains. 12˚ is slightly darker, with dry dusty grain, caramel, floral notes and a slight pepperiness on the nose. A swig brings forth hints of fruit gums, a slight sweetness with a dry and bitter finish that goes on and on. This is the brewery’s bestseller. The 17˚ gets 50 days maturation and is sweetish on the nose with a background pungent hop character; a thick mouthfeel and alcoholic fieriness contrasts with a smoothness as it washes over the palate. Let’s go to the dark side: the 14˚ Tmavy Special is elegant at the start in the mouth, but has a mid-palate sourness (think plums) that shakes things up in a good way. There’s also a rye-like toastiness with a slight alcohol warmth. Think cold mocha coffee with a nip of booziness. It might be a dark beer, but held up to the light you can see red chestnut tints, which leads Petr to say that with Czech dark beers you should be able to see through them; that he maintains — unsmiling or is that the glimmer of a grin? — is the difference between dark and black beers. Several other beers follow including a thirst quenching wheat beer and a sweet confection of a raspberry beer. Ever the wuss I decline the beer schnapps. We repair to the brewhouse where Petr finally smiles and hands out a sample of the 16˚ amber from the tank. It is full and bitter, very bitter, though smoothish, but not as smooth as it will be — it’s only had three days in the tank (time’s winged chariot). It’s young and immature but still gives off an idea of what it will be like when it grows up. And Petr smiles again or is he just glad to be rid of us…

Oh look he’s smiling

GBG: pub-listing Proustian porn

And the latest Good Beer Guide lands on my desk. Hefty beast but not as heavy as 1001 Beers, but I bet the word count isn’t far off the 250,000 words I spent six months sifting through in 2009. I first bought the GBG in 1992 when I soon discovered the difference between recommending a pub in its pages to my then girlfriend (whom eventually became my wife) to one that was in the Good Pub Guide. One Sunday lunchtime we visited a GBG-recommended boozer in Dorset. I think she expected grub and gingham, but she got a room full of old guys leaning forward and peering at these two out-of-towners, one of who was burbling with excitement because Eldridge Pope’s rare porter (Blackdown Porter?) was on tap. After that, it was the Good Pub Guide if she was in the car and the GBG if I was out on my own or with friends (though many pubs overlap between the two). Roger Protz has been editor (on a second stint) since the turn of the last century (1999 that is) and he’s been doing the rounds of the media today — I suspect this is one of those times when beer is guaranteed to get a good hearing (BTW I got an press release email today that told me about the Pope’s love for Spitfire…flippin’ heck, what next a t-shirt with ‘I downed a Spitfire’?). Thoughts on it? The GBG is an institution, and like all institutions it doesn’t please everyone (like my wife) but it’s strong enough in its own skin to ride over those who might snipe at it; because of the voluntary nature of CAMRA and despite the best efforts of the members (I’ve done the surveys, I was out on Exmoor on a cold January night, went into a pub I thought worth recommending and the barman pulled me a half and said that he hadn’t pulled one through that tap for a couple of days…) it can’t always cover everywhere; there are occasions where I have gone into a GBG pub and thought like my wife-to-be did all those years ago (a sign of increasing age or just irritation with wall to wall tickers?). I also miss the articles at the front from various writers — I have an old GBG from the 1980s where Michael Jackson writes about American beers. The stuff on the Global Giants can be a bit Dave Spart too but hell this is CAMRA’s (and Roger’s) gig and it hits the solar plexus where it counts (ie promoting beer). It’s magnificent that it continues on its way and even as I use it for the now I also use it to delve back into the past  — Cambridge for instance has many of my old haunts; then there’s the King’s Head in Llandudno, the first place I ever called my local. So there you go: pub-listing Proustian porn for all. I recommend it for that alone (not sure if the wife does). 

Good Beer Guide 2011, price £15.99, though you get discounts if a member or go through Amazon.