Trust

Red barley was used to make this beer,
it was chewy, full-bodied and rather enticing

After a visit to Carlsberg a couple of weeks ago I’ve been thinking a lot about trust. When various people at the brewery talked about the need to recall their origins, you know Emil Hansen, the good works of JC Jacobsen and so on (which suggested that they had forgotten who they were — as the last time I was there was in 2011 for the launch of a sodding advert and a meal), I thought, can I trust what you say; when I drunk a beautiful single malt lager that had been produced on their experimental kit, lightly fruity, delicate despite being 5%, uncomplicated but damned in the way it went down my throat, which was then followed by a beer that had green unripe barley as part of the mix (estery, grassy, clean), I thought about trust, would these beers ever see the light of day beyond the room we were in; and then there were certain phrases from people that acknowledged the revolution that craft had brought about, with almost like an air of sackcloth and ashes about it, mea culpa and all that, and as I drank the Jacobsen Yakima IPA in the brewery’s brewpub, I also thought about trust. And then several days ago Anheuser-Busch sacked several hundred employees from the High End subsidiary and I wondered what they thought of trust. I hope I can trust Carlsberg, I met some good people, and I respect the role it played in the development of beer in the 19th century, and I enjoyed the 1883 Vienna-style Dunkel-style beer that they are rolling out in Denmark (but not here), but I keep thinking about trust. 

Carlsbergensis interruptive

Notes on a press conference announcing Carlsberg’s recent launch of its new slogan  

Auditorium — presentation — 45 minutes — noisy — flashing lights — thumping music — film clips — sport — high adrenalin — anthemic rock — incentive to get drunk? — man at podium — ‘iconisation’ — 55 production lines across the world — all will adapt to the new visual identity — words — heritage — quality — semper ardis — character — the reward of a Carlsberg for doing the right thing —  that calls for a Carlsberg  — more words — witty — confident — premium — dramatic — in most countries the strap-line will be in English — packaging — comedy in ads — Everest — TV aerial — football — man on moon — interesting to see an ad that shows a pint with a magnifying glass picking out the word hops (I) — more words — aromatic — crisp refreshing taste — back to brandolese — global and local approval — what does that mean? — questions please — Lithuania — ban on alcohol advertising — what will you do — Russia — sex, new cars — eh? (I) — yes, probably the best lager in the world has gone —part of the DNA of the brand — will it overshadow itself — targeting a mind set — do people really buy this guff? (I) — lunch — that calls for a Carlsberg — really? 

A nice dinner with Carlsberg

I received an invitation to visit Carlsberg in Copenhagen, where JC Jacobsen kicked off brewing in the 1850s. A global brewer, a painless Pilsner, ubiquitous branding, but hell so what — this is one of the great brewing enterprises of the world, a space that is filled with all manner of architectural flourishes. I particularly wanted to see the massive stone elephants that stand at the gates, carrying the weight of an old part of the brewery on their backs, a nod to the ancient Hindu belief that the earth was supported on the backs of a group of taciturn pachyderms. Then there was the microbrewery that Carlsberg had installed (whose beers I had enjoyed when they made a brief appearance in the UK), which is why on Monday evening I was thrilled to be drinking Jacobsen Saaz Blonde with a starter of smoked wild salmon.

‘We are here to have a nice dinner and a cheerful evening,’ said a round-faced, rubicund man in chef’s whites. He was the head of the cooks’ corps that produced the night’s beer dinner, held in the Greek temple-like surroundings of Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, an art museum founded by Carl Jacobsen, the son of JE. To say that Carl was a bit of an art collector is like saying that Captain Kidd dabbled in a spot of piracy. In a long gallery prior to eating we were shown galleries stuffed with marble sculptures from the French impressionists including Medusa having her head sliced off and a particularly effective one of Adam and Eve after the fall (even as an atheist I could admire the despair and misery that the artist had captured on the face of Eve, the true meaning of expulsion).

Gallery after gallery demonstrated that the Jacobsens practised patronage of the arts on a par with the Medicis (but in a much more benevolent way, no one was killed or made Pope as far as I can make out) — for instance, a hall featuring Roman copies of Greek statues brought to mind a hall of heroes (not the originals but still pretty old), a sort of classical Valhalla; meanwhile stone fragments from the graves of long dead people reminded me of a passage in Tom Holland’s Rubicon, where he wrote of lonely tombs on the road to Rome  having a bittersweet smell of herbs, spices and decay about them.

In the foyer, where we were served Carlsberg’s sweetish, soft Pilsner, simple but unifying in its refreshing capability, tropical flora reached up to the sky and all that was missing was parrots and monkeys. Dinner was served in a Greek temple with Jacobsen Saaz Blonde alongside the aforementioned salad of smoked wild salmon, the beer’s ringing, singing Gewürztraminer notes lifting the flavours of the salmon and the smoked cream cheese; it’s a bright, cheerful beer, sunny and friendly. It was a pretty brilliant beer and food match.

Carlsberg’s speciality beer chap Bjarke Bundgaard was on our table and as pleased with the match as we were. For the next course, salted rooster (as the chef said) and Jacobsen Forasbryg to match. A spring beer. Wasn’t so hot about this one, though on its own it worked. The beer was sweeter and seasoned with woodruff, which seemed to bring the character of coconut oil to the aroma and on the palate; a bit blowsy maybe. I wondered if it needed the heft of more alcohol to do battle with the food (it was 6.3%, while the Saaz was 7.1%). Chocolate pudding followed but several of us were on our way to the Mikkeller bar by then (and what a great space that is, more of that later this week).

But let us return to the dinner. Whatever the beer, location location location would have won out on this: we ate and drank in a classical space with columns, arches and statues, all moments that brought the classical age to life. Meanwhile Carlsberg showed that they got what was going on in craft beer (and the next day brought tastings of the Dark Lager, Pale Ale and the captivating Extra Pilsner).

It is easy to criticise Carlsberg. They are a big target. There’s a big ad campaign out there in the world (which is why about 80+ journalists were present). The tagline is ‘That deserves a Carlsberg’ and was unveiled along with associated flim-flam (thundering rock music, ad slots for the telly and cinema and speeches from assorted execs that included the phrases ‘iconization’ and ‘global and local approach’). Sure it’s about beer sold like Coca-Cola, but then that’s par for the course with global brewers, that’s the way they operate. On the other hand their Premium beer is 100% malt, a new strain they’ve developed, and no corn or rice is added (a Croatian journalist was very keen on getting this made clear). Or maize even as one senior executive coyly said (referring obliquely to one of their competitors’ beers). It’s also a beer that fits a certain situation, after squash, a run, five-a-side. It’s not something I drink much and while I adored Mikkeller and its bar (Vesterbro Pilsner was gorgeous and got me in a spin while Black Hole was immensity itself, rich, luxurious, lushness), but I’m also impressed with Carlsberg for their Jacobsen range. They don’t have to do it, but they do. Credit where credit is due and it’s a shame we don’t see it over here anymore.

‘We are here to have a nice dinner and a cheerful evening,’ said the round-faced, rubicund man in chef’s whites. And we did.

The splendid bar that stands about the Jacobsen microbrewery

Lager of the week — Carlsberg Cold

From Northampton with love. In a quiet corner of the Bridge, Saturday afternoon reflections, sunlight spearing in through the window, a spotlight on the carpet, I lift a glass of Carlsberg Cold. It’s  the colour of the sort of cellophane that shopkeepers once hung in their windows to keep out flies (or Lucozade bottles used to be wrapped in). Can of sweetcorn opened 30 minutes ago on the nose, it’s cold and crisp in the mouth and has a hint of lemon-flavoured boiled sweets — then there’s a dryness developing. It’s slightly sharp, but there’s no real flavour. It’s refreshing enough in the way a glass of shandy does the honours after a particularly ferocious game of squash. It doesn’t float my boat, but it’s not as frightening and fiendish as who-have-you-converted-to-real-ale-today types would have us believe. It’s there, it’s here, it’s beer. I leave my glass half full and order a draught Budvar, I’m intrigued to note that the Carlsberg Cold develops a burnt rubber note on the nose as it cools. Landlady Rachel passes by and agrees with me. What’s this burnt rubber all about then?

• If I’m going to write about lager then I cannot ignore this bestseller, well I can but at the moment I’m saving all my ignoring for the monstrous Bedlam that is Britain’s Got Talent.

Coke shandy

In the Bridge yesterday afternoon, a chap at the bar orders a half of Coke and a half of Carlsberg. ‘You’ve been living in Germany,’ I say, ‘possibly Duisberg?’ To my great delight, as it furthers my beer ego immensely at the bar, he nods yes. ‘best place for it,’ I then say, meaning the Carlsberg in his glass; this is not really good beer etiquette, people drink what they want to drink. ‘It does ok for me,’ he grunts and then goes to sit down. I think he won that encounter. The last thing I want to appear as is as a fully paid up member of the beer police.