My third-nearest Young’s pub (which is named after the unpleasant, and unreadable, poisoned dwarf Alexander Pope, but I try not to let that damage my enjoyment of it) is currently selling draught Waggledance, the honey beer now, since all brewing of Young’s beers moved to Bedford, on its third brewery. This is not a beer I drink at home, but as I was in a pub I thought I’d experiment with Waggledance as a mixed beer. Young’s ales, since they have plenty of individual character, make excellent mixes, the best being a classic, Winter Warmer and Ordinary. This is the traditional “Mother-in-Law”, or old-and-bitter (no reference is intended here to any of my mothers-in-law, living or dead, and certainly not to you, Kate, as if …).
(Note: for a longer and more thorough treatment of this subject, go here)
I’m not, when I’m in a pub, a great worrier about what shape of glass my beer is served in, unlike my father, who would only drink out of a thin-walled straight glass – he said he couldn’t stand the feel of the thick-glass “mug” against his lips. The straight-sided, or slightly sloping-sided pint beer glass has been around from the early 20th century at least. But the authentic English “four-ale bar” (public bar) pint mug up to the end of the First World War was actually a china pot in a bizarre shade of pink with a white strap handle – see George Orwell’s classic “Moon Under Water” essay from the Evening Standard in 1946, where Orwell, always the inverted snob, complains that this working-class mug was getting hard to find.
The usual sort of glassware in Edwardian pubs was a handle-less sloping-sided, thick-walled “straight” pint mug (pewter was restricted to the saloon bar). Around 1928 the 10-sided or “fluted” handled glass pint mug came in, and this is the pint glass seen in all the “Beer Is Best” advertising put out by the Brewers Society in the 1930s (it is also, in this drinker’s opinion, the finest glass to consume English ale from).
Not particularly a propos of drinking Courage Imperial Russian Stout as brewed at the Anchor Brewery, I called at the Anchor Tap in Horselydown Lane, round the back of the old Courage Brewery and a tourist’s gob from Tower Bridge, just for an update.
Architecturally it’s a fine old pub with an interior layout dating back 150 years at least, and in a style now hard to find – two bars, lots of little rooms off those, and rooms off corridors, there’s even a darts board … Of course. the wasp in the pintpot is that the beer is now Samuel Smith’s, which means, as it does in most Sam’s pubs in London, no handpumps, and their own eccentric choices of fizzy keg beers that are apparently meant to be Tadcaster’s answer to the best-sellers from other brewers – Sam Smith’s wheat beer instead of Hoegaarden, Sam Smith’s Extra Stout instead of that stuff from Dublin.
I feel when I’m in a Sam’s pub that I have entered the premises of a peculiar cult, where nothing from the outside world can be allowed to sully the Yorkshire purity that exists between these four walls: “Tha keeps thy Guinness to thissen, lad! Us’ll ‘ave nowt but gradely beer from God’s Own County!” Continue reading Anchor-ite
The birthdays that are generally regarded as landmarks are mostly the ones that end in a zero: 30, 40, 50 and on upwards every ten years. Many get deeply gloomy as the anniversary odometer clicks over another decade. But the most depressing, I think, are the “demographic milestones”, the birthdays that indicate you’ve gone into a different category as far as marketers and demographers are concerned: 25 to 34, 35 to 44, 45 to 54 and so on. Suddenly, in the middle of your forties, or whatever, you are ticking a new box on forms, re-categorised with people nearly 10 years older.
This month I have been demographically re-sorted, and shifted in with people who might be only days from retirement. Please! I still buy records by people like Amy Winehouse, Rufus Wainwright and the Arctic Monkeys – do I have to line up in the same cohort as 64-year-olds? OK, I would rather sit naked on broken glass than go to Glastonbury, but I’ve felt that since three days of enforced constipation at the Shepton Mallet rock and blues festival in 1970 when I was 18.
Still, another birthday is an excellent excuse to try out some of the old beers I have slumbering upstairs, and there are three that are themselves reaching significant anniversaries. One I was particularly keen to sample again was Whitbread Celebration Ale, brewed to mark the 250th anniversary, in 1992, of Samuel Whitbread becoming a brewer, and made at a whopping 1100.5 OG . It was brewed at the former Tennant Brothers’ Exchange brewery in Sheffield, which closed the following year. I bought 12 bottles when it came out, and tried the first bottle five years after, in 1997. The nose was fantastic – blackberries, raisins, a mass of fruity flavours. However, tasting the beer it was clearly still far too young, with immature “meaty” flavours, and over-sweet, from heavy sugars that had still not broken down. Another bottle five years later was also still too young, and so was one I tried two years ago, when it was 13 years old but it was getting there, so at 15 I thought the beer ought to be ripe by now, and I fetched one down from the attic.
The arrival of increasing numbers of African immigrants to the UK in the 1990s meant that demand sprang up for Guinness Foreign Extra Stout, the strong (7.5 per cent ABV) version of Dublin’s black brew, which is made in breweries across Africa, and is one of the biggest selling beer brands on the continent. Guinness had never sold FES in the UK (or Ireland), except briefly (under the name XXX) in the 1970s, but by the mid-1990s it was available in Britain, where it competed with “grey” imports of FES from Nigeria for the immigrant trade.
One of the unique aspects of FES is that it is brewed using a special roast barley, malt and hops concentrate, deeply black and amazingly bitter, invented in the early 1960s by Guinness scientists, and originally called Concentrated Mature Beer. Now, under the name Guinness Flavour Extract, it is sent out from Ireland to the 50 or so breweries around the world that brew FES, where it is added at the rate of two per cent GFE to 98 per cent pale locally brewed beer. The boom in Guinness FES sales around the world meant that in 2003 Guinness decided it could not make enough GFE in Dublin, and refitted the former Cherry’s brewery in Mary Street, Waterford to make six million litres of GFE a year, using 9,000 tonnes of barley.
Today, while FES is still imported from Dublin, the Nigerian version is now legitimately available here via proper import channels – with the result that you can find the Dublin version in Sainsbury’s, while Tesco has versions brewed in Nigeria. I say “versions”, because a study of the back labels shows there appear to be two different sorts of Nigerian FES. Both use sorghum, a traditional African grain (used to make traditional African beers), at the insistence of the Nigerian government, which wanted locally-grown produce in locally brewed and sold beer: you can’t grow barley in Nigeria. However, alongside the sorghum, some bottles of Nigerian FES in Tesco say they also contain wheat, while others say they contain maize.
This is the first entry on the Zythophile blog, and thus the place to explain what this blog is meant to be
The idea is to present one beer drinker’s life of beer with a few side trips, diversions and so on along the way. A zythophile is a lover of beer, a word formed from zythos (pronounced ZEE-thos, with the th sound as in thus), an old Greek word for beer, and philos, the old Greek word for loving or fond of. Zythophilia is thus the love of beer (you won’t find the word in any dictionary yet, but it would be the final entry in most), and zythography is writing about beer. I trust this blog will appeals to fellow zythophiliacs and zythographers. Themes that will crop up, I hope, should include beer history, beer styles, beer with food, pubs, tastings and beer in the news. Friendly and constructive comments are welcome. Unfriendly ones will be tolerated.