DOS HERMANOS GO GBBF: BEERY ME

It's that time of the year again when Dos Hermanos don their comedy breasts and tummy combos (whaddya mean, you thought they were real?), eat Pork products and drink beer. Actually that sounds like a normal day for DH, but it is in fact is what we get up to on our annual visit to the Great British Beer Festival.

This year HS is currently travelling around the US doing a sort of Man vs Odd Animal Parts and in this battle it sounds as if he’s aceing it. So in his place I enlisted the help of Paul, a mutual friend and long-suffering York City fan (is there any other sort) and his Spurs-supporting (booo) buddy, Marius.

Being from the North, Paul suffers from hypoglycaemia if not given constant injections of carbohydrate-based foodstuffs. So instead of the usual heavy–duty gym session followed by a protein shake or an egg-white omelette we opted instead for a very hard tube ride followed by something called a “bacon buttie”.

For the breakfast venue I had chosen The Troubadour in Earls Court which was a bit of a destination for folkies during the Sixties. Dylan played there, so did Paul Simon and also the fabulous guitarist Davie Graham. Now it’s a pleasingly ramshackle sort of all-day brasserie affair with adjoining wine shop. Our young French waitress, while sweet enough, got into the spirit of things by being a complete hippy and forgetting our fried eggs in our rolls. Still, once we got them it wasn’t too shoddy with decently cooked bacon and eggs and they brought both types of sauce.

Last year the queue before Midday, when the festivus kicks off, was up one side of the Earls Court but this time it was twice as long. Luckily, once the gates do open, there’s a blur of grey with wrinklies moving like they’re outside the Post Office on Pension day. Us young’uns have a hell of a job keeping up. These days the queue is now shepherded down through the bowels of the exhibition centre which at least gives me a chance to crack a few Tap gags (Hello Cleveland!).

Once inside the vast space the crowds disperses and for an hour or two at least one can enjoy the pub games, traditional pub snacks like Pork Pies and Scratchings and the many beers on offer. Speaking of which we started with a few pints of Mild - the official DH ale of choice – which were pretty good, even the Greene King one.

This year I went a little off piste this year by trying some other styles. Castle Rock’s Harvest Pale was the Champion Beer of Britain. It’s a pretty light, quaffable, golden ale although like a lot of beers these days it’s pretty ‘hoppy’. It was a bit too sweet for my taste.

There was also the visit to the Cider and Perry stall halfway through precedings where I almost had a bit of a ‘Curb’ moment as I waited for people ahead of me to sample what seemed like every bleedin’ one. Me, I went extreme with a half of Perry whose name now escapes me but was probably something like “Sheep’s Scrotum”. What didn’t escape me was the 7 point something percentage strength and a dryness rating of 7. My mouth will never trust me again.

Eventually there’s the sound of a glass breaking, followed by the inevitable cheer which is the signal for us to start thinking about a few last beers before taking our leave. This year I wanted to try a non-British beer. I suggested an American beer and Marius suggested a stout.

The kindest thing I could say about King Oak Milk Stout from Massachusetts
was that at least it was served at the proper temperature. Otherwise it was, as our Mam used to say, “All fur coat and no knickers”. Towards the end of the glass it was like drinking tepid coffee. Not pleasant.

To be fair some of the UK’s newer beers leave me a bit cold as well - I’d swap them all for a perfect pint of London Pride. Mind you, as I said to Paul as we battled our way out against the incoming hordes, if the low point of your day was getting a beer you didn’t like then you’re doing pretty, pretty well. Roll on GBBF 2011.

Cheers!

THE GREAT BRITISH BEER FESTIVAL: THE HAPPIEST DAY OF THE YEAR

It’s the one day of the year that both of DH look forward to more than any other.

For the last few years, we have made sure that the Thursday of The Great British Beer Festival is our day and plan our schedule accordingly with HP taking the day off work and me planning my writing schedule so that this day, and for obvious reasons, the following day are set aside from our normal affairs so we can indulge our love for the very best beer Britain has to offer.

If seems, looking at the numbers, that many others have marked the Thursday down as their special day at the GBBF too and, when we arrived, there were already hundreds of people milling about waiting for Earls Court to open and figuring out which of the queues to join. We added to the numbers by one, by allowing our small, fat, four-eyed and slightly simple friend, Paul to join us as a temporary extra Hermano and, while he went off to join the queue for those without pre-paid tickets, we joined the already sizeable queue of those who had booked online.

Once the festival opened, the queue moved quickly enough to allow HP and I to be two halves of mild to the good before Paul wandered in. Of course, while we were drinking said halves, we had to convey the fact to Paul through regular text messages and phone calls to add insult to his considerable injury.

Finally, when he managed to find his way to the hall, we made our way to join the queue for the Champion Beer of 2009, Rudgate Ruby Mild from North Yorkshire. We always stick to mild, a great session beer and weak enough that we can drink it through the day without falling over half an hour after we arrive. The champion beer was fine, but far from our favourite as we made our way around the parts of the hall representing different areas, with perhaps the Oakleaf Mild from the South-West winning our vote.

What did not win our vote however was the food. In years past, the food has been a simple affair with a few stalls selling pies, sausage rolls and, of course stupidly large bags of scratchings. They are still there, thank God, but in an attempt, no doubt, to attract the ladies, who were there in much increased numbers from previous years, there was a wider and more corporate feel to the food stalls, with some really dreadful offerings including a fish & chips stand with the worst looking examples of the genre I have ever seen outside of an Iceland supermarket.

Some things, however have remained untouched, the sight of the larger gentleman wearing stupid headgear, entertainment provided by people you know but have not heard of for years (in this case, fabulous rock violinist Mick Kaminski, once of ELO) and of course the fact that at some point in the early afternoon, HP utters the fateful words “let’s go and have some cider”

The cider stand is a dangerous place and once you go there, there is no going back. The lovely buzz from a few glasses of mild being replaced by the psychotic haze that only comes with apples fermented until they reach a wicked alcohol level and the bar becoming a means of support for the body rather than a resting place for the glass.

It also signals that our time at The Great British Beer Festival is almost over for one more year as, after a few more halves, we collect our clean commemorative glasses and stagger out into streets squinting in the daylight and saddened by the fact that, although in the hall, there is some of the best beer anywhere in the world on offer, outside you would be hard pushed to find a pub within a half mile that could offer a decent pint.

A down note on which to end perhaps, but one of the precious few on what is and, I suspect shall remain, DH’s happiest day of the year

Roll on 2010

THE GREAT BRITISH BEER FESTIVAL & STICKY FINGERS: THE BEST BEER AND THE WORST FOOD

The Great British Beer Festival, officially, DH’s favourite day of the year.

Last year, being in China, I missed it so was determined that nothing would get between me, a pint and a large bag of pork scratchings on this occasion.

HP, organised sort that he is, had pre-booked online and, as we arrived there was a mad but well natured rush for the entrance as the doors opened. The sort of rush that only means one of two things as middle-aged men with carrier bags surged forward. Either there was a Barclay James Harvest reunion or it was opening time at The Great British Beer Festival. Thankfully for all concerned, it was the latter.

As good as ever, only this time with even more beer on offer. DH, as is our way, stuck mainly to milds ( with an odd ale thrown in here and there) ranging from the stunning Harvey’s Sussex variety to the chocolate notes of a “Fruiterers” mild from the South West. Food at The GBBF is of the morris dancing variety with pork pies, pork scratchings, hot roast sandwiches and the like very much to the fore, which is no bad thing as it soaks up the booze and helps build internal fortitude for the second half of the day.

I had put off the moment for long enough and HP, having no more of my soft Southern ways dragged me kicking and screaming towards the stand marked “CIDERS AND PERRYS” As I have mentioned before, our visits to the festival as separated into two very distinct sections. BC (before cider) AC (after cider) before is full of joviality, beardy bonhomie and funny hats, after is full of misery, self-loathing introspection and often tears as the powerful, cloudy brews take over.

So, the rest of the afternoon became a bit of a blur until I sobered up enough to notice that we have been joined by my good chum, Paul, who rather enjoyed acting in loco hermano at last year’s festival and joined us for a couple of cheeky ones before supper. We had pondered on Filipino food, but in the end decided something more substantial was needed to blot up our afternoon’s work. HP suggested a hamburger. A good call and we headed up towards Byron’s on Kensington High St only to find it closed for refurbishment.

Many years ago, Paul and I worked at Penguin Books in Kensington, when they published Bill Wyman’s dreadfully dull autobiography “Stone Alone” On occasions we had cause to visit his restaurant “Sticky Fingers” for meetings and the launch party, but I had not set foot in there since the early 90’s. It should have stayed that way, but drunk and with no other immediate options, we ducked inside the empty restaurant, little changed since my last visit.

It really was an appalling meal. We shared a rack of ribs where they had tried to disguise dry cardboard texture of the flesh under a sauce so sweet I could feel my teeth rotting as I ate each mouthful. Wings were a bizarre dayglo colour and tasted greasy as did the sauce, which came with them.

That should have been a low point, but the burgers were worse. Grey discs of meat, in my case overcooked until leathery served on a bun of no particular provenance with plastic cheese and the worst chips in living memory. Really, really nasty food indeed and, If I had not been in my cups, I would have complained. We should have done, but just ponied up out £25 each and slunk out of there wanting to get as far away from the scene of the crime as possible.

Paul disappeared at this point to catch a train, but HP, needing cheering up suggested a gelato to take the taste from our mouths. We wandered into Whole Foods one year old now and the empty aisles telling the tale of the credit crunch. The top floor food court was pretty empty too and we chose a scoop each of gelato from a decent looking selection for a whopping £1.99 for a tiny cup.

Like so much in Whole Foods, it was a triumph of style over substance. This was some of the vilest gelato I can ever recall. Supposedly hazelnut it tasted fatty and cloying leaving a coating on the roof of my mouth after I took two bites and pushed it away in disgust. HP did the same and our meal misery was complete.

Hey, but at least we had a cracking pint or seven.

Roll on GBBF 2009

The Great British Beer Festival

I had a little birdy friend
By morning she was gone

It’s August and that can only mean one thing in the DH calendar - The Great British Beer Festival (or more accurately Beer Festivus). Unfortunately HS couldn’t make it as he’s in the Far East eating the extremities and unmentionables of small beasts so I roped in a couple of capable subs in the form sometimes drinking pal Paul and his long-time buddy Marius.

I arrived a bit before the others so I had a chance to sample the overall Champion Beer of the year before it ran out - Hobsons Mild. Quite a pleasant pint but really just a standard Mild. I’m really surprised that it won the overall Champion Beer. Much better was the Hooky Dark suggested by Paul and the TEA recommended by Marius. The Brains Dark was also pretty good. My call was for the ciders which if nothing else gave us a nice little mid-afternoon fillip. There were pies (of course there were) which had decent fillings but which were very salty. Paul said that this was to Northern tastes so I’ve obviously been down South too long. I also wear a coat in winter. The scratchings were pretty good though and weren’t those ‘lite’ version travesties I had at Wahaca the other day.

Whether it was the fact that it was the Festival’s 30th Anniversary or maybe the advertising had been particularly successful or even that it was a Friday and people were sagging off work early but it soon got pretty crowded. In a way this is great for the industry. Real Ale is one of the oldest and greatest artisanal products we have in this country and as a product of terroir and the fact it doesn’t travel well means you can’t get anything like this anywhere else in the world. Anything that makes people aware of our brewing heritage should be a good thing. The downside was that there were queues for everything, beers were going off, there was a claustrophobic atmosphere and by the time we left things were getting a bit lairy.

At past festivals DH have usually visited on a Thursday when things are not so hectic and there’s time and space to wander and appreciate things. There’s also more folk with funny hats which adds to the fun and emphasises the quirky nature of the event. On a Friday things felt a lot more serious. We still had a top time though and after a short tube journey and quick hop across the river finished the day with a meal at Masters Super Fish.

Great company, good ale and a slap-up supper of Fish and Chips. Sometimes things really don’t get much better.