A load of old Bull

Once upon a time Norfolk was dominated by two Norwich brewers: Steward & Patteson (which had over six hundred tied pubs) and Bullards (which had more than five hundred).

In 1963 Watney Mann acquired the whole lot. In a single stroke much of East Anglia was reduced to a single, monopoly supplier. Red Barrel became the universal fizzy concoction, the prototype for keg beers, flogged out at 3.9% alcohol. I have to admit it always seemed to me to have a metallic fore-taste and after-taste of onions. Red Barrel was widely and quite properly mocked:

"Why is Red Barrel like making love in a canoe?"

"Because it's fucking close to water."

One might think the British brewing industry couldn't fall lower. It could. Watneys was in turn taken over by Grand Metropolitan, a vertically-structured leisure, hospitality and property goliath, which in its turn was merged with Guinness to arrive at the Diagio empire.

All of which left me a trifle amused to find Bullards is not only still in business, but still producing 'the Spirit of Norwich' — or, at least, flavoured gins.

There's a faint whiff of pseudery in The Bullards Story Presumably the Bullard family, quite reasonably, retained the name through the Watney take-over.  Then decided to exploit it.

But what grates is the design of those gin bottles. My memory is: you went into even the better Bullards houses, and the young miss with whom one was accompanied (as if!) had advanced from expensive perries to someone 'harder' — a G&T perhaps (ha-ha! we're in luck with this one!). What was on offer was Gordon's. Or at a pinch, Gilbey's.

Since when we have had a tsunami of gins. Well, I mean, it's a raw spirit diluted to non-toxic levels, with added colouring and flavourings. And, unlike whiskey, it can be marketed without being natured in barrels. What's not for the marketing-manager and accountants to like?

So Bullards sell a gin.

Look closer.

Two small matters show up.

• The claim to be 'Est 1837' would be valid only if we ignore the 1963 sell-out. Oh, and various changes of business name through the nineteenth century. Still, if the Bullard family secured the name from Watneys, fair enough. Any link, though, has to be purely financial, as a 'family share-holder'.
• Then the trade-mark of the Anchor Brewery. That opened in 1867 at St Mile's Bridge. It closed in 1968, and the landmark chimney came down in 1982. If one pokes around the Coslany Street area one will find 'Anchor Quay' — but that's about it. Bullards distillery is now the other end of town, in Cattle Market Street, between an architect and a take-away.

So why am I griping?

It's yesterday's EDP, of course:

Famous Norwich firm locked in legal battle with Red Bull 

Despite being 150 years older, Bullards has been accused by Red Bull of "creating a conflict of interest" due to an apparent clash with the naming of the companies.

Basically, Red Bull which has existed for just three decades, believes a centuries-old company should ditch its famous name.

Major mistake, then, to feature a photograph of a very living Russell Evans, left, founder of Bullards Spirit.

Good luck with that one.

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This isn't just beer ...

The occasional reader of Malcolm's maunderings might recall the auld fella's penchant for Adnam's Broadside. This is advertised as

a premium bitter like no other.

Well, not quite.

Among the limited, but competent beer offerings by Marks and Spencer is Southwold Winter Beer. It specifically recognises its parentage: the collar tag identifies Adams (not that Southwold is wall-to-wall with brewers) and the back label refers to the Broadside heritage.

Malcolm finds it a thoroughly adequate drink, particularly for toasting toes before an open fire this dank, gloomy London evening. Protz and Cannavan say:

The copper-red beer is brewed with four malts and has oak, burnt fruit, smoky malt, dark chocolate and peppery hops on the nose. Raisin and sultana fruit dominate the palate with bitter hop resins and roasted grain. Tart fruit, roast malt and good hop bitterness combine in the long finish with a continuing hint of chocolate.

Yeah ... right.

About the only thing wrong is that it's not Broadside. The hint is the declared alcohol value: this is 4% against Broadside's 4.7%. So, a side-by-side comparison, shows this M&S effort lacking a trifle of depth. And Tesco charge £1.59 (40p less) for the real McCoy. Sphere: Related Content

Beers of Belgium come better when Brown: On to Brussels!

Brussels, of course, is as far as most English tourists customarily reached, after Bruges and Ghent (both of which have a flourishing beer culture). The Eurostar connection is reversing that trend: now it is easier to go direct to the capital, then backtrack north to the scenic wonders of Flanders (well: there are those two). Since Eurostar tickets include free onward travel to any other station in Belgium, that's a no-brainer.

Once in Brussels, the trick is to head for the Metro and avoid the grim bit around the Midi station.

The same applies to the concrete desert at the other end of town, around the Schuman gyratory. That's le Quartier Européen. View the Berlaymont and the granite-and-glass Justus Lipsius building, if you must, at a safe distance. Venture no closer. When the EU sessions are on, it's awash with limousines, police, and self-important politicos on expenses: any mere peasant, the underwriter of those expenses, is an unwelcome intruder. Other times, it's a morgue. Either way, it's over-priced, over-rated, and needs to be kept over there.

A kingly start

Out of season, in the cold, the Grand Place was tolerably light on tourists. that meant it was possible to find a seat in Le Roy d'Espagne and watch the evening light show on the façade of the Hôtel de Ville. A problem remains: Le Roy d'Espagne is a tourist trap: the beer list is short, unadventurous, stuffed by the big breweries (the aim, remember, is to avoid InBev), and not cheap. So Malcolm went for the Chimay Bleue. The price apart (€6.10 for 33cl bottle!), this was an acceptable but not surprising strong brown ale. Was it round the corner, at Le Cirio in Beursstraat/Rue de la Bourse, that a similar issue arose, to be solved by Ciney Brune? That beer, too was quite adequate, average, unremarkable.

The uplifting bit

As sold to the Lady in Malcolm's Life, the Brussels excursion was cultural. So the kulcha thing had to be done. Hence a protracted tour of the newly-reopened (as a separate exhibition space) René Magritte rooms at the Musee des Beaux-Arts. How many permutations on a few basic themes can a man take? Far more involving was the domestic Horta Museum, on a tram ride down the south side, at Rue Américaine.

Something of a surprise was the vast classico-fruity Palace of Justice, athwart the end of the Rue de la Regence away from the Museums. One account has this as the biggest single building erected in the nineteenth century: the central hall has the proportions of a major railway terminus, so that boast is quite credible. It's by no means a "beautiful" structure, but it does impress (rather in the same way as a bulldozer). It's also a tram stop on the way out to Louise and the shopping drag. This allows a supendous free view across the city from the edge of the Place Poelaert. Poelaert was the architect of this monster, which required the demolition of an entire working-class quarter: the term "architect" instantly and properly became a Belgian term of abuse.

The Lady in Malcolm's Life deals with crossing streets where foreign lunatics are driving cars on the wrong side of the road thus: follow the young. They've got more to lose. They'll know the routine. If they can make it, the rest of us stand a chance. Outside the Palace of Justice she refined this a degree further: follow the young robed lawyer. After all, it needs a brave or desperate driver to take out a lawyer. In passing, the ring road of Brussels is a race-track to be avoided: nor is Belgian signposting the acme of helpfulness.

The elbow-lifting bit, resumed

Between these spirit-enhancing activities (and there were others) needed to be fitted the processes of eating ... and drinking.

The eating bit solved itself by le Grand Café being on the opposite corner to O'Reilly's Irish Pub. Now, Malcolm has mixed experiences of these "Oirish" joints in European cities: this one qualifies for the dismal end of the listing. Unless one is desperate for free wi-fi [password: A1B2C3D4E5F6, if Malcolm recalls correctly], steer clear. So, a quick scamper across Boulevard Anspach to find competently served food.

Le Grand Café's beer list is thin, featuring the usual InBev fizzes (that huge Stella Artois sign outside gives fair warning). It does include some decencies:

• Pauwel Kwak, a plum pudding of a dark amber beer. It's strong (8%) and drinkable. Alas, it is served in the most pretentious manner possible (the website should be an indicator) . Named in honour of a coaching-inn owner, the proper glass is a foot-of-ale, supported in a wooden neck-stretcher. For Malcolm, derisive mockery from the Lady in his Life determined this could never be a drink of choice.
• Both blond and brown Kasteel beers from the Von Honsebrouck brewery of Ingelmunster. The pale brew is quaffable, and 7%: of the brown more anon (see below).
• Rodenbach Grand Cru. Now this is a difficult one. It's a dark-ruddy ale rated at 6%. It's sharp, and flavourful. It has a very acetic aftershock. It's definitely a take-it-or-leave-it beer: Malcolm took it the once, an experience he would not have missed, but is not rushing to repeat it.

Going up in the world

Drinking was also done elsewhere, particularly when the Redfellow entourage was heading to and from the upper town. A convenient roosting point, then, was Place du Grand Sablon. Here are a nest of decent little cafés, and (just a bit away) a stonkingly fine one. In the environs are a mess of arty-farty shops and galleries, providing ample opportunity to mock the tastes of others. There's an upper-class version of a flea-market, flogging "antiques", many weekends. Mustn't omit Wittamer, that Tiffany of chocolatiers (Tiffany & Co itself is plonked at the intersection of Avenue Louisa and the Petite Ceinture, convenient for lawyers and ladies who lunch).

The Lady in his Life and Malcolm sought shelter from the unbalmy mid-December breeze in a couple of the Place du Grand Sablon's cafés. Liquidly this involved:

• Rouge Chimay at L'entréee des Artistes, deceptively light on the palate for its 7% rating, yet a bit crusty and tart on the tongue, too. The brasserie is pretentious enough to have its own clip on Youtube;
• A thoroughly decent Westmalle Trappist Dubbel in La Kartchma, which pretends at Art Nouveau, across the square. As for the beer, it does what it says on the bottle. What Malcolm would like is to try this one on draught: it is rumoured to exist.
  

There remained two bibulous treats in Brussels.

Le Perroquet

Off Grand Sablon follow Rue Watteau. At the top find an unprepossessing café on the corner: le Perroquet. It looks a bit dowdy, but it is an unreconstructed and genuine art-nouveau. The cuisine is unpretentious, little more than a superior sandwich bar: pitta breads with umpteen fillings, salads, to be completed with home-made cheesecakes, chocolate cakes, strudels ... to die for.

Malcolm, of course, was here for the beer. Trappistes Rochefort comes in three grades, differenced only by coloured caps and numbered roundels: red 6 (@ 7.5%), blue 8 (2 9.2%) and, the pick of the litter, black 10 (an awesome 11.3%: surely an up-the-wooden hill to beddie-byes drink). Explain the logic of all that.

Since this was early afternoon, choice fell on the 8. Beautiful, just beautiful: mahogany brown in the glass, and it drinks like treacle. There is something very subtle in the brew: Tim Webb identifies it as pinch of "coriander in the mash". This is a beer and a venue to die for; Malcolm on his second bottle heard the angels calling. And came back next day for more of the same.

Ready for home

The Lady and Malcolm were on the mid-evening Eurostar, so it was an early foddering, back at that staple, Le Grand Café.

Before the main course, and a bottle of decent red plonk, there was time for one more. As Malcolm said above, Le Grand Café's beer list isn't the longest. But, as mentioned above, ...

.. it includes the Kasteels from Van Honsebrouck, blond and brown. The Bruin comes in at 11%. When Malcolm requested it, the waitress had a double-take, and asked did he know it was strong. Oh, yes! Think barley wine with chandeliers, bells and knobs on. It takes no prisoners. And, for nudging the memory, don't miss one of the most inventive brewery web-sites around. Sphere: Related Content

Beers of Belgium come better when Brown: draining Leuven dry

Leuven is the stronghold of Stella Artois. On the north side of the city, in Tim Webb's words:

The enormous factory complex that produces Stella Artois and a number of other run-of-the-mill ales and lagers is strangely beautiful in a plain white slab sort of way. There are odd similarities with some of the more monumental war graves, which is perhaps apt given its industrial heritage.

As a result, even more than the Belgian norm, each and every boozer has its walls dedicated to Jupiler or Stella.

Malcolm had that initiatory taste of Orval in the Cafe Gambrinus, at the west end of the Grote Markt:

Gambrinus (13 Grote Markt; 00 32 16 20 12 38). A classic, the timeless Gambrinus has views of the sumptuous Stadhuis as an irresistible side dish.

If first stop in Venice is Il Caffe Florian (an essential to-do, unlike overrated and overhyped Harry's Bar), then Gambrinus is the Leuven equivalent. Nice.

A pot-walloping paradise

The cavalcade moved on and soon located Domus, a brewpub just back of the Town Hall. Since this was December, there were three housebrews available:

• the standard Domus, for those who go for a lighter Pilsener;
  
• the slightly stronger (well, 5.8%), and darker Nostra Domus (it's a pun on the 16th-century seer) -- too much and one definitely sees visions;
  
• and Engel, a strong bottled lager.

Here, for extended periods, Malcolm could willingly take root and swig Nostra Domus, half a litre at €3.80, at ease, and in pleasant surroundings. The English have lost the taste for darker beers: Nostra Domus (or its ilk) should be capable of restoring the proper norms. Tim Webb calls it:

a sweet and grainy amber beer with an odd but pleasant backtaste.

Hmm: Malcolm reckons the colour is far deeper than most ambers, darker than most English bitters; and the "backtaste" is certainly not "odd". That Domus website gives a fair flavour of the ambiance of the joint, though not of its products. The menu isn't bad either: expect to have to battle Belgian families for a seat at lunchtime.

Nothing here to get your back up

Round the corner, and on the catty-corner of the cobbled Grote Markt, the Lady in his Life and Malcolm found another perch in Notre Dame Quasimodo.

There are many, and doubtless very good, other places to eat. Leuven is a student town, and Notre Dame is not squeamish in catering for that market. So it is a bit brash and can be loud. Elbow-room is limited. Read the reviews on Tripadvisor or wherever. Ignore the comments on waiting staff -- they're rushed, but it works: anyway, what's wrong with sitting and sipping while the plates arrive? Malcolm seriously doubts those complaints. Venture into the joint: notice the plethora of customers, all ages and types and conditions. This is a popular place: take the hint, get the message. There is also a good beer list, mainly bottled.

Malcolm quite took to Gouden Carolus from the Anker brewery in Mechelen. The straight Gouden Carolus, as the name suggests, is a dark golden ale, a bit too spicy for Malcolm's English tastes. But the Christmas brew is a dark sweet barley wine. Malcolm's dear old Dad had a habit of ordering in a keg of K winter Ale (from long lost Stewart & Patteson of Norwich) to be nurtured through the next month or so, for his own personal use. Like that, this Gouden Carolus seasonal brew needs to be handled with care; it rates at 9% alcohol.

Malcolm admits the waiting staff at Notre Dame were a trifle wary of an Englishman, even one of advancing years, relishing a couple of these while awaiting, and then accompanying his steak with his fair share of the bottle of Cabernet.

Leuven comes well recommended. It can almost be forgiven Stella Artois.

Coming up:

Beers of Belgium come better when Brown: On to Brussels! Sphere: Related Content

Beers of Belgium come better when Brown: Preface

A pastoral interlude

Way back in the 1960s Malcolm was plonked down in the valley of the Semois, just inside the Belgian border from France. This was a good thing, for it was comfortably adjacent to the Trappist monastery of Orval. Moreover, Orval is located in the far south, in the province of Namur, adjacent to Luxembourg. Down here they enjoy their food: sausages and game, washed down with Moselle wine (the cheaper varieties flavoured by fruit liquers). So Orval (and one other great Trappist brewery, of which more anon) are a good deed in a naughty world.

If there is a beer-topers' heaven, Malcolm discovered it forty-odd years ago. It involves Orval beer, Orval cheese, being young, no worries, on a warm summer's day, snoozing in long grass beside the Semois.

Any visit to Belgium, Malcolm decided, must celebrate that afternoon and start with a bottle of Orval. So Malcolm inaugurated that personal tradition. As Tim Webb suggests, the pressures of modern commerce mean that the Orval brew is not quite the same artisanal product it was those four decades ago, when Malcolm first encountered it. Now, for example, Orval seem to prefer a goblet to that rough, orange earthenware mug Malcolm purchased as the Abbey (and still has). Orval has an alcohol content over 6%. Like most good Belgian beers it therefore demands gentle sipping, rather than sloshing. There is a sharpness of hops, but less bitter than, say, English north-country beers.

The smoking issue

Malcolm reckons that the greatest difference to his social life in recent years is the ability to escape from a session in a pub without being kippered by nicotine fumes.

The Belgians have not quite reached the same level of civilisation. In Belgium, each establishment advertises its policy on the weed at the point of entry. It is easy, therefore, to avoid second-hand smoke. It is a system which works.

Then for some hard drinking

Now there are two ways of coping with this:

• flit from drinking hole to drinking hole, sipping from as many founts as possible;

or

• find a perch or two, and return regularly.

At his advancing age and after years in which he has gained some limited discretion, Malcolm now leans to the latter.

Next:

Beers of Belgium come better when Brown: draining Leuven dry
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Trouble brewing

The beer behemoth InBev has problems. Consumption of its product is dropping: in its home market, the Belgians are quaffing about a fifth less than they were at the start of the decade. Last week, InBev announced job-cuts of 10% of the workforce: this must be the second or third round of redundancies in recent years.

Another way of looking at that is InBev's pre-tax earning jumped 12% last year, on a 9-month drop in sales of 2%. A triumph for the beancounters (and InBev count beans as well as anybody: their brews are less remarkable).

For some hours last Friday the workers held managers hostage. Since InBev's staple products in Belgium involve Stella Artois and Jupiler, Malcolm feels temporary internment may be too good for them.

Now, then may be the moment for Malcolm to review his few days in Belgium, just before Christmas. They were, he proudly boasts, a few beer-soaked days in which he avoided all direct contact with the products of InBev.

So ... next boozy post coming up. Sphere: Related Content

The not-so-good and not-so-great, number 11

Malcolm continues his occasional series, but -- self-evidently -- avoiding the topic we all want: the Blueshirts (sub-titled Crack O'Duffy! East of Jarama!). And there is no excuse for that appalling not-even-a-pun.

Breó

This one never passed into general human consciousness.

Guinness had been absorbed into the multi-national that is Diageo. St James's Brewery had one last throw, before its identity was lost and gone for ever.

At a cost of some £5 million, it attempted to produce a Weizen, one of those decent, sometimes magnificent, German "white beers" (so called mainly because they are not "Dunkel" or "dark").

Now we are into semantics.

Malcolm drinks Weissbiers in Bavaria, and finds the best in Munich. The trick is to mix the essential barley with a proportion (anything from one-third to two-thirds) of wheat: Malcolm therefore finds himself referring to them, loosely, as "wheat beers".

These are, or should be served in a tall tapered glass, with a large foaming head: refuse all imitations. They are "live", so they throw lees, and one needs to be careful to decant bottled Weissbier with some care. Admittedly, Malcolm's mother could shock a barely-competent barman by -- professionally and oh-so-carefully -- cleanly pouring an old-style Worthington White Shield: then, finally and swiftly, tipping a small part of the lees into the glass. Such was the mark of the true cognoscienti. It needed three generations of experience. The amateur should not attempt this at home.

Guinness reckoned it could match over half-a-millenium of German experience within months. This superbrew was going to be Breó: in Old Irish that means "glow". It was even touted as "White Guinness". After £5M in development, a further £300,000 was thrown at advertising. Probably a fair bit of that dosh went to discovering that gorgeous fada over the "o".

Think New Coke. Think Edsel.

Within weeks, Breo had gone the way of the dodo and the mammoth. It took a fair bit of enamel from teeth on the way. It was not missed.

Malcolm still seeks confirmation that anyone, anywhere, willingly bought a second pint.
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