Category Archives: Regions

Cover detail from a Guide Through Central Europe, 1896.

GALLERY: European Beer, 1890s

We have culled these advertisements from two editions of the Hamburg American Line (aka Hapag Lloyd) guide to Europe from 1896 and 1900. The former is available through Archive.org while the latter (stinky and falling apart) is in our own collection.

(When did you last see a hotel using its beer offer as selling point?)

QUOTE: Dear and Doubtful, 1902

“But as English Bass is never quite the real article on the Continent, so Münchener is never quite the real thing in England. Whether beers have to be fortified or not for a voyage outside their own country they have a tendency to be both doubtful and dear. Bass is too ‘gassy’ on the Continent; Munich too biting in England… In its native beer-gardens Münchener is the prince of beers — brown and bland and soft, with a cream of froth like a beaten egg, a delicate flavour, cold, yet not icy, refreshing to the body, and comforting to the stomach…”

W.R. Holt, ‘Germans and their Drinks’, Daily Express, 04/09/1902

(Brown and bland — count us in!)

costain

The Britannia, Brussels, 1958

The Expo in Brussels in 1958 was an opportunity for Britain to present its culture to the world so, of course, we sent a pub.

At a press conference in 1957, it was announced that 500 British ‘concerns’ were to take stands at the Expo, and that a highlight would be the Britannia Inn, to be built and run by Whitbread. They were, in the late 1950s, the single biggest exporter of British beer to Belgium, and were willing to stump up the £40,000 the project was expected to cost.

The Britannia, Expo 58, Brussels.

(They weren’t alone: John Smith’s and the Hope & Anchor brewery of Sheffield announced plans to run a more modest ‘patio bar’ elsewhere on site.)

The Britannia was intended to demonstrate the ‘warmth and friendly atmosphere’ of the traditional pub, but also that the public house, and Britain more generally, was moving with the times.

Britannia pub sign, 1958.To modern eyes, it seems to be an example of that poor, unfashionable relic — ‘the estate pub’. Flat-roofed and square-edged, it was built from pale modern brick with white wood slats, and avoided cod-Victorian brownness. Its terrace was covered with white tables and parasols, while the interior was designed to evoke the feel of the royal yacht with which it shared a name.
Whitbread also brewed a special beer for the pub, Britannia Bitter. It was considered remarkably strong by British standards (we don’t have any stats, though) and was presumably intended to appeal to the Continental palate.

Not everyone like the Britannia and C.F. Huebner of Kent wrote to the Times (17/05/58) to complain.

The serious criticism I would make of the British exhibit is that the so-called Britannia pub does not truly represent an English pub and I am amazed that the brewing firm who sponsored it, who in other respects are an excellent organisation, should not have made sure the representation was more real.

Quibbles aside, the Britannia worked well for Whitbread and almost every press report about the British stand at Expo 58 mentioned the pub as a highlight. In his 1959 review of trading (Observer, 26/07) Colonel T.H. Whitbread said of the Britannia that it had been “a much greater success both financially and from a publicity point of view than I ever thought possible”.

In the years that followed, attempts were made to capitalise on fond memories of the Expo.

Britannia Bitter beer mat.Britannia Bitter remained in production as a ‘premium’ product, sold exclusively, at first, at the Samuel Whitbread, a state-of-the-art pub on Leicester Square, from 1958.

Though the pub building was moved elsewhere in Belgium and became a private house (FT 24/10/58; does anyone know where it is?) its name, sign and ‘exhibits’ (models and paintings of ships called Britannia) were moved to Dover in the UK, where it commenced trading in 1962. It was also supplied with the supposedly upmarket Britannia Bitter, which became a national brand from 1967 onwards (Times 23/01/67).

The Britannia’s true legacy, however, is probably the idea of the pre-packaged English pub abroad. In a 1967 report for the Financial Times Christopher Meakin (29/06) made clear that the Britannia wasn’t the first pub to be shipped overseas but argued that its success gave the trend impetus. At first, they were mostly a national publicity tool accompanying British trade exhibitions, but, as Meakin reveals, brewers and entrepreneurs weren’t blind to the commercial potential:

One man at least already specialises in providing instant traditional British atmosphere for pubs abroad, and is currently negotiating a string of 200 Olde Englishe Innes to stretch coast-to-coast across America.

“We provide them with everything — false oak beams, false fireplaces, hunting prints and horns, pewter tankards, stuffed fish, warming pans and horse brasses,” Mr Leslie Kostick, managing director of K.B. Contracts told me.

Mr Kostick produces three varieties of pub for overseas use — Tudor, Victorian and Regency. So far K.B. Contracts has completed a ‘Britannia’ in Holland, ‘The Bulldog’ in Canada and the ‘John Bull’ in Portugal.

Though there are such English pubs to be found around the world today, they are far outnumbered (it seems to us — we haven’t counted) by Irish pubs, set up using the same business model.

Is it too much to say that the Britannia in Brussels begat the Blarney in Berlin?

PS. We haven’t read it yet, but Jonathan Coe’s Expo 58 is a period comic thriller set in and around the Britannia.

Hopjutter Triple Hop

Hopjutter Triple Hop

We’ve never heard of Hopjutter and know nothing about them. We’re going to look them up after we’ve written this review of their Triple Hop (7.3‰).

The bottle suggests amateurism and we braced ourselves for the bottle to explode on opening. It did not: it hissed and emitted a leafy aroma that made us think of dandelions and daisies.

It is carbonated like a saison, and 330ml easily filled a pint glass with a steady Mr Whippy-like foam.

The first sips were dominated by a punishing bitterness and a numbing quality, like Szechuan peppercorns. Getting through that, an underlying hedgerow-weed and cats’ pee character became apparent. It seemed thin and sweaty, with some clove and aniseed (fennel?).

We were ready to write it off as nasty at this point, more useful as a paint to stop children sucking their thumbs than as a drink, but something made us persevere — perhaps that moreish bitterness — and, eventually, we began to warm to it.

There was certainly evidence of generous hopping, and a strident lemon peel note riding high over everything else ultimately made it quite bearable.

Is it rough and amateurish; or is it complex, challenging and an acquired taste? It’s so hard to tell the difference sometimes.

We wouldn’t buy it again, but we certainly don’t regret having paid €2.80 for this one bottle and giving our palates a work out.

Now we’ve looked them up: it seems they are award-winning home brewers; this is supposed to be an IPA; and Ratebeer users are surprisingly keen.

St Austell Tamar Creek

St Austell Tamar Creek.

St Austell have continued their exploration of ‘world beer’ styles with a Belgian-style sour cherry beer.

We’ve met Roger Ryman, head brewer at St Austell, a few times, and he has always struck us as rather sensible — the kind of bloke who keeps a very tidy glove box. Get him on to the subject of Belgian beer, however, and he becomes positively giddy.

Last time we bumped into him, in a pub in Penzance, he’d just come back from a trip to Poperinge accompanied by the latest edition of Stange and Webb’s Good Beer Guide to Belgium, and was excited to have re-stocked his cellar with multiple cases of De Ranke XX Bitter.

So when he brews Belgian-style beers at St Austell, it isn’t a text-book exercise or a mere marketing gimmick — there is a certain amount of passion (sorry) behind it.

The base beer for Tamar Creek was brewed on a tiny experimental brew kit, inoculated with wild yeast and brettanomyces, and then aged in wooden barrels on a bed of cherries from the Tamar Valley for six months. It comes in 750ml corked bottles wrapped in printed paper, in a tribute to Liefman’s — a better marketing manoeuvre than this rather gory PR photo:

Cherries being squashed by feet at St Austell.

We bought our bottle at the brewery shop for £9, but the online price is £14 including delivery. Is it worth the money?

Tasting

On opening, we got hit by an immediate nostril-curling sting of ‘funk’ which reminded us specifically of apples rotting in an orchard. (Brace yourselves — this review is all about ‘the erotics of disgust’.)

Poured into squeaky clean glasses, a soapy rose-tinted head rose up and over the lip of the glass before prickling away to nothing after 30 seconds or so, leaving what looked like a glass of well-aged red wine.

Despite a rather thin body, it tasted convincingly Belgian, the funky aroma matched by an acidic note not unlike (brace…) bile. It took us a while to pin down exactly which taste memories were being triggered, then it clicked: it had the skull-dissolving tang of pink grapefruit juice.

There was a dry tannic note, too, which wasn’t unlike biting into a grape seed.

On the whole, we’ll call it a grower. Though, at first, it seemed thin and one dimensional, the texture and sweetness built as it coated our mouths, and ‘ho-hum’ eventually turned to ‘yum yum’.

We didn’t regret spending £9 on it — about the same price as an imported Belgian equivalent — but whether you reach the same conclusion will probably depend on your interest in the exercise, the value you place on ‘buying local’, and your knowledge of the style.

We certainly look forward to future iterations of this brew, and to more heartfelt Belgian-inspired experiments from St Austell.