A Couple of Months Too Late

I've probably mention this numerous times but... I applied for my first British passport mid May, 5 months ago to be exact, and it's only now that I have been able to arrange my interview, the final step of the application process. I won't go on about it, only that something good came out of it, if you can find an ounce (in this case about half a kilo) of good in it.

My interview was at Her Majesty's Passport Office, Victoria, London at 1.15pm. My plan was to get off at Vauxhall rail station, cross the Thames and walk about fifteen minutes north to Victoria. I took a couple of wrong turnings and a slight detour so fifteen minutes ended up taken about half an hour. I had time enough to grab a beer from the pub across the road from the passport office, The St George's Tavern. I went in and ordered a half pint, I immediately up sized to a pint of Meantimes London Pale Ale. Nearly every pub I've been to in the last couple of weeks seems to stock Meantime beers. At least with the pale ale I know that I'm guaranteed to get a decent beer.

I queued up to get into the passport office for my interview. I was naively surprised to see not many English speakers with me waiting to get through airport style security. I checked in with reception and sat waiting for my number to be called. I went to the loo just before my number was called so when I came out and noticed my number on screen I had to quickly rush to the corresponding desk. Sod's law. I was asked a few questions to confirm my identity, then a series of irrelevant questions that made me feel like I was rehearsing a scripted conversation. It was over in a little over ten minutes leaving me with the rest of the afternoon to kill.

It had only taken an outrageous 5 bloody months to get to this stage. I was assured I'd have my passport within the next 5 working days.

I had time to afford myself another beer and possibly even some food. I took a seat a quickly skimmed over the menu more to ease my gentle curiosity. I nearly fainted when I saw it. The elusive whitebait, right there, with a brief description. Given the option between a pint or half a pint, I greedily ordered the pint with a side of skin on chips.

The anticipation was similar to that of a child just before they are allowed to open up their presents on Christmas morning. My heart rate elevated, my palms were clammy and my right leg was involuntarily shaking, the way people tend to associate it with sexual frustration. I was hysterical with excitement.

It was all brought out to me a lot quicker than I was expecting, so quick that I received a fright when the waiter placed the plates on the table in front of me.

It wasn't served in one of the stupid, showy miniature frying baskets lined with parchment like I had so envisioned. The little deep fried fish were unattractively plonked in the kind of shallow bowl I would normally eat my pasta out of. Presentation aside, they were gorgeous, with a rich seasoned crumb with a wedge of lemon and a pot of what looked and tasted like tartar sauce. They were crunchy on the outside and meaty on the inside. They quickly vanished, one at a time. Head, tail and all. I was satisfied, happy, no, elated.

A great place to indulge in fishy goodness and pass the time if waiting for the British Government to pull their finger out

thestgeorgestavern

Rail Replacement Bus

Like Spiderman, I had a sixth sense telling me that I needed to get to the pub early, it was going to be a busy one. I'd aim to get there for about 4pm to give a 'helping hand'.

I left my uncles in good time, I had to meet my parents and grandma at an Italian restaurant in Kingston for 1.30pm booking. The day already had a hectic schedule, in stark contrast to the 'nothing' day before.

Of course, being a Sunday the trains were on varying timetables if running at all. It seems that the Kingston line is always having engineering works, how is it that the line constantly needs work?

I had to get a rail replacement bus from Clapham Junction to wherever I decided to get to. The Kingston bus was about fifteen minutes away and was calling at every rail station on the route, that would probably mean a lengthy journey. There was a bus destined for Surbiton about to depart. It was a direct service with no stops on the way. I hopped on as Surbiton was not a far walk from where I needed to be as the restaurant is on the Surbiton side of Kingston anyway.

On the bus I thought I'd look up the location of a pub that everybody kept telling me about. 'The Antelope' on Maple road. They had recently opened and had their own micro brewery on site with a few of their own brews on tap. As soon as I got off the bus I went to the pub, it was in the direction of where I needed to go so wouldn't have taken any time out apart from ordering and drinking the beer. I took it as the perfect opportunity to see what the place had to offer. I knew whatever it was would have been fantastic as the managers are the same guys that made a huge success of a beer pub in Twickenham, London called 'The Sussex Arms'.

I arrived just before the lunch rush so seemingly had the place to myself. Well, in comparison to what I imagined the place would be like during a very busy Sunday roast service.

I only had enough time for a cheeky half so went for one of their own brews, the 'Big Smoke Brew Cos' Pale Ale. Like most, it is what it should be. A very good representation of a well balanced and impeccably enjoyable cask pale ale. I would have loved to stick around for more but had a twenty minute walk ahead and only fifteen minutes to make it. I most certainly will return to the pub and sample more of what they have to offer including their food.

I had another pizza like the night before, failed in my continued search for whitebait and was embarrassed by a sing song and some cake after my meal. However I was given a free shot of Limoncello, a superb digestif.

link to the pub

theantelope

link to the Italian if you fancy decent food if you're ever in Kingston

alfornokingston

The Search for Whitebait

From the moment I woke up, I had an overwhelming craving for whitebait. I'm not sure why, or where it came from, just that I hadn't had them for ages and had to have them. I really fancied chomping on the little , whole battered, deep fried fish no larger than my little finger. I never liked them much as a kid but over the years learned to love the crunchy morsels of goodness.

I'd had some work drinks the night before celebrating my birthday, I'd just turned 27. I was at work but as soon as I ran the bell at midnight and killed the music, the whole pub burst into song. It was embarrassing seeing both customers and staff singing me 'happy birthday' and 'for he's a jolly good fellow', I hate being the centre of attention, especially being sung to.

It ended up being a really heavy night, with drinking games an' all. Luckily I'd been given the whole day off so took advantage and lounged around in bed all morning. I had no plans, only that I was desperate to conquer my craving for whitebait.

I finally got up, showered and set off to meet my uncle at his. It was about 4pm by this point and I think I'd just started to sober up as I felt I was ready to prostrate. No matter how much water I drank, it didn't seem to quench my thirst. What I needed was a beer... and some whitebait.

Frank wanted to show my this street he'd recently rediscovered around the corner from his in Somerstown, London. It was about a five minute walk and as we'd decided to head in the direction of Camden, it was on the way. We walked past estate after estate, it seemed to me that all Somerstown had to offer was a series of housing estates old and new, council and private. There was a pub that I hadn't seen the likes of for years. It was like the pubs you see in costume dramas where the men are drunk on ales, swinging and spilling their beer over the floor, always a fight breaking out in one of its many nooks and crannies and ladies of the night prowling, eyeing up their next paid encounter or two. Only this place was set in the present day.

We ended up walking to Primrose Hill with no success finding any whitebait. I made sure to check every menu that we walked past, not only pubs but restaurants too. We'd search high and low for this elusive whitebait with no luck. I'd been told that somehow whitebait had 'gone out of fashion' but I dismissed that, I should have listened. It was time to call it a day I thought, a more important thing was locating a suitable venue for rehabilitating myself with more beer, the 'hair of the dog' as some call it.

We were lured into this rather upmarket cocktail bar on the fringe between Camden and Primrose hill. I spotted a sign saying '2 pizzas for £15', it caught my eye and I was pulled in. Obviously I'd misread it completely failing to notice the big lettering saying 'take away only'.

We wondered inside and instantly felt under dressed. The bar area had its own what I would call a concierge. It was a very posh place with elaborate chandeliers, wide stainless steel topped bar and bar staff wearing waistcoats and bow-ties. Frank ordered two pints of Meantime London Pale Ale which seems to be a popular choice for me these days. I excused myself whilst I received a barrage of phone calls from people wishing me happy birthday, as not to be rude and talk loudly on my phone at the bar. I shortly returned to Frank who I'd left on his own at the bar and continued to drink. The beer had an almost unpleasant metallicy taste to it, but with only the expected after taste it was fine and not worth complaining about. As we were nearing the end of our pints and the time reached about 8pm, the place suddenly swarmed with activity, It was time to take our leave.

Oh, in reading more about the bar I have just discovered that it is one of Gordon Ramsay's restaurants, The York and Albany Hotel, Parkway, London.

With a defeatist attitude, especially being unable to find my much desired whitebait, I recommended an Italian restaurant near Chalk Farm called Bar Centrale where we could at least get a fairly priced and decent pizza. You never know, they could have had whitebait on the menu.

I was hungry, very hungry and the pizza soon disappeared into my belly and I was full. So full in fact I was unable to move comfortably let alone drink another beer.

We walked slowly and steadily back towards Kings Cross, hopefully to aid in the digestion of the mammoth pizzas we had both just finished.

With 'Mabels Tavern' in our sights, we decided on one last pint before retiring to Frank's flat and eventually succumbing to fatigue and sleep. Annoying as I sat down and took a sip of my pint I noticed a menu to my side. Frank was outside with a cigarette so I glanced over the menu. They had whitebait and calamari as a started. I was far to full and tired to even consider it. It took an hour and a game of cards to finish a lovely autumnal ale by Shepherds Neame called 'Late Red'. I wasn't up for drinking at any faster rate if at all.

My search continues...

If only I had realised at the time that we'd stumbled upon greatness...

yorkandalbany

If you're in Camden and fancy a decent pizza without breaking the bank.

barcentrale

While it's still autumn, give this one a go!

late red

An Unimaginable Waste of Beer

The following story took place a few years ago, whilst I was on what was supposed to be my 'World Tour'.

Me and a bunch of other guys were chilling out drinking beers in the garden of the hostel we were staying in just off Lexington Avenue, NYC, USA. We were waiting for our mate, Paolo to finish. He was one of the receptionists at the hotel. I hate to admit this but while we were doing what is now known as 'preloading', the beer I was drinking was Coors. Shameful I know but the 24oz cans were just so cheap and the liquor store across the road sold them, and was open 24hrs. I was originally drinking the big 40oz bottles but after a fairly heated debate it was concluded that the smaller 24oz cans made more sense. In the 40oz bottles, by the time you got about halfway the beer had already turned lukewarm and flat.

As soon as Paolo finished, he joined us for drink which we finished quickly, then head off. He was taking us out somewhere on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. We got the number 3 subway line from the 125^th Street station to 86^th Street just to the west of Central Park. We walked south to roughly 76^th Street until Paolo found the bar we were all looking for.

The bar was a classic American style sports bar with huge flat screen on every wall, pool tables and cheap pitchers of beer. Unfortunately the only beers they had were Coors Light, Bud Light or Miller Light. We played some pool, drank some beer then left.

When we arrived at the next bar, I remembered a friend of mine offering me this great piece of advice. He said that if you tip the barman, say, $20 with your first drink, then he'll 'look after you' all night. Little did I know that 'looked after' meant an innumerable amount of free shots.

We spotted a vacant 'beer pong' table and quickly claimed it as our own, marking our territory with any unnecessary outer garments. We split into two teams with Paolo commentating and occasionally joining in to take a few turns for either team. I was with a German named Fabain, our opponents were two Lads from the North of England, Dan and Joseph. I think my downfall for the evening was the fact that I was drinking 'Goose Island' IPA, from Chicago, USA. I was using it to fill up the little plastic cups for beer pong. It is an English Style IPA at 5.9% quite a strong and delicious one. That isn't even mentioning the shots which couldn't have helped my drunkenness.

Our team just would not be beaten, we were totally annihilating our opposition every game. We were all very drunk but continued to play and consume excessive amounts of booze.

I think it must have been after my second or third pitcher when in started to feel a little nauseous. My involuntary gag reflex was making it a real challenge to drink any more beer.

I felt myself nearing a point where I would be unable to retain any additional liquid. One of the guys landed a ball in my cup meaning I had to neck the entire contents of the said container.

I could feel it coming but proceeded none the less. I managed to drink it all in one but as quickly as I was able to swallow it, it came straight back, all over the floor. Right where I was standing next to the beer pong table. I'd never have made it to the loos in time.

I guiltily asked the barman for a mop and bucket to clean up my mess but this was not received too well and instead of a mop a security guard appeared. This resulted in all of us being thrown out and subsequently being barred from all the bars along that strip on the Upper West Side.

I think I learned my lesson that night.

links that may be of interest:

Goose Island Brewery site

gooseisland

A Wiki How illustrated guide on how to play Beer Pong

Play-Beer-Pong

And now for something a little bit different

It's always a great feeling waking up and knowing that you don't have to be at work or have any kind of agenda for the day. This was the second of my two days off and I had nothing to do.

I'd slept on the floor hoping it would help straighten out my back but it didn't. It still ached. I must book myself an appointment to see a chiropractor or something.

I took it easy, listening to a bit of music and waiting for my uncle to finish work or be able to go out for lunch.

We ate a pizza each a cute little Italian restaurant in Holborn, London. For some bizarre reason it had been decorated in such a way that nothing about it made any sense. There was a porch facing inwards complete with a tiled roof. There were some not particularly tasteful paintings of nude women on the walls. The remaining walls were covered in a mish mash of psychedelic geometric patterns. The actual wallpaper was a bit funky, black and white lines in an almost illusionary shape. The pizza was highly commendable though.

By the time we'd eaten, it was already late afternoon encroaching on early evening.

As we were only around the corner we decided to go to browse the new Ming exhibition at the British Museum. I think a conversation about it had come up in passing the night before. With Frank being a member we both got in for free without the need to queue. It was one of the best exhibitions I've seen in recent times with some beautiful scenic paintings on silks and lovely ceramics. One of the best pieces is a completely embroidered silk depicting some images of religious figures. If you're a member the you must go, if not then I'd seriously consider it.

We'd had our cultural experience for the day, it was time for something quintessentially British. By that I mean going for a beer of course. Something a little bit different this time. Noticing that the Craft Beer Co had other pubs around London with one in Clerkenwell, we decided to check that out. It roughly equidistant from Frank's flat as we had to go back there because he'd forgotten all his smoking related bits and fancied a cigarette. I'd have been happy to sit by the disused fire place and try my best to block out the cheese smell but thought a change and new experience would be good.

It was dark, a couple of hours into rush hour so I thought that the pubs shouldn't be too busy as most people would probably be on their way home. Or at least I thought a majority of the 'after work' drinkers would be finishing up.

I was wrong, it was packed to the walls and with a very different crowd to the pub in Islington. This place was full of suits I'd imagined due to its closer proximity to the city. It was okay though, as we walked through the door, a path appeared to open up for us clearing a way right to the bar. Everyone was cheery and polite and there was an overall happy aura in the air. I bought myself another pint of Chiron and Frank went for an Export Porter even thought the barman said he was pouring a Smoked Porter, both very tasty drops.

Frank went out for a cigarette and I eyed up a table. I stood by it then ended up sitting down as nobody claimed it.

It was a far more traditional looking pub than the one in Islington. It has a big main room with high tables and stools around the edges. A bar about ¾ the length of the back wall with almost every inch taken up by beer taps and pumps. My favourite feature was the ceiling. It has the old fashioned frame pattern but instead of just being painted all the in-between bits were mirrored so it turned the whole thing into a kind of giant mirror. There was the perfect balance between traditional London boozer and the more modern and trendy wine bar styles.

I'm finding it hard, actually nearly impossible find fault in the Craft Beer Co pubs. Even though I've only been to 2... so far.

Well done chaps!

thecraftbeerco

If you are interested in checking out the Ming exhibit at the British Museum this might help;

ming

The Cheesy Floor

So it happened again. We ended up back at the Craft Beer Co pub by Chapel Market in Islington, London.

After a disappointing visit to the Bree Louise in Euston, then followed by one of my most expensive pints to date but with a good meal in St Pancras, I thought knowing where we were going things would only get better. I say that it was one of my most expensive pints. If I remember rightly, my most expensive was a whopping £8. It was one of those supa-dupa fancy Belgian beers you only ever see in swanky bars or on the continent. It was called 'Delerium Tremens', the beer with the pink elephant on its label.

As soon as we walked into the pub I was filled with immense satisfaction. It almost felt the we were finally safe at home. The pub was dimly lit, warm and our usual armchairs by the fireplace under the watchful gaze of Churchill were free and waiting for us. The fireplace was now occupied by a big fat candle that wouldn't look out of place on an altar.

There was something slightly off putting about the pub. It suddenly became apparent that the pub (especially sitting in a low chair) smelt quite strongly of 'cheesy feet'. It was the same kind of smell you get in church halls or in dance studios. My theory is that is has something to do with the varnish used on the overly polished floors. Your sense of smell eventually conforms the odour. It isn't until you return from the fresh perfume scented toilets that the cheese smell is reawakened. I am going on about the smell and probably over exaggerating it and it probably wasn't even that noticeable.

I might repeat myself here.

Once you get passed the smell it really is a truly fantastic pub with insightful staff and an extensive and varied selection of exceptional beers. I went for another beer from the Thornbrige Brewery, this time one called 'Chiron'. An American style Pale Ale with all the typical flavours you would expect. At 5% it had the potential to sink a few without feeling any unwanted side effects like drunkenness.

In regards to the cheesy floor, I have never understood what was wrong with the old fashioned hardwood floors. Do you really need to be able to see your own reflection in the floor, I'm sure not even Narcissus would have been so vein as to look at himself in the ultra shiny verging on mirrored floor.

It really is a must to check out these pubs, they're bloody brilliant

thecraftbeerco

Also these guys make some tasty beers

thornbridgebrewery

An Incredibly Noisy Burger

After a very disappointing visit to the Bree Louise in Euston, we decided we'd head towards Islington or that direction at least. Maybe stopping off somewhere along the way at a roughly halfway point, after all, Islington is up the hill from Kings Cross.

Approaching St Pancras I decided that we should 'pop in' to The Betjeman Arms. I didn't actually know that was it's name, simply that it is nestled in the corner of the station. A sort 'Al Fresco' dining area separated from the platform by a glass wall, an actual outdoor area overlooking the entrance to Kings Cross Station and the Euston road and then a couple of dining and boozing areas indoors. I would class it as a swanky modern pub/restaurant encased in the classic architecture and interior you would expect to see in such a grand and recently renovated London landmark that is the old St Pancras Station and Hotel.

I didn't know how my uncle felt but I was so damn hungry by this point. Remembering that I hadn't had a pie and pint that I'd been thinking about for so long. After my disgusting kebab shop burger I'd unfortunately devoured the night before, I felt I needed to fulfil my urge for a bloody good burger and give it another shot.

First things first, I ordered a couple of pints. They had Camden Pale Ale on tap so I went for that, a guaranteed good pint. I took a tenner (£10 note) out of my wallet thinking that should be a sufficient amount to cover the cost of 2 pints. How wrong I was. The 2 pints came to £10.50. I hear people complaining on a regular basis about over £4 a pint, I have recently spent as much as £4.84 on a pint but £10.50 for two. You don't need to be a mathematician to work out that that is an insane amount. What has the World/London come to?

Given the pubs location, their demographic and just how posh the whole place was. I conceded. I bit my lip and got on with more pressing matters, by taking a sip.

I got my wish, albeit second best and ordered a burger. Frank went for sweet potato falafels and a side of chips. It took over half an hour to come out. Actually thinking about it, if I hadn't made it known that we were waiting we may have never received our food. When it finally arrived at our table it was mountainous. The burger held together by a large wooden handled steak knife, served on a small wooden chopping board with tiny little jars filled with various sauces, the kind of single use ones you get jam and marmalade in at fancy hotels. It looked delectable, as you would expect or hope for £11.95. I heard the falafels were good but hands down, the star of the show were Frank's hand cut big fat old chips. I never had any but from what he said and the noises he made when eating them I figured it out. If it hadn't been for the little jam jar things it may not have been so enjoyable even though it is a right pain in the bottom trying to get the last little driblet of sauce out.

A prodigious selection of what looked like handmade condiments, good beer and the almost painfully noisy yet relaxing Eurostar trains concluded an overall great meal. We finished up and left for our final pub destination for the evening.

All things considered, the pub is definitely worth a visit

the-betjeman

A Slight Disappointment

After flicking through the most recent edition of the 'London Drinker' magazine if you can call it a magazine, it's a bi-monthly little booklet. I had seen this one page advert for a pub in Euston, London called 'The Bree Louise' it looked great, sounded fantastic with a selection of up to 20 real ales and ciders and best of all was famed for its pies. It had won Camra's North London pub of the year 2009/10, I thought how could I possibly go wrong.

I managed to secure 2 days off in a row so planned to go up on the Tuesday so if I did get a little too drunk I'd have the whole of Wednesday away from my pub to recover before having to work again. I got so excited about having some lovingly made meat pies with so many delightful ales to chose from, some say it was almost my idea of pub heaven.

The pub was only around the corner from my Uncle's flat so wouldn't take long to walk there. He is fortunate enough to live in Kings Cross literally a block across the road from St Pancras station. Such a prime location within walking distance to an infinite list of amazing attractions.

From what I'd heard and read about the pub left me bouncy around in excitement, I could barely contain it. An unknowing observer would have thought that there was something seriously wrong with me. After reading about it in the magazine I checked out the website and ended up thinking about it for most of the previous day, a pie and a pint in a warming and welcoming atmosphere with my uncle for company.

From outside the pub looked as though I'd imagined it, from seeing it in photographs anyway. But stepping through the doors was something completely different and disheartening. On first sight the only problem was that the place was packed, there wasn't even room to stand around anywhere. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but when all you want to do is chill out and eat a pie and drink beer then it kind of becomes a problem. My dream of the pies had quickly turned crusty and stale. Things only got worse when I looked around at the assortment of beer, they didn't have as many things on as I thought, I'd already tried most of the selection and nothing was that good. Any enjoyment of the place vanished before I even had a chance to take my first sip.

It almost brought me to tears. All I'd thought and dreamt about this place had been replaced by bright lights, way too many pump clips on the walls that it looked over the top and tacky and a section of the bar with disused and partially dismantled beer pumps. Nothing could console me on this crushing mental defeat, not even the delicious half pint of Dark Stars 'Hop Head'. Out of all the beers on it was one I knew would not disappoint. The others were either not up to scratch or not worse the risk.

Don't get me wrong, I will most certainly try the pub again. Just not in the near future.

A link to a saviour of a beer that almost made the whole thing worth it. Dark Star Breweries website.

beer

A Silent and Swift Booze Bringer

I'd always seen it alongside Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in shops and even in some 'swanky' bars but never thought of trying it, my brain telling me no due to my dislike of over the top American IPAs. It wasn't until the other day when I saw that it was on promotion in a local supermarket, Waitrose, and so decided to buy a couple of bottles to try. By it, I am referring to Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA, you could call it the bigger brother to the Pale Ale I suppose. The only major noticeable difference is the fact that one of the labels has a slightly lighter shade of green. Of course when you look closely to the label you can see that one is 7.2% and the other is a touch weaker at 5.6%, they have differing descriptions etc... In comparison to the IPA, the Pale Ale could be considered a weak beer, even though it is 5.6%.

One evening last week, I was about to sit at the table and eat my dinner before work until I developed a craving for a beer. I went to browse the contents of my fridge to check out the assortment of beer. I picked up the Sierra Nevada Torpedo Extra IPA and took it out. I opened it up carefully using a bottle opener like the cap suggests then got a glass out and began to pour it in. I slowly decanted it from the bottle into a glass but had chosen such a stupid glass that I had to stop short of the whole bottle, take a sip then continue. Breaking up the steady pouring process meant I had caused the sediment to mix with the remaining beer and contaminate my glass so to speak. The whole idea of me decanting into a glass was worthless as the sediment hadn't stayed in the bottle and ended up clouding up the beer in my glass.

I never looked into it and couldn't quite figure out why the beer was called 'Torpedo IPA'. That was until I actually drank some. It was a very strong IPA, full of hoppy bitterness, had a crisp citrus edge and enough alcohol to knock out a small hippo. It went down quite slowly as I ate my food and took the occasional sip. The beer just wasn't to my taste, it was a little too bitter for me, if you like very hoppy beers and can handle the amount of alcohol present then this is a beer you must try.

After only about twenty minutes into my shift I started feeling a little light headed, it was only a small bottle but I was beginning to feel its effects.

Suddenly like a light bulb flicking on I had a moment of realisation as if some higher being had whispered something very important into my ear. I'd figured out the mystery as to why it is called 'Torpedo IPA'. Like a stealthy submarine lurking in the depths of the ocean waiting to blast its enemies out of the water with one of its very own high explosive torpedoes. It is a torpedo of a beer shooting a surge of alcohol silently and rapidly through your bloodstream directly into your brain causing instantaneous drunkenness.

If you want to know the real reason why it's called 'Torpedo IPA' check out this link

torpedo-extra-ipa

An overdue nod to Sierra Nevada Pale Ale

I thought it was about time I wrote a little bit about the Sierra Nevada Brewing Co out of Chico, California, USA. I've been drinking their beers for a long while now. I think the Pale Ale was the first non British Pale Ale I ever tried, definitely the first American or American styled one.

Taking it back to the very beginning... I may have mentioned in older posts about the first I saw or even tried the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. They journey of discovery began when I started working at Waitrose. With my previous experience working in pubs and in beers, wines & spirits sections in shops I was immediately placed in the wine department. My managers planned on increasing my knowledge of beer and wine and further my learning eventually leading to me being trained as a wine specialist and becoming the branches 'full time' wine specialist. There was a wine specialist already but she only worked part time, I would fill in the gaps when she wasn't present.

I already had a keen interest in beer and what I would consider to be at the time vast knowledge of beer and it's production. I'd chosen to do brewing as a scientific study as part of my Biology course. This meant lots of research and brewery visits giving me quite extensive knowledge of the beer making process.

I am and have always been into experimenting with different things be it food, wine, beer or other kinds of substances so planned to eventually work my way through the entire beer assortment that my branch of Waitrose had. I'd tried most of the ales and a fair amount of the 'fancy continental lagers' before. It didn't take me long and I was soon through the lot and had made my mind up on which ones I loved, liked or barely tolerated, just enough to finish as I don't like wasting beer especially if I've paid for it myself.

There were a few that really stood out but one in particular left a permanent mark on me and probably has contributed in changing my opinion and tastes towards certain kinds of beers. It was Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. It was the first time I'd set eyes on such a beer, it felt curiously foreign more so than beers from Germany or the Czech Republic. When I popped off the lid, poured it slowly into my glass to avoid disturbing too much of the sediment then finally brought it to my mouth and tried it, I immediately fell in love with it. So much so that I started drinking it on a regular basis and used the fact that I could get a discount on beer to my advantage and would take home several bottles of it a week.

It wasn't until a few months after the opening of Kings Place in Kings Cross, London that I saw the beer on tap in the waterside bar. I went to a show and was a early so thought I'd take in my surroundings and have a pint overlooking the Regent's Canal. Of course I bought a pint of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. I can vaguely remember it costing over £4 which at the time was an almost inconceivable amount for a pint of beer.

I'd had it in the bottle many times before so knew what kind of beer it was, how it should taste, look and smell. It exceeded my expectations on all levels, apart from value for money of course. I tried to savour it, making the most of its wonderful intensity and complexity and its near perfect balance. I would say length but I didn't get a chance to appreciate its long remaining flavour as I quickly ordered another and could still taste it past half way in the show. I was at a documentary about various classical conductors and their interpretations of Beethoven's Symphony #9, one of if not the best piece of classical music of all time. In my opinion.

I would have quite easily had another pint after the show if it wasn't for the fact that I was beginning to look a bit like a narcoleptic.

link to the breweries website

sierranevada