A tipple with your newspaper

A few years ago my wife and I were making our way through Berlin with the kids. Now, there are both good and bad things about that, but one which we found quite civilized were some of the little kiosk news stands which are littered throughout the city. In most respects they seemed to be normal news kiosks. They differed in one important way, however, which is that you can buy a small glass of Prosecco with your morning (or, preferably, evening) news. Now, for those of you who don’t know, Prosecco is a type of Italian sparkling wine, like a champagne, a little on the sweet side but quite pleasant, really.
Now, the Moral Majority would find that nothing short of reprehensible, but I for one think of it as charmingly sophisticated. How relaxing to purchase a newspaper or magazine in the late afternoon, a small glass of Prosecco, and sit down on a sunny bench to find out what’s happening in the world. Unfortunately, as it was winter there were very few sunny corners to be found, and in fact a number of the kiosks we passed were closed. It seemed like such a pleasant idea, though.
Now, kiosks throughout Germany sell booze, so that’s no great surprise. In Munich you can buy a half liter of beer or a small airplane bottle of schnapps at many such kiosks, but to me that seems more like the last refuge of an alcoholic than a nice way to spend an afternoon (and anyone who reads this knows that I like beer, and even schnapps).
No, there’s something about the prosecco booth which appeals to me.
Now, if only we had one here in Philadelphia.

On the trail of the popes

Since we were on the topic of wine, wine and the church, particularly the Catholic Church, are inextricably entwined. Both have a strong – if somewhat dysfunctional – relationship to the south of France.
Avignon, of course, was the seat of a number of popes until Gregory decided enough was enough and absconded with the furniture and the papacy back to Rome, leaving an empty palace and a woefully undersized cathedral. He – or rather, his predecessors – also left behind a legacy of wine which rewards us to this day.
One of the most famous of these regions, of course, is centered around Chateauneuf-du-Papes, part of the Cotes du Rhone. Chateauneuf-du-Papes is an interesting little town with the ruins of the papal chateau looming above. At this point, there’s more vineyard than chateau, but the view from the top is magnificent. We were here for more than just the view, however, so we stopped in at both the highly regarded Dieux Telegraphe and Clos des Papes for a taste or two. Although these two wineries (and this region) are much more well known, the tastings were still surprisingly low-key and uncrowded. Suffice it to say we left with two bottles of each and a warm feeling for those wine-drinking clerics of yore.

Wining in the Provence

I think of a lot of things when I think of France, but hot weather is not one of them. Nonetheless, is was a hot and sunny day when I decided it was time to check out some wine while in the south of France, and I have to say it was worth every minute.
Our first stop was a place called Viason-la-Romaine. I’m guessing that the “Romaine” refers to Rome, as there are allegedly some lovely ruins there. Our minds were on the wine, however, so we wandered only briefly through the lovely medieval town before heading off on the road towards Gigondas. We were sure to pass a number of little wineries and cooperatives.
One of my favorites was Clos des Cazaux, just outside of Gigondas. It didn’t look promising to start – a long, dusty road wound its way down to a house (not a chateau, mind you, but a farmhouse, albeit a pretty one). Arriving, we had the distinct feeling we were had stumbled into someone’s home as we looked around for anything remotely like a tasting room. Just as we were considering a hasty, slightly embarassed retreat, a little old lady came out of the house, greeted us like long lost friends, and ushered us into the large barn-like building to the side. A tiny sign read “Caveaux,” to educate those who could find it.
Once in the barn we gathered in a small, stone-walled room filled with barrels, open to display bottles of the different varieties of wine. In the corner was a small bar with numerous bottles, labelled and unlabeled, and a tap. As we struggled to communicate, two Americans with a minimal knowledge of French and an older Frenchwoman with equal knowledge of English, the two of us enjoyed a tasting as far removed from the usual mass-production tastings as one could hope for. Now that’s what travel is about.

A land without a drink

Last week I was up in the north of Germany, a part of the country which is wildly underappreciated amongst the tourist crowd. That’s better for me, I suppose, but there are some great areas up there.
One of the strange things about the north of Germany is that there is no single drink for which the area is known. The weather isn’t good enough for wine, so that’s a non-starter. They drink a lot (and I mean a lot) of spirits of various sorts, but there’s no single spirit which is really associated with the area. I did have Elbaquavit, an aquavit from a small local provider north of Hamburg which was, well, a bit rough around the edges, but ultimately aquavit is more of a Danish drink than a German one. The best known German spirits tend to come from the south, including the wonderful products of Schladerer mentioned before.
The north also has a lot of great beers, but it’s not really known for them. I’m a big fan of Jever, from a town near the border with the Netherlands, and I also enjoy Flensburger Pils, on the border with Denmark. I’m also a big fan of Dithmarscher, although I prefer the Ditmarscher Urtyp and Dunkel to the Pilsener. Although Jever is part of the Becks brewing empire, and is increasingly available in the US, the others are from two of the few small, privately held breweries left in Germany these days. One of these days I’ll see if they’ll let me in for a tour …
Of course, with all of the ports up in the north, there are also a host of different imports, but then those aren’t really local, now are they? Calvados, Portuguese wine, Baltika Beer, I’ve had a multitude of interesting drinks from all over the world, but none really representative of the north. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with not having a signature drink.

Another look at Pilsen

So, from one set of tunnels to another, today I’ve decided to meander back to beer, and back to the Czech Republic, for another look at Pilsen.
In Pilsen, the Pilsner Urquell brewery’s not the only game in town, and for those interested in the brewing process the Pilsen brewery museum is a must. Housed in a small complex of houses in town, and now part of the Pilsner Urquell domain, the brewery museum was once a very small local brewery.
Visitors can walk through the small malting room, with its tile floors and low, arched ceilings. The well in the quarter provided the water needed for the brewing process. The malt dryer is covered with pungent malt, which I pushed around smoothed out and generally played with using the various old tools which are part of the museum’s display. Fun, yes, but instructive as well.
Similar to the Pilsner Urquell brewery, this small museum has steps leading down to a small fermenting room and, below it, the lagering tunnel. At all of 100 ft., the cellars are perhaps less impressive than those at the brewery, but it’s easy to get a good understanding of the mechanics of brewing. These tunnels were cooled by large chunks of ice which were left at the top of the stairs leading to the tunnel. As the ice melted the cold water ran down into the tunnels thereby keeping them cool. I guess they only brewed in winter. This brewery brewed around 5600 Hectoliters a year, about what Pilsner Urquell brews in one day.

A bit of bubbly

On a not-so-recent trip to Paris, at the crack of dawn, my travel partner and I woke up early and headed for the train station. Our goal – the early train to Epernay, the capital of France’s Champagne region.
Having arrived in Epernay, our first stop was Moet Chandon (where else?). The home of Dom Perignon and the world’s largest champagne producer, Moet Chandon is housed in a variety of buildings along the Avenue du Champagne in downtown Epernay. Some of those buildings are old and charming and others, well, let’s just say the newest building in the Moet Chandon empire looks rather like a suburban high school.
That didn’t keep us from checking out the tour. Luckily, there were only six people there, so we got up private tour of sorts. Of the 28 km of dark, damp cellars spreading out underneath the Moet Chandon facility, we must have walked about 1 km past countless thousands of champagne bottles reposing in the dark.
The first steps in making champagne are much like making wine. First, the grapes are pressed and the juice from the first two to three pressings are put in large tanks to age before bottling. Unlike wine, champagne is bottle-fermented, so the thick-walled (and thereby burst-resistant) bottles are outfitted with a temporary cap and left to lay in the cellars for three to six years. After fermenting the bottles are moved into upright wood racks, where they can be stored at a gradually increasing angle to move the sediment to the neck of the bottle. The apprenticeship alone for the individual who turns and sets the angle of the bottles takes two to three years, and no machines are used (or so they say). Once the bottle fermentation is complete, the sediment is flash frozen in a bath of liquid nitrogen and removed. At that point, a mixture of wine and sugar is added to the champagne and it is corked for the final time. At least that’s what they tell us.
For those interested in more of a show, Mercier is another cellar owned by the same group as Moet Chandon, but with a screen surround audiovisual and laser show, an elevator with moving figures preparing champagne, and an electric train leading through the cellars. A bit over the top for me, but others on the tour loved it.
The city of Epernay is attractive if not particularly memorable, and on our visit looked a little desolate other than for bus-riding tourists. One memory from Epernay has little to do with champagne but will remain with me forever: there was a public restroom in Epernay which was wholly self-contained. It was made of stainless steel or some other easy to clean surface, and the door opened automatically to let “customers” in and out. After reluctantly going in, I was somewhat concerned that it might choose to let me out before I was finished doing my business, thereby giving all of Epernay a chance to take a gander at the American on the toilet. The sink was right above the toilet, which was a bit weird as well. Upon leaving this strange steel bathroom-pod the door closed again, and the entire interior of the restrooms was automatically disinfected and cleaned before it would allow anyone else to enter. Very strange. I have to wonder if anyone has ever been trapped in there during the cleaning process, and how they fared.

If you can’t eat you might as well drink

Apropos of church, some of the most enduring beers were originally brewed by monks, including the famous Starkbier of Munich and its surroundings. It’s loud and chaotic, but the Starkbierfest is a beer festival with a pedigree. Beer has long been regarded a staple in the Bavarian diet, but it is the notion of beer as “liquid bread” which led the monks of St. Francis of Paula to brew a hearty beer to sustain them through the final weeks of lent and the fasting which leads up to Easter. That beer and the brewery which grew out of it, both named Paulaner Salvator, started a tradition of double-bock beers which survives to this day.
Every spring Munich’s breweries gear up the production of their strongest, richest beers – beers with names like Salvator, Optimator, and Maximator. These dark beers, “strong beers” according to the literal translation, are served in heavy half liter of liter ceramic mugs rather than the usual glasses. As many an unsuspecting visitor to Munich has discovered the double bocks they are almost twice as strong as a normal beer with over 7% alcohol by volume.
The festival is more than just beer, however. The Starkbierfest is called the “fifth season” in Bavaria, and the beer halls of the city are crawling with stout men in their lederhosen, heavy woolen socks and green Loden jackets. The Starkbierfest, like the Oktoberfest, is considered a family event, and the Bavarian women in their long skirts and dirndls are also present, often with the children and the extended family. Where there are Bavarians there is music, and the beer halls reverberate with the local folk music. The atmosphere at the Starkbierfest is friendly and celebratory, with far fewer tourists than the more famous Oktoberfest.
The traditional home of the Starkbierfest is Paulaner’s Salvatorkellar, known in Munich by its location, Nockherberg. The Salvatorkellar is at Hochstraße 77 on the Nockherberg and can be reached by streetcars 15, 25, and 27. If you are in town, don’t miss the opportunity to try one of the other fine double-bock beers in one of Munich’s many other beer halls, in particular that of Löwenbräu on Stiglmaierplatz.
The Starkbierfest is held the 4th and 3rd weeks before Easter. This year’s Starkbierfest started with the traditional Starkbieranstich on March 11, 2007.

The Pilsner Urquell brewery, a retrospective

We stood huddled together in the narrow damp tunnels. A chill fog was in the air, and above us ran frosted pipes, moisture dripping on to the cold stone floor below. The tunnels were filled to the left and to the right with wooden barrels, each filled with rich smooth Pilsner Urquell beer at varying stages of the brewing process. Those barrels are gone now, replaced with soulless but practical stainless steel, but this is the story of a visit to one of the world’s finest breweries before it embraced volume over quality.
The tunnel to the right contained the fermenters, large wooden barrels the size of a washer drier combo or perhaps a large jacuzzi. In each barrel, the brewed beer was left to ferment for about 30 days or so until was is ready to be lagered, or stored.
To the left were the lagering barrels, stacked three or four high. Once the beer has been pumped into the lagering barrels, it has only six more months to go before being kegged and shipped throughout the world to pubs in Europe, the United States, and Asia.
Over time, the chill became more pronounced, and the visitors began to move around in a vain attempt warm themselves. The tunnels are tapped to be between 36 to 30 degrees Fahrenheit, cold temperatures for shorts-and-sneakers-wearing tourists such as ourselves. Looking up at the frosted pipe which cool the tunnels, it occured to me that we were in one of the largest refrigerators in the world, with over 9 km of tunnels cut in the the hillside across from the industrial town of Pilsen.
Above the huge expanse of tunnels sprawls the brewery itself, with 32 kettles brewing a total of 1.3 Hectoliters of beer every year. Pilsner Urquell was, at the time, one of the few breweries still making its own malt, and a single train car was used to move the freshly made malt from a large malting house to the brewery itself.
The brewing tradition in Pilsen is strong, with some of the best hops in the world coming from the surrounding area as (Saaz, or Zatec) and years of brewing tradition. This tradition, the wooden barrels with the complicated pitching process, the malt house, and the concentration on beer rather than production was left largely untouched by the Communist regime. Unfortunately, Pilsner Urquell’s very success has ruined that long-held tradition, as the brewery switched to stainless steel lagering tanks in an effort to keep up production and revenue. I haven’t been back since that tour many years ago, but the beer is clearly different, and that’s a shame. Still, it’s a trip every true beer lover should make.

On a hill overlooking a lake …

Sticking with beer for the moment, we’ve moved across the ocean again, to a place that is simply wonderful in the fall. Kloster Andechs is a monastery located on a hill in the lake country just south of Munich, and offers fine beer in a beautiful setting.
Always one to combine healthy activity with my beer drinking, I would recommend that you take the S-Bahn (the local regional rail) to Herrsching and then hike the forest path up to the beergarden. The walk takes an hour or so, and you can always take a bus back down if you can’t make it.
The specialty of the house is the thick brown beer, which is no longer sold on weekends due to its high alcohol content (and the accidents which resulted). There’s an indoor beer hall which is very rustic in a traditional Bavarian sort of way, but the real beauty of the place is the outdoor beergarden. The beergarden is a multi-level, ancient looking place with more character than you could possibly hope for. Indoors you can grab a freshly-baked pretzel, a massive roast ham hock, spiral-cut radishes and a host of other specialties.
Don’t forget to check out the beautiful monastery grounds while you’re here (or, if you’re not a history buff, send the others to look at the monastery while you have another).

Nobody home?

Continuing this blog’s wild swings across the ocean, we’re back in the UK again, this time in Devon, home to heavy cream (among other things). It’s also home to another pub which is worthy of a trip, the Nobody Inn in tongue-twisting Doddiscombsleigh, near Exeter. That is, it was home to the Nobody Inn, but when I checked the website this morning nothing showed up.
Anyway, the Nobody Inn is very well known for its incredible wine list, and deservedly so, since I think it exceeds 1000 at this point. It is less known for its very respectable selection of Scotch and the availability of some lovely local beers on tap. Either way, you can’t really go wrong at the Nobody Inn, unless I suppose you’re a fan of mixed drinks.
Even better, this is a place which feels like a pub, in the small-town, hundreds of years old kind of way. When we went it was winter, and we were staying in the Inn a couple of doors down. After crunching through the frost to get to the inn there was nothing more welcoming than the warm glow of lights on the low timbered ceilings, complimented by the hum of happy voices and the clinking of glasses. We’re not the kind of people who repeat restaurants when we travel, but we must have gone to the Nobody Inn four evenings running, a record for us.