Monthly Archives: August 2026

Old Bobby Ale – is it what it says it is?

Craft, Imported and Specialty Beers: Old Bobby

Mick Hart’s difficult job of reviewing craft, imported and specialty beers in Kaliningrad

29 August 2026 – Old Bobby Ale – is it what it says it is?

At a time in history when it is no longer possible to define what exactly is British and what is not – for example, people with a different-coloured skin given a piece of paper by the Home Office claiming that they are British may not be anything near so British when compared with some white-faced bloke who can trace his UK family lineage back across decades and centuries.

“Ah, yes,” I hear you say. “But does he own a dinghy?”

Britain today (whatever that is and wherever it is) is littered with (please don’t anticipate me!) legions of impersonators and impersonations.

Men impersonating women and women impersonating men; weird and unnatural pink things impersonating human beings; liberal lefties impersonating intelligence, and may I add, not with conviction; impersonators impersonating themselves; men and women in Number 10 impersonating prime ministers; a police force intent on impersonating a social-worker-public-relations hybrid, often with a worrying political slant; mixed-race adverts impersonating a melting pot dream, a modern fantasy of middle-class Britain in which every loveable actor, irrespective of race, creed or colour, is homogeneously unified by a revisionist version of British values, when sadly the streets outside tell a very different story, but hey ho, as long as it sells a fridge, a bland and boring living-room suite, or a multicultural weekend in Spain, does it really matter? ; and then there is the BBC, The Independent (laughably called), and The Guardian (of what?), all to one impersonating unbelievably comic strip news – nothing which only the dumbest of us could bring ourselves to swallow – but it makes us snigger if nothing else.

And yet, as surreal and unrestrained as this impersonation is, there is one element of British life – although they are trying to squash that too – which remains essentially undiluted, and that one survivor is British beer.

Beer review links:

[Butauty] [Kanapinis (light)] [Kanapinis (dark)]
[Keptinis Farmhouse][Bistrampolio] [387 Osobaya Varka][Double Mother T.]
[Tapkoc Belgian Blond Ale] [Evening in Bruges] [Primator Double 24 beer]

There are a number of distinguishing characteristics that set British beer, by which we mean ‘real ale’, apart from its worldwide cousins. For a start, it is top fermented, meaning that during fermentation yeast at warmer temperatures rises to the top of the liquid, whereas lager is bottom fermented (you thought that might be the case!). Once in the cask (barrel), British beer undergoes secondary fermentation and natural conditioning. When it is ready to be drawn from the cask, it is done so by mechanical means with the help of a hand-pulled beer pump; carbon dioxide is not added. Consequently, British cask-conditioned ale has a reputational low-fizz profile when generically compared to sharply gassy mass-produced lagers. And then there are Fuggles and Goldings, terms with which you may not be familiar. Sounds like a firm of chartered accountants or the names of my two favourite teddies? Not even close, I’m afraid. Fuggles and Goldings are the classic hops to which age-old British beers owe their celebrated taste and guaranteed authenticity.

And now we come to a British-styled beer manufactured by Russia’s Baltika Breweries, which is so keen on emulating Britain’s inimitable beer culture that at 4.5% it has modelled the strength of its brew on British session tipples and has even gone so far as to market and sell the product in British imperial-pint-sized bottles.

Old Bobby Ale, a bottle of it produced in Russia with a small British flag in the background.

Traditional British beer, as distinct from the citrus revolution, which since its inauguration in the 1980s has gained impressive traction among British beer enthusiasts, of whom naturally I am one, is immediately identified by its deep copper to amber colour, flat compared-to-lager appearance and is occupied by tastes predominant in biscuit-like malts and a balanced hoppy bitterness.

Old Bobby Ale – is it what it says it is?

Baltika Breweries’ Old Bobby, not to be confused, as it easily could be, with ‘Old Nobby’, a village gentleman who … well, we haven’t got time to expand on that … has to be awarded at least 6 out of 10 in its quest to impersonate Britain’s real ale, that of the amber variety.

The packaging goes a long way in pushing the image of the product; for example, there’s the Old Bobby name. I am sure you will agree with me that it just wouldn’t have struck the right note had they called it Old Abdul, although that brand is expected soon, and on an industrial scale, from Dover’s Daily Dinghy Brewery. The bottle also carries the image of a ‘dug’ (bow wow, in English and guv gav in Russian) wearing an old flat cap. Is there a suggestion here that this Russian beer comes from up North, from the land of flat hats and whippits, and if that is the general idea, wherefore art thou pigeon shit?

The bottle, as already noted, is the right pint size, and the deep red and intense blue label and the clever use of white-printed text are a livery nod to the Union Jack and therefore to British tradition.

So much for appearances, but as we who come from the UK know, that is, those of us who have been here longer than it takes to get bussed to a free hotel, appearances can be deceptive. “I say, excuse me, old chap, are you sure you are really British?”

In the glass, Old Bobby has the look of an old-fashioned English ale. However, the aroma is a little heavy, accruing to certain ingredients, particularly the malt, which leaps out when the cap is removed – the cap from the bottle, not from the ‘dug’ – like a non-elected Labour prime minister or an Arabian genie in full flight. The effect is so audacious that it nearly knocks your socks off!

In keeping with Britain’s brewing tradition, Old Bobby is top-fermented. Additional Bobby Brownie points are its use of imported pale ale malt, which functions as a foundation ingredient in many British ales.

The flavour of the beer is on its way to authenticity but falls down at various hurdles, for although it impersonates British ales in various selective and commendable ways, its brewing methods and scale of production place it irrefutably within the industrial output category. When all is said and done, it is macro rather than micro-brewed, and the flavour reflects this difference, as the complex notes of real ale are lost in this stringent process. Intense filtration and pasteurisation slim down the fuller body typically associated with many British amber beers (and one could say the size of many British beer drinkers), leaving Old Bobby’s finish a comparatively bland experience. Moreover, Old Bobby’s adherence to the kind of super-charged carbonation almost every lager could be condemned for is seriously at odds with cask-conditioned ales, whose relatively flat consistency is one of its leading hallmarks.

For those of us who were unfortunate enough to have been brought up with the terrible fizz of Watney’s Red Keg Barrel and are still waiting to this day for Double Diamond to work the wonders promised by its advertisers, the voluminous effervescence and pronounced afterburn taste, which are salient features of Old Bobby, might well bring back ambivalent memories of British beer before its rennaisance.

Old Bobby Ale – is it what it says it is?

Old Bobby is not Old Nobby; he’s a man who … well, never mind about him. Old Bobby comes in a bottle that could have been made in Britain, and the bottle contains a pint. The beer is deeply malty and matched in depth by its caramel taste, and providing you have never drunk a pint of handpump-pulled genuine fresh real ale drawn from a British pub beer cellar, Old Bobby’s impersonation is as complementary as it is passable, especially in the absence of a head-to-head evaluation, where ignorance is bliss and being none the wiser deserves to be called a positive virtue.

Impersonation, like mimicry, is one of the highest forms of flattery, and that’s the way that these things work.

😊BOX TICKER’S CORNER
Name of Beer: Old Bobby (English Ale)
Brewer: Baltika Breweries
Where it is brewed: St Petersburg, Russia
Bottle capacity: 1 pint
Strength: 4.5%
Price: 105 roubles (92 pence) [28 August 2026]
Appearance: Coppery amber colour
Aroma: Malty with tinctures of toast, wood and caramel
Taste: Medium malt, sweet to begin with but with a slightly bitter finish
Fizz amplitude: 65%
Label/Marketing: Red and blue with a ‘dug’ on the collar
Would you buy it again? It’s not outside of the bounds of possibility

Beer rating

According to Emalt, the brewer had this to say about Old Bobby when it was launched:
“Old Bobby is a beer brewed according to traditional English recipes. England is a country with a rich history of brewing, and British ales are known worldwide as an essential part of any good English pub,” said Lyudmila Yakushina, Brand Director, Licensed Beers, Low-Alcohol Beverages & Non-beer Brands at Baltika Breweries.

“Currently the only ales sold widely in Russia are expensive imported brands. Old Bobby Ale will be the first ale brewed in Russia in the best of British traditions and sold throughout the country,” she added. [03 November, 2010]
Webpage cited: https://www.e-malt.com/mnewsasp/news.asp?Command=ArticleShow&ArticleID=18015

Wot other’s say [Comments on Old Bobby ale from the internet, unedited]
🤔I had the impression that it was as much an ale as Belfast is a stout. [Comment: Belfast is a stout, isn’t it?]
😊 Very flavorful beer, great drinkability, hop aroma is very volatile, disappearing quickly. The flavor is not very intense but pleasing and contributes to drinkability. [Comment: A satisfied customer.]
😐 A very good beer to drink, but it can’t be considered a benchmark within the style.
It has a slightly hoppy aroma and a sweet taste with some strong woody notes and a slightly smoky hint. With a fleeting head, it’s a beer with good drinkability and nothing more. [Comment: Some would argue, but never a beer enthusiast, that this is all a beer is and all that it will ever be.]

Trying it on at the Uniform Museum Restaurant in Kaliningrad

Hats the way to do it! There are uniforms, but there’s nothing uniform at the Uniform Museum Restaurant

15 August 2026 -Trying it on at the Uniform Museum Restaurant Kaliningrad

What is it about hats that wants to make you plonk one on your head? Perhaps it’s because if you plonked one anywhere else, it might look suspicious.

Suffice it to say, when we owned a vintage warehouse, we had a lot of hats, and, of course, people tried them on. We didn’t mind that, as long as they were doing so with a real intent to buy. But some people came to the shop to try them on and try it on, simply because they wanted to take photos and selfies and stick them on social media. Very often, as they handled the genuine vintage merchandise, which they had no more intention of buying than I have of voting Labour, and may I say, handled it in a cavalier fashion, including the cavalier headgear, I felt as though I could stick one on them. Such was my annoyance that I could have very easily cast myself as the Basil Fawlty of the antiques world. Indeed, I am fairly certain there were some who believed I was.

Trying it on at the Uniform Museum Restaurant Kaliningrad

Cozy industrial cafe with warm lighting, wood tables, and a long bar lined with stools on the right. The Uniform Museum Restaurant in Kaliningrad.

In Kaliningrad, where there is no shortage of one-off bars and restaurants, a quirky venue exists which resembles a giant wardrobe, hung with historical military uniforms and hats from bygone eras, allowing patrons, as they see fit, and even when they do not fit, to try on at their leisure. No Basil fawlty there!

Cunningly catering to the selfie and social media crowd, this dine, drink and dress-up emporium located on Gorkogo Street stands recessed from the thoroughfare, its large glass-fronted prospect belying the formal municipal image which people of a certain age freely ascribe to venues traditionally charged with the responsible task of curating, preserving and presenting the remnants of former epochs. I would say that its modern appearance works in an opposite way to mine, in that on the other side of purported modernity, when you become familiar with it, lies a sanctuary for the old and interesting, the curious and the antiquated.

Bar half-lit, with stools in the foreground. Scene inside the Uniform Museum Restaurant, Kaliningrad.

Furthermore, in keeping with the adventurous proclivity exercised by today’s museums to fully embrace modernity, turning to all that interaction can bring to the minds of those that cannot live without it, the Uniform Museum Restaurant does not attempt to confine itself to merely encouraging admiration for selective obsolescence, which is something, for example, that Kaliningrad’s London Pub has got off to a fine art. By contrast, this unusual restaurant, because remember that this establishment is first and foremost a place to eat and drink and not a vintage clothes emporium, is an open invitation to see, touch and then try on any clothing that takes your fancy, be it any one specific garment or multiples thereof, which, for those whose lives are ruled by the constant need to nurture social media, is an opportunity made in heaven; nor is it one to be discouraged by the restaurant-bar itself should you naturally have the inclination when posting yourself in their attire to name the location that made it possible.

The number and the variety of uniforms on display combine to produce a rather staggering prop piece, and whilst, as one might not unreasonably expect, the majority of the uniforms are rooted in Russia’s Soviet past, interspersed among them, spanning several Soviet-era decades and covering all of its three main military services, together with law enforcement clothing, are equivalents fetched from further afield, from countries that spark the dealer’s question, “I wonder who they sourced those from?” This consideration makes for a quiet sport; convenient, pleasant and erudite in the distraction it affords, as you wait to receive your orders from the bar, which, unlike certain orders, are ones you will want to act upon with relish and with gusto.

Cozy bar and cafe with a row of colorful jackets on a rack behind the bar, string lights overhead, wooden tables in the foreground.

As I was waiting for my beer to arrive at the table appointed for that purpose, my observations had yielded examples of various military uniforms pertaining to, I estimated, several different nations. The compulsion to leap out of one’s seat in defiance of the natural instinct to honour one’s drinking fidelity and to do so with an alacrity that might dangerously suggest one wasn’t nearly as old as the uniforms surrounding one, was not, for all its magnetism (bygone clothing has this effect), a powerful enough enticement to waylay enjoyment of the restaurant’s beer, arguably the best of which is brewed there on the premises. Forbearance in this matter was not induced by mind over matter but rather by what mattered most; as beer outranking the highest office projected by the most powerful uniforms mustered in that place commanded unstinting obedience and called for immediate respect. This was indeed a ceremony I honoured to its utmost, raising my hand several times in a dignified salute, which just happened in the process to have a tankard grasped within it.

The restaurant’s onsite brewery centres its craft on brewing beers Germanic in style and origin (Quick! Put that German helmet on! And now, just as quickly, take it off!) offering connoisseurs the loyalty incentive which a regular rotation of fine premium beers never fails to recruit.

I was slurping my way through one of these beers when some battered mushrooms and smoky cheese straws as limp as an evening without Viagra requisitioned my mouth, whilst other diners in my vicinity resourced the pleasure of choosing fare from a rather more substantial selection of European and Russian dishes or, staying strictly within the rigid framework of masculine convention, organised their eating campaign around a manly well-done steak or tactically mapped out a safer strategy by enlisting burgers and chips.

“Tell me,” a voice enquired, heavily tinged with exasperation, “do you ever eat a proper meal?” The gap from where the voice ensued was wrapped around the very thing that the adjective ‘proper’ qualified.

“Only when I do,” came my guarded reply, “but if I were wearing that suit of clothes –” I pointed my hand in such a way as to suggest the arrival of reinforcements, which, pursuant to my gesticulation, were at the bend of the stairs – “I’d do it 18th-century style. ” For that was my conclusion.

Trying it on at the Uniform Museum Restaurant Kaliningrad

Of all the garments arrayed that day in the Uniform Museum Restaurant (like many Russian names of restaurants, the translated version can be a bit of a mouthful), there was none among the myriad that recommended themselves more strongly than those that adorned the turn of the stairs, garments which, in their masterful cut and sparing no expense in the tailored art of procuring embellishment, were all that elegance could possibly wish for. And here we have reached a stage convenient in our encomium on the triumphs of a restaurant interior second only in bygone clothing to the renowned costumeries of Angels and Bermans’, where nothing can deter us longer from digressing into a proverb that will, I ardently promise you, return full circle in later paragraphs.

The proverb ‘Manners Maketh Man’ must surely, at the didactic level, a place where virtue and morality superintend its every attribute, be underwritten by the observation that the part played by sartorial elegance underscores the doctrine and, whenever elegance is commendable – and when feasibly can it not be? – attends to the spirit of that attainment that William of Wykeham most properly endorsed, his being the sort of opinion that one would expect from the Bishop of Winchester installed as such in the 14th century.

In today’s world, however, anywhere in that portion to which the conceit ‘developed’ can be pinned, clothes, and not just they alone, reflect our fall from grace; but the former in loss of style and finesse stands as our greatest reminder of the miserable depth to which relentlessly we are descending because visually clothes so boldly demonstrate how cattle-minded we have become.

Try to imagine, for example, how liberated you would feel if you caught yourself in the act of casting aside those ruddy awful, oh-so-ugly work-like pants hung with unsightly cargo pockets, or divesting yourself and your tortured image of that ‘Ee-mon!’ thuggish hoody, or burning those nasty cheap tracksuit bottoms, like those pitiful, sad, ill-advised and now quite droopy feminists did back in the 1960s, who were made to look so very daft by burning their bras in public; and you, having reclaimed yourself by shedding those awful clothes like the skin of the snake or the caterpillar, with an independence beyond your experience, attire yourself instead in such an elegant livery of bold exquisiteness as that depicted faithfully on the unassuming stairway wall of the Uniform Museum Restaurant. (See, I told you we’d get there in the end!)

UNIFORM MUSEUM RESTAURANT

… garments which, in their masterful cut and sparing no expense in the tailored art of procuring embellishment, were all that elegance could possibly wish for.

Imagine the dash you would cut, the Beau Brummell you would unfurl, and how, on a scale of 1 to 10, effectively transformed and influentially transformational, you and your image would become; better by far than any sex change, if not more controversial, the outcome of such a wardrobe shift would be marked with approbation, your own, of course, for yourself included.

Three ornate, embellished coats on display under studio lighting, with white wigs above them on mannequin heads above the rack. Some of the vintage clothes in the Uniform Museum Restaurant.

On the feasibility of this exercise I leave you to ponder thoughtfully, examining the 18th-century styles that hang on the bend of the stairs, as, thinking it proper between pints, I venture now to reconnoitre the restaurant’s upper quarters with a wish to observe the scope and nature of the uniforms it holds and to assess the ambience that dwells therein.

To me, that is to say, to my particular way of thinking, which, I most humbly own, is not the way of everyone’s or, to tell the truth, of anyone I’ve met, the restaurant’s extensive room upstairs is a low-lit, smoochy, mood-infusing, clubby kind of a place, whose snob-screened and comfortable encompassing cushioned booth-style seats make the prospect of assignations an almost mandatory ritual, whether in your own mind you consider yourself to be one of a kind with Leslie Phillips, that is to say, an old-school romantic, or are one half of a typical pair of timeless canny canoodlers.

Cozy dimly lit cafe with wooden beams, string lights, and coats hanging on wall racks.

Mick Hart and Olga Hart posing for a mirror selfie in a costume shop with racks of red and black jackets behind them ."The photo shows a man and woman standing close, taking a selfie in a costume boutique, which is actually a Russian restaurant.

Dimly lit dining area with a wall of colorful military-style jackets displayed along the wall, above seated diners.

Both the ground and first floors of the Uniform Museum Bar in Kaliningrad are bathed in a uniform dimly lit style, which brings out the best, I feel, in drinking and dining ambience if liking it darker is your thing, whilst allowing the spotlights to do what they do at their most effective, which is to highlight and illuminate the thematicising principle donated by the vintage attire.

It would not be based on empirical science should I venture the suggestion that the upper echelons of this most eccentric, most unusual bar and restaurant are more replete with uniforms than its contemporaneous downstairs cousin’s; possibly yes, possibly no, but whatever the final reckoning, the amount of such is prodigious and wants for nothing in great variety; moreover, the lower ceilings of the upstairs room and the lowered lighting framing the spot-lit clothes lend something familiar to its character, which, I would bet my best cravat on, is akin to a boutique feel, as though the venue in its entirety would not be out of place should it be lifted and transported back to the days when Carnaby Street in London was incontestably chic, that is, back to the 1960s, before London became a migrant warehouse (I did mean ‘warehouse’, didn’t I?). This is an image also bolstered by hat stands full of hats – what else! – and where military visors in abundance are contrasted here and there with civilian and vernacular headwear, which, like those in the shop I used to own, immediately tempt you to pick them up and plonk them on your head. I said so, did I not, in the opening sprint of this post?

Museum-style display of assorted military hats mounted on a dark wall, with a beige dress coat hanging to the right.

Older man with white beard sits at a wooden table in a dim room with navy military jackets and hats on display on the wall. It's Mick Hart, author of expatkaliningrad.com at the Uniform Museum Restaurant.

Black ceremonial military hat with gold embroidery of an eagle and laurel leaves.

Woman in a black captain's hat sits at a wooden table, chin resting on her hand, in a dim cafe setting. Olga Hart at the Uniform Museum Restaurant in Kaliningrad.

Trying it on at the Uniform Museum Restaurant Kaliningrad

I was most surprised, and may I say not only a little impressed, to find displayed among these hats a traditional British coppers’ helmet, one of those Noddy-like pointy things, sometimes called the ‘custodian’, which sadly Britain’s ‘bobbies’ wear less and less these days because life on the streets has become too dangerous and nothing short of a reinforced bucket, painted regulatory police force blue, would do the job intended of it.

Museum display of a medieval suit of armor with a red-and-black shield and a dark British policeman's helmet on a wooden stand.

It is only the second of these helmets that I have witnessed in Kaliningrad; the other is known to me, as it was the one I carried from England, circa 2007. I gave it as a present to artist Victor Ryabinin, later to be told by him, with a grin lighting up his face, that of all the many and interesting items dotted around his studio, the one that intrigued his art students most was the British policeman’s helmet.

But let us now put our helmet away and make that significant move from anecdotal reverie to ponder on the nitty-gritty that makes a restaurant and a bar, and, where they still exist, a UK public house, the particular place you think it is, and go there via our intuition with a word or two on personality.

The selection process by which we nominate any one person for membership to our private club of liking and appreciation, an individual whom, from the moment of introduction, stands unambiguously out from the crowd, is one that sifts computer-style through numerous character attributes, sometimes instantaneously, at others with measured deliberation but certainly decisively, all but for the exception of those who are wanting in judge of character, before approval can be stamped. Yet, deeper qualities notwithstanding, the mostly initial yet often sustaining credentials by which these fellows gain admittance to the inner circle of ourselves are defined intuitively and subjectively by that all-appealing influence that goes by the name of personality.

You may ask, or if you won’t, I may ask it for you: what is there that makes one place more memorable than the next, assuming that nothing too bizarre or rather out of the ordinary happens to exert a disproportionate influence over recall and reflection, be such as they are thought good or bad? What is it that attracts us to one particular bar and restaurant to the full and obliging extent that with the first visit now completed, we vow to return and do? The perceived quality of beer and food, of course, plays a major part, but there is never not at least something persuasively more in addition, the absolute magic ingredient, unless you are a cheapskate whose only seduction is less to pay, and that extension to delight is synonymous with, or no different to, our reaction to personality.

Personality, when ascribed to objects other than strictly human, is typically, generically and often loosely defined by the substitution of atmosphere. We often do not say that a venue has personality when, in actual fact, we do, for personality is what we mean when we talk of a somewhere or something which, according to our sentiments, is endowed with attractive, positive qualities to which we are receptive and of which our senses firmly approve.

An example here in Kaliningrad would be if I were asked to judge which of the two, the London Pub or the subject of this post, the Uniform Museum Restaurant, tops the personality league. And the winner, ladies and gentlemen, but only by a narrow margin and perhaps because the building itself is old, is to pull no punches or wriggle from under the clinch and to honour honesty without reservation none other than the London Pub.

The reasons for this evaluation are beyond the scope of this current post, but a word or two in explanation should make the distinction clear enough, for what the Uniform Museum Restaurant surrenders in personality to its charismatic competitor, apart from and including an excellent range of beers and, I am told, a competent menu, it more than advances positively with a gimmick that stamps its mark not casually, nor sufficiently, but with a lasting indelibility, like the backstamp on a fine piece of Minton, except that in this case, on the ledger of your memory.

By building itself around the theme of vintage military clothes, it guarantees by power of novelty, uncontested as the restaurant is by any Kaliningrad equal, a retentive, singular character trait more than considerably capable of rescuing its reputation from run-of-the-mill obscurity. This leitmotif of archived military clothing, which, when it is shared with others, both by word of mouth and inevitably via the techie-grapevine, will encourage those that learn of it and feel they are missing out to hurry along there double quick to try on those lovely tunics and hats. They may also, whilst they are doing this, purchase food and drink, thereby making the circuit complete.

And when you acknowledge the unholy alliance forged between the ubiquitous smartphone camera and social media’s inducive drug-like fix, linking that manipulation to the irresistible urge to bedeck oneself with vintage clothes and to plonk on a vintage hat or two, which I did, mark my words, and with no less care for restraint than I appear to have for hypocrisy, then Wallah! Look no further! Your restaurant-bar has a winning formula.

Smiling man with a gray beard wearing a captain's hat in a dim room, standing beside vintage red and leopard-print sarmorial plaques with brass accents. It's Mick Hart in Kaliningrad at the Uniform Museum Restaurant

Of course, the litmus test for any bar or restaurant worth its weight in food and beer is, after having drunk and dined there, will you recall the holistic event as one of quality and with affection, and will you have the will, or even better, a great desire, to make yourself no stranger to the venue? If the answer to both is ‘yes,’ and recommendation by word of mouth asserts itself with no hesitation or obstructive second thought, then all the right boxes have been ticked. Apropos of which, I think we can let on here that the Uniform Museum Restaurant has all the vital boxes covered and has therefore lost little of that which otherwise could exert itself to impactful lasting detriment; its only concern, maybe, is that the presence of all those vintage clothes, should this review be appraised by moths, attract the opposite of the right clientele, the sort of clientele that any keeper of ancient textiles would rather do without. About which I am able to speak with no less of a lot of authority, having, as I undertook to mention in this wise post’s prologue, been once the proud and insufferable owner of a vintage clothes emporium. So, that is where we’re going to leave it now: trying them on, taking them off, and generally enjoying the food and beer at the Uniform Museum Restaurant, Gorkogo Street, Kaliningrad.