An Englishman's Experiences of Life in Kaliningrad
Архив рубрики: DAILY LIFE in KALININGRAD
Daily Life in Kaliningrad
Daily Life in Kaliningrad is a category of my blog expatkaliningrad.com. It is, as the title suggests, devoted to observations, thoughts and opinions of what it is like to live in Kaliningrad, and it is written from the point of view of an expat Englishman. Unlike my diary category, Kaliningrad: Mick Hart’s Diary, the posts featured in this category are not necessarily linked to any specific timeline or date but are topic or theme oriented. For example, at the time of writing this brief description the category DAILY LIFE IN KALININGRAD contains the following posts:
A Day at the Dentists
One of the first reactions I received when I divulged to friends and colleagues my intention to move to Russia, apart from perhaps the obvious one, was what is the health service like? A not unusual preoccupation, especially with older people, because, let’s face it, as we grow older we fall to bits. I wrote this article about a trip to a Russian dentist’s partly in response to this question and partly because the experience surprised me. Well, we all have our prejudices; take real-ale drinkers and Watney’s.
International Women’s Day Kaliningrad
Now you would not think that an old and proud chauvinist like me would want to go on record as saying that I enjoy something as seemingly PC and ism-oriented as International Women’s Day, but in these days of tats, butch, Its, Others and Old Uncle Tom Cobbley, Russia’s nationwide display of affection and sentimentality traditionally symbolised by the giving of flowers to the fairer sex pulls wonderfully at one’s conservative heartstrings. Whether flower power and a kind heart were influential enough to pull at my wallet strings with regards to treating my better half to flowers is revealed in this article.
Self-isolating in Kaliningrad
Rather self-explanatory don’t you think? This, I believe, was my first article as the world entered the coronavirus maelstrom, since when expressions like ‘self-isolating’, ‘social distancing’, ‘lockdown’, ‘masks’, ‘vaccines’, ‘New Normal’ and so on have become the defining lexicon of the 21st century. I want my money back! When I was young, and I was once, I subscribed to a Sci-Fi magazine called TV 21. It was, as the title suggests, a preview of what it would be like to live in the 21st century. It was all about cities on stilts, suspended monorails, hover cars, people with metallic-looking hair and all-in-one shimmering silver jumpsuits. I, as with my entire generation, have been had! There was nothing in this magazine’s Brave New World prediction of open borders, social engineered societies, political correctness, sect appeasement, streets too violent to walk down, globalisation and global warming, anti-patriotism, revisionist history, stage-managed free speech or coronavirus. We were had! And, as we continue to self-isolate, there are those out there who believe that we are still being had. But I prefer to self-isolate …
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Daily Life in Kaliningrad
I am aware that Daily Life in Kaliningrad is not exactly overpopulated with articles. You can blame this on coronavirus ~ I do. Since making its debut, I, like almost everyone else who writes things, has had their focus ~ nay their lives ~ shanghaied by the why’s, what’s and therefores of this life- and lifestyle-changing phenomenon. This, let us hope it is only a, detour, is reflected in the disproportional number of posts that appear in my Kaliningrad: Mick Hart’s Diary category (sub-categories Diary 2000 & Diary 2019/2020) and my exposition category, Meanwhile in the UK, which is devoted to events in my home country, England, oh and sometimes the other bits: analysis, comment and exposés on UK media content together with cultural, historical and nostalgic subjects which appeal to my idiosyncrasies or are taken from the barely legible pages of my old and initially handwritten diaries.
We live in peculiar and interesting times, and as I consider myself to be first and foremost a diarist, it is as impossible not to be waylaid by events as they unfold as it is not to time travel. When you take the two together and place it within the context of somebody’s life, in this case mine, the impetus to write expatkaliningrad.com is not difficult to understand.
Published: 3 June 2021~ Secret Weapon in Kaliningrad
You know how the UK media is always going on about the Kaliningrad region being the most militarised zone in the universe, well here’s a secret weapon that my wife discovered when she was out shopping one evening.
Its code name is Lift Off, but we shall refer to it by its layman’s name: the Ground-to-Air Arse-Seeking Boot!
My good lady wife had popped out of the house to make a routine trip to a local food store. It is a small shop but well stocked with a variety of different products.
On this particular evening, there was herself and the lady serving her in the shop and nobody else.
Suddenly, the door opened and in staggered an extremely drunken man. He was mnoga peearni, as they say in these parts.
Swaying this way and that and reeking of booze, he faced the two women in the shop and ordered them to give him some money: “I’m hungry!” he exclaimed.
Silence ensued.
Becoming more agitated, he repeated his demand.
My wife, being a teacher and used to addressing me on the subject of alcohol, looked at him firmly and said, “If you’ve got enough money to booze, then you ought to have enough money to feed yourself with!”
The well-oiled man became extremely angry.
“You b…..s!!” he shouted. “You must feed me! I’m going to sit in this corner and won’t move until you do!”
At that moment, a man of no small proportions entered the shop. He purchased three or four items, and just as he was about to leave the shopkeeper whispered to him, “That man in the corner is extremely drunk and demanding money and food! I am frightened of him.”
“What, this vermin!!” the strapping fellow proclaimed in a tone of disbelief, whereupon he marched over to the gentlemen concerned, hoisted him up by the scruff of the neck, turned him around to face the doorway and taking careful aim gave him a ground-to-arse boot send off.
Although the secret weapon had succeeded in propelling the target some two metres or more, the recipient, as though still unconvinced of its capabilities, crawled back for more. Was he a stunt man?
Once again, the man in charge of the defensive booteries found himself obliged to provide a further demonstration of the weapon’s capability. So, he turned the target around, took careful aim for the second time, launched the lethal ground-to-arse-seeking boot and sent the target flying.
“Oh thank you,” said the shopkeeper, “but I am of the opinion that when you leave he [the drunken man] will simply return.”
She could not have underestimated the strapping Sir Galahad more, for not only was he a very good shot equipped with a big pair of boots that anyone would be envious of, but he also seemed to operate his own road haulage company, for, no sooner had the fearful shopkeeper expressed her concerns to him than he had literally collared the drunken man and, hoisting him on all fours, proceeded to ferry him across the busy road where, he assured the tremulous shopkeeper, given his drunken state should the offending object attempt to re-cross the road he would be swept away on the front of a passing car bonnet and end up somewhere in Poland.
The moral of this story is plain to see. Unless you are wearing a thick piece of sponge in your underpants and don’t mind going to Poland, and going there very suddenly, aggressive begging in the city of Kaliningrad is not entirely recommended.
Репетитор английского языка в Калининграде: Развивайте cвои навыки английского языка с преподавателем Oльгой Коростелевой–Харт, имеющей 20-летний опыт преподавания в Великобритании (квалификация выдана Палатой Учителей Великобритании, сертификат за номером 0614508)
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 13: Czech Recipe Beer
Published: 26 April 2021
Hitler may have referred to England as a nation of shopkeepers, but back in the day when England was England, before it became what it is today (R.I.P. England), I, and many of my contemporaries, considered England to be not only a nation of beer drinkers, but the nation of beer drinkers. So, it might surprise you to learn that it is in fact Czechoslovakia that holds the official title of being the most beer-sodden country in the world.
According to official beer-drinking records, the boozy Czechs knock back more beer per capita than anybody else, anywhere else. But take heart dear Brits! As beer in Czechoslovakia is, like everywhere else on the opposite side of the Channel, lager, and in Czechoslovakia dominated by Pilsner lager, we Brits can still claim with pride and satisfaction that the UK is the only country in the world in which two great institutions, real ale and the public house, have come together over the centuries to form a unique drinking culture. (Spirit-lifting background music of ‘Real Ale Britannia, Real Ale rules the craves, thanks to Fox and Farage Brits will never be PC slaves!’)
“Good evening landlord, a pint of Farage please.”
“Would that be a pint of ‘Farage Best He Made Them Bitter’ or a pint of ‘Farage Patriot’?”
But we are not here today to talk about national institutions, history and how the unholy trinity, Politics~Globalism~Pandemic-scare, are out to eradicate them, or to dwell forlornly on poor cold, wet and shivering Brits sitting in pub beer gardens six feet apart from one another sipping ale through a useless mask. No, we are here today, in the here and now, to consider the merits/demerits of a Russian beer known as Czech Recipe. Whether the recipe is Czech or simply called Czech Recipe, as Czechs and beer go together like volume and ringing cash registers, I will leave to your discretion.
Nowhere near as exciting by name as Farage’s ‘EU Looking at Me!’ bitter, or BLM’s ‘Churchill Still Stands’ jet-black porter, Czech Recipe might sound like a cake mix, which comes in a bottle just short of 1.5 litres, has a green label and the name in olde worlde script, but contrarily this light, filtered, live beer produced by the Lipetsk brewery is quite a tasty brew.
Green in colour, until you take the top off the bottle and pour it into your glass, Czech Recipe has a pale golden hue, a faint aroma of no particular kind (so forget about all those pretentious beer reviews that compare it to Elton John’s piano, with ‘notes’ of this and ‘notes’ of that) and a foamy head that could not recede faster were it wearing a loose-fitting toupée.
Sip ~ it’s zesty.
Sip ~ it’s tangy.
Gulp ~ it’s crisp.
Gulp gone ~ it is very refreshing …
Czech Recipe is all these things, and it is also 4.7%.
The aftertaste, which is so important whatever beer you are quaffing, because it is this that keeps you quaffing, is dry. In fact, it is very dry. ‘Nuts!’ you say, and you are right. The dry, crisp aftertaste is what makes it the perfect complement to nuts and other snacks. It teases the palate, without raping it, and offers a flirtatious relationship free from guilt ~ even though it is not real ale. It is, in fact, the sort of Czech you could easily take home to meet your mum. Strong to a degree but, as Leonard Cohen sang (I don’t know whether he drank it?) ‘It’s light, light enough to let it go …’
Czech Recipe Beer in Kaliningrad
The world’s perception of Czech beer is Pilsner and, since I am no great fan of Pilsner, I get all suspicious and cautious about buying it. Usually, I will stand there in the shop staring at it, thinking ‘dare I’? Czech Recipe could have been a recipe for a taste disaster, but it bucked the trend (yes, I have spelt it right) and once sampled left me feeling as happy as a pig in … a large grass field.
A lot of the beers that I have been drinking in Kaliningrad ~ not that I have been drinking a lot, you understand, it’s just an expression ~ is much stronger than the 4.2 percent I would normally go for was I drinking in England (voice in the two and six pennies, “Yeah, leave it out …!”). But, I have found that often the lighter strength beers here are light on taste and flavour, and you need to buy something with a bit more welly to compensate (same voice, “Strewth, I’ve ‘eard it all now!”).
Czech Recipe fills the gap in the market and fills it nicely. It is a reasonably strong beer, but one that is more concerned with delivering taste than with blowing your pants and socks off ~ and that’s fine by me, for the last thing that I want is to be left standing there with a Czech in my hand wearing nothing but my cravat.
Well, my bars nearly open, so note the essentials below, put your trainers on and hot foot it down to the shop. Buy yourself some of the Recipe and see for yourself.
If my appraisal is wrong, I’ll let you buy me a bottle.
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Czech Recipe Brewer: Lipetsk Brewery Where it is brewed: Lipetsk, Russia Bottle capacity: 1.42 litres Strength: 4.7% Price: It cost me about 147 rubles (£1.41) Appearance: Pale golden Aroma: I haven’t decided Taste: Zesty, refreshing, hoppy with dry aftertaste Fizz amplitude: 6/10 Label/Marketing: Old School Would you buy it again? I have done Marks out of 10: 6.5+
*Note that the beers that feature in this review series only include bottled beer types that are routinely sold through supermarket outlets and in no way reflect the variety of beer and/or quality available in Kaliningrad from speciality outlets and/or through bars and restaurants.
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 12: Leningradskoe
Published: 29 March 2021 ~ Lifting the bridge on Leningradskoe beer
Over the past few weeks, I have been playing it safe. Whenever I have had ‘the ‘ankerings’, as my old East London friend used to call the acute desire for beer, I have gone for something tried, tested and approved, which in my case has been Lidskae and Ostmark. But what’s life without a bit of diversity (not too much, mind; look what it’s done to the UK!)?
You don’t drink the label but, as with all that we consume, appearance and packaging is everything. The same rule applies whether you are shopping in the supermarket for pasta or shopping in your local nightclub. Being a lover of the past, it is not surprising that I usually go for beers the bottles of which are labelled as though they belong in the archives of a library’s historic records section or carry a typeface and/or image that speaks of the quality of things that were and which can never be again.
On this drinking occasion, a few weeks ago, I chose something that on first consideration might seem to go against the selective criteria grain, inasmuch as the branding has a stark, cold, metallic-feel about it, but, if you look again, you will see that the purchase compulsion was inspired in much the same way as it was when I chose Gold Mine beer. In fact, if you compare the labels of the two products the dissimilarities are insignificant. Both incorporate cool blue, white and gold colours and both favour cityscape skylines, silhouettes picked out by a mystical luminosity, somewhere between the aegis of dusk and dawn.
Then I was talking about Gold Mine beer; here I am referring to the beer Leningradskoe. In the case of the latter, the imagery concerns itself with Leniningrad, an open river bridge set against the domes and spires of St Petersburg (formerly Leningrad, after it was St Petersburg ~ if you know what I mean?). So, although it is not a million years ago, the historical connection still holds true. I suppose the attraction lies in the disequilibrium, the nearness and distance evoked by the reversing memory of the Soviet Union.
Lifting the bridge on Leningradskoe beer
So, purchase compulsion explained, let’s get down to the drinking of it.
The initial aroma is one of strong corn, in other words it is grainy rather than anything else. It arrives in the glass looking like Gold Mine’s long, lost brother ~ bright and golden. The head fizzes, rises to an inch but dissolves rather smartishly, leaving just a trace ~ a little bit like a lifting draw bridge: up one minute and down the next. The beer’s carbonation does not, from its appearance within the glass, have an overwhelming disposition, but there is sufficient of it to ensure that it holds up the relatively low flavour, rather like a pair of 1940s’ braces. In fact, I suspect that it is the carbonation that keeps the body of the beer afloat, the cunning adjunct that delivers the touch-of-bitter taste which sets it apart from bog-standard lager.
The aftertaste is not strong, but it is palatable, becoming more so after the initial twang has died. To my mind, and tastebuds, it is this feature, two pints later, that most distinguishes and recommends it. In the last analysis, it is a kind of half-way house, occupying a surprising place somewhere between keg bitter and lager, and because in its earlier stages it is clear and crisp, although I was drinking it on the outskirts of winter, in the midst of a nice summer’s day, whilst sitting back in the garden watching your wife do the weeding, I anticipate that it would be cool ~ as cool as the label suggests ~ and also rather refreshing.
So, whilst you are buying your wife a trowel in preparation for summer, don’t forget to treat yourself to a bottle of Leningradskoe. You know, if nobody else does, that you deserve it!
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Leningradskoe Brewer: Baltika Breweries Where it is brewed: St Petersburg Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.7% Price: It cost me about 137 rubles (£1.32) Appearance: Pale golden Aroma: Strong corn Taste: Hybrid lager & keg bitter with satisfying after taste Fizz amplitude: 5/10 Label/Marketing: Soviet Would you buy it again? Would do Marks out of 10: 6
Most of you will know about International Women’s Day. It is the day in the UK when feminists, The Guardian and The Independent celebrate feminism and in Russia femininity, but how many of you know about Men’s Day?
Russia Pays Tribute to its Men
Men’s’ Day in Russia is actually called Army Day. It began life as the Defenders of the Fatherland Day and, as the title suggests, was reserved for those who served in the military but has now been extended to incorporate all members of the male sex.
And today, 23rd February 2021 is that day: a day on which all Russian men will be looking forward with unalloyed joy to receiving the traditional Army Day gifts: socks, shaving cream and aftershave.
Apparently, the gift policy has become so predictable that it is rumoured that Russian men have renamed the day ‘The All-Russian Day of Shaving Cream’ and some have even formed a pre-emptive coalition, stocking up in advance on socks, shaving cream and aftershave in the hope that their wives or girlfriends will get the message and present them with something quite unexpected.
Perhaps I can help them.
Russia Pays Tribute to its Men
Not many people know that I was once in the Russian military, although, as the photograph shows, it was some time ago.
Nevertheless, working on the premise that ‘when in Rome …’, and having made sure that I had enough shaving cream and aftershave to sink a US aircraft carrier, I took the precaution of purchasing not just one pair, but two pairs of thick woolen handmade socks from my local babushka. Now, I thought, let’s see wifey how inventive you can be.
Result?
It’s enough to make the nation jealous: How many Russian men can say that they are a proud owner of a masculine blue towel monogrammed with a Russian tank and flag?
The temptation to sit down tonight wearing nothing else but my blue towel whilst drinking home-made vodka with a polar meeshka may be too seductive for me to resist and far too much for my wife to bear (pun intended).
I think I can safely say that next year, it will be back to the socks and shaving cream.
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 11: Oak & Hoop beer
Published: 31 January 2021
I developed a taste for beer when I was about 14 years old, about the time that they turned a blind eye to my age and began to let me through the doors of the village local. Some might say that is a very tender age to be supping and that I should be ashamed of myself, but, of course, I am not. The one thing I have learnt, or subscribed to, as I approach the senior years of my life is that there is nothing so true as the philosophical adage, ‘live life whilst you are young’. I know this to be the touchstone of our brief earthly existence because now that I am older I cannot drink half as much beer as I could when I should not have been drinking it. Ahh, happy days: vitals in their unsullied prime and Courage Tavern on tap. It was “What your right arm’s for”, or so went the advertising slogan, possibly to remind those pub-going blokes back in the 1970s that it was not just something with a fist on the end that you threw after several pints.
But we must leave reminiscences of real pubs, real men and the days of pre-real ale to focus on the latest addition to my bottled beers of Kaliningrad review, which today features another one of those offerings served up in squat dumpy bottles.
All of the beers in this series of reviews are available through general supermarkets, and this is no exception.
Oak & Hoop Beer in Kaliningrad
Oak & Hoop beer comes from the same brewery, the Trisosensky Plant, from which the beer Soft Barley derives, which was the subject of my previous review, and, as with the previous review, I have only good things to say.
First off, you’ve just got to love the advertising. Not only a small plastic beer barrel, but one adorned with a crafted piece of card attached to the pouring top and draped Mason’s apron style from head to toe. The alluring impression is instantaneously craft beer. A crafted piece of card craftily cut and composed to convince the consumer that what lies within is craft. The image of mallet, barrel and stool, all in wood, naturally, with vintage-leaning display type and mellow beer-brown colours all contribute handsomely to the presentation, promise and promotion of a traditional, quality beverage. Oh, and lookee here, notice the awards attained, signified by the august presence of three gold medallions.
I deduced from the first nasal observation a seductive compilation enticingly in favour of roasted malts and caramel, which corresponded perfectly with my long-standing prejudice for brews whilst though they may not be ales as such yet display certain defining characteristics making them more akin to ale than their pallid pilsner counterparts, for which I make no secret of courting less than great affection.
But we are not here to sniff it. We will leave that pleasure for wine drinkers and let them spit it out.
Award-winning Oak & Hoop beer in Kaliningrad, Russia
As first tastes go, there was no doubt in my mind that I had spent my 147 rubles wisely. The caramel and malt bouquet delivered the taste promised by the aroma. Rounded and mellow with just a hint of bitterness, the sweet incipience gives way to a dry, satisfying, lingering taste, the parity of which makes strange bedfellows out of any critical notion that the two could live apart.
This subtle liaison discreetly belies its AVG manliness, which, at 4.9%, packs a not unreasonable clout, but then let’s not be bashful, it’s what your right arms for.
Oak & Hoop Beer in Kaliningrad
If I have learnt anything about beer it is that the first likeable sip does not necessarily equate in taste to love at first sight; you may like, you may love, or imagine you do, but if it be love that willingly takes you happily to the end of the glass, then be sure that it will be lust that brings you back for more.
We are continually reminded, bordello fashion, that pleasures in life have to be paid for, and the pleasure of Oak & Hoop is worth every penny and every ruble, so go for it before you get too old!
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Oak & Hoop Brewer: Trisosensky brewery Where it is brewed: Ulyanovsk and Dimitrovgrad, Russia Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.9% Price: It cost me about 137 rubles (£1.32) Appearance: Pale golden Aroma: Hops & caramel Taste: Subtle, attractive blend of sweet & dry with caramel Fizz amplitude: 5/10 Label/Marketing: Traditional Would you buy it again? I intend to. Marks out of 10: 9
*Note that the beers that feature in this review series only include bottled beer types that are routinely sold through supermarket outlets and in no way reflect the variety of beer and/or quality available in Kaliningrad from speciality outlets and/or through bars and restaurants.
Published: 22 January 2021 ~ It always snows in Russia
Before moving here, whenever I mentioned to a fellow Brit that I was visiting Kaliningrad, I would be asked, “Where’s that?” As soon as I had educated them geographically, among the predictable responses based on prejudice and cliché, an old stalwart was, “Russa! Brrr, it’s cold out there …”
Try as I might to explain to them that since Kaliningrad was the westernmost point of Russia the climate was not that much different to the UK’s, the stock images of frozen rivers, ushanka hats, voluminous fur coats and, of course, snow ~ lots and lots of snow ~ proved impossible to shovel away.
It always snows in Russia!
When I first came to Kaliningrad in winter 2000, there was snow, and lots of it (see Kaliningrad First Impression), and I do recall seeing a tower-mounted digital thermometer somewhere in the city giving a temperature reading of minus 27 degrees. Harbouring the same stereotypical notions of Russia’s salient attributes, this first encounter pleased me no end, providing me with photographic evidence to confirm what Brits had always known, that Russia was cold and that it snowed a lot.
There was more snow to Russify my experience when I travelled to Kaliningrad in 2002. We entered the exclave via Lithuania, where it was also snowing heavily, and the journey by train across the snow-bound wastelands was all that the heart could desire.
This stereotype was to melt away, however, in the winter of 2004. This was the year that a new-found friend of ours looking for adventure and a woman, decided to accompany us on our Christmas trip to Kaliningrad. He knew that it was cold (it’s cold out there in Russia), and his knowledge had been bolstered by the tales that I had told and the photographs that I had shown him. He was excited, and set about preparing himself for Siberia, buying up large stocks of woolies, U.S. military surplus coats and the all-important long johns. His suitcases were fat and heavy.
Who said that it always snows in Russia?
Not disappointed, in the first three days of our arriving in Kaliningrad, the temperature had dropped well below those in the England we had left and, more importantly, there was snow, lots of swirling snow. And then, quiet suddenly, the mercury shot up the thermometer tube, the snow melted, the rain came, and it stayed that way for a month. As I believe I have said before, there is a world of difference between Kaliningrad in the winter rain and Kaliningrad in the snow. Those who live here will know what I mean.
Last year, winter 2019-2020, was like everything else that year, miserable. It was, literally, wishy washy: a winter of muck and puddles.
So, how refreshing this winter to see some snow. It has not been that heavy, but it has been persistent and cold enough for successive falls to settle and to transform the city and regional landscape into a childhood memory of how winters used to be.
Oh, but it’s alright for me, or so my critics tell me. I don’t have to go anywhere. I don’t have to scrape the ice and snow off the car in the morning and then brave the roads on my way to work. On the contrary, I can sit at home, look out of the window and admire the Christmas-card view. And they are right. But I am unrepentant and remain that way. There have to be some advantages in getting starry, and this is one of the few.
Come rain, snow, hail or shine my wife goes out whatever, and this is as it should be. Someone has to do the shopping. And she also has to obtain those much-needed photos for Arsebook, which I can then requisition and use here for my blog.
Russia! It always snow there!
To bring things up to date, for the past several days or more it has been snowing lightly, and today, at the time of writing, it was at it again. Temperatures are low enough to ensure that what comes down stays put; just enough for picturesque, but not enough for concern.
This morning, the scene at the back of the house through the patio door was wonderful. It had snowed quite a lot during the night and the rooftops of the old German houses all had snow on them, some in total, some in places, and the fruit trees had become crystalline, petrified, the smaller branches and twigs very nearly pure white and the trunks and boughs though not completely covered with snow were artistically contrasted by what had collected upon them.
Our pear tree was the most wonderous thing. One side of the trunk was peppered with a white drift of snow and the rest, the smaller branches and twigs, coated into nobly clumps, so that taken as a whole it resembled a giant cauliflower. The rest of the garden had all but disappeared, replaced by a smooth white plateau, except for the Buddha, and he was wearing a snow-white hat in the unmistakeable shape of a British policeman’s helmet. Wherever did he get it from?
No he is not a silly Buddha!
Later, as I was stood in the kitchen making a cup of tea, my eyes caught movement and lots of it through the gap between two houses, which for most of the year is obscured by leaves and foliage. All I could see was different coloured objects darting hither and thither, and then it dawned on me that without the obstructing verdure the small park across the road was visible and what I was witnessing was the congregation of numerous families, mothers with their children, and that the different coloured objects, some zipping across the plateau and others sailing down the banks from every conceivable angle, were children on their sledges.
Children on sledges, Kaliningrad, Russia, January 2021
Olga, who walked through the city centre yesterday, said how delightful it was to see children with their parents playing snowballs and whooshing about on sledges. It was a good old-fashioned traditional family sight, and it reminded her of her youth. It reminded me of mine as well. Whenever there was snow, which became less and less frequent in England as the years rolled by, we children would hammer each other with snowballs. We also had a sledge, a one-of-its-kind made from the light alloy parts of a scrapped Flying Fortress, a B17 bomber, salvaged from Polebrook’s United States’ wartime aerodrome. What happened to this culturally interesting and nowadays valuable item? One of my brothers, with considerably less acumen than myself for the singularity of historical artefacts, deciding that he would clean out one of the family barns after a forty-year hiatus, skipped the sledge and kept the junk. Oh, don’t worry, we take every opportunity to remind him of his folly, in no uncertain terms.
From the kitchen to the living room, looking out of the window at the Konigsberg house opposite that has never had anything done to it at least since perestroika, I noted that the two toilets lying in the back garden ~ where else? ~ had become snow toilets, a rare sight indeed, but not as exclusive or controversial as the giant phallus, complete with two enormous snowballs, that some imaginative and enterprising young men would erect a day or two later somewhere in Kaliningrad.
This made the news, and, of course, Facebook. Personally, we had a bit of fun with this, by which I mean we conducted an experiment. Olga posted the media story to Facebook, and then we sat back ready to compare the different reactions from Russian commentators and those in Britland. As we anticipated, the Russian response was one of condemnation and disgust, whilst the Brits reacted in a flamboyant spirit that ranged from artistic criticism to unbridled glee.
Me? I just felt sorry for the virtue of virgin snow, but I consoled myself with the thought that outside of our circle something like this would never be condoned in the UK for fear that it would offend the delicate sensibilities of feminists, race-grievance wardens and the entire woke community: a giant phallus made of snow! Sexist! Racist!
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 10: Soft Barley beer
Published: 14 December 2020
None of us want to be told that we are going soft, do we? But, unless you are one of these old-fashioned he-men who pumps weights, never cries and walk around as if their arms don’t fit, there is nothing wrong with a little bit of mellowness, when the mood so takes you, which is not why I chose Soft Barley as the latest in a succession of bottled beers widely available through Kaliningrad supermarkets as an aid to my research.
Among the all-shapes-and-sizes 1.5 litre beer bottles that congregate enticingly on Kaliningrad’s shop shelves, the ones that really stand out from the crowd are, in fact, the simplest. They are squat, fat, dumpy-looking things, shaped purposefully to resemble small beer barrels. They are to beer advertising what Body Shop is to shampoos and body lotions, their simple packaging and minimalist presentation emphasising good, natural, salt-of-the-earth products, free from artificial additives: Nature’s best at its best.
When all’s said and done, that’s quite a gob full to live up to and, whilst the advertising works a treat, the question is does the product fulfil the promise?
Soft Barley beer in Kaliningrad Russia
Soft Barley has a soft natural label ~ note the ears of corn ~ and when you take the top off the bottle what do you get? Sniff! Sniff! Nothing really. Unless I am losing my sense of smell (no, let’s rephrase that symptom quickly!) ~ unless my olfactory senses deceive me, there is no distinctive aroma other than, perhaps, a faintly discernible ‘softness’.
When poured, this underwhelming neutrality does not escape from the glass. The beer fizzes, an ephemeral head appears, retreats and then dissolves. This is only depressing if you like ‘a big creamy ‘ed on your pint’, but I am not from Yorkshire, so I don’t.
Nevertheless, from the first sip to the last the taste is consistently palatable. There are no sharp notes to undermine the ‘soft’, as in subtle, and almost any corn bitterness is reduced to a hint, playing second fiddle to the rounded buttery overtones.
This beer is not, by Russian standards, a strong brew; if it was, I suppose they would have called it ‘Strong Barley’, but neither at 4.2% is it limp-wristed. It has just enough bottle, taste and flavour to make it the perfect complement to light snacks and ‘bitings’, an à la carte beer which speaks to me of warm summer afternoons, picnic tables and straw hats, although, being a bit of a renegade, I can close my ears and carry on drinking it until the snow has melted.
Aficionados and advocates of seriously head-banging beers may well pour scorn upon your choice, but pour scorn is not poor corn and drinking Soft Barley does not mean that you are going soft, just that you have a soft spot for the finer beers in life.
ABOUT THE BREWERY The Trisosensky brewery has a proud and noble brewing history, its origins dating to 1888. Its name comes from the three great pine trees on the idyllic lakeside spot where it was founded by the merchant family Markov.
One of the first Russian breweries to produce beer using European technology, the quality of its products quickly established the company’s reputation at home and facilitated expansion into the export market.
The brewery’s Black, Pilsen, Czech and Vienna beers were particularly held in high regard, so much so that in 1910 the brewery was honoured with the official title ‘Supplier to the Court of His Imperial Majesty’.
Although the Ulyanovsk brewery was assimilated more recently into the company, its brewing history actually pre-dates that of Trisosensky, when Alexander Dmitrievich Sachkov, an honorary citizen of the city of Simbirsk, founded his honey brewery at Ulyanovsk in 1862.
Today, the Trisosensky brewery prides itself on the historic continuity of its classic brewing techniques, brewing traditional beers to traditional recipes using natural ingredients and talented brewers.
Its efforts have garnered it various prestigious awards including: the World Beer Awards; the International Beer Challenge; Gold Awards, the DLG Quality Test for Beer and Mixed Beer Beverages, Frankfurt am Main, 2016; Monde Selection 2017 awards; and awards in the ‘International Tasting Competition’, The Beer Awards 2017.
Soft Barley beer in Kaliningrad Russia
Soft Barley beer in Kaliningrad Russia
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Soft Barley Brewer: Trisosensky brewery Where it is brewed: Ulyanovsk, Russia Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.2% Price: It cost me about 127 rubles (£1.31) Appearance: Pale golden Aroma: Very nearly silent Taste: Lightly bitter, mellow, buttery Fizz amplitude: 6/10 Label/Marketing: Naturalistic Would you buy it again? I would and I have. Marks out of 10: 8
*Note that the beers that feature in this review series only include bottled beer types that are routinely sold through supermarket outlets and in no way reflect the variety of beer and/or quality available in Kaliningrad from speciality outlets and/or through bars and restaurants.
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 9: Three Bears Crystalbeer
Published: 27 November 2020
Whenever I see a beer bottle or can in a Russian supermarket with three bears (tree meeshkee) on the label, I am smitten by a wave of nostalgia, as this was quite possibly the first bottled beer brand that I drank when I came to Kaliningrad.
Memory is a fallible thing, for mine suggests that I first drank Three Bears on my inaugural trip to Kaliningrad in the winter of 2000, whereas research indicates that the Three Bears made their Russian debut in 2002. Be this as it may, there is no denying that the brand has established itself as quintessentially Russian and could hardly have failed to do otherwise, as I cannot think of anything more emblematically Russian than a bear logo, except perhaps for a ooshanka, ~ come now, of course you know what I mean, one of those furry hats with a flap down either side.
Typically Russian in appearance, the Three Bears brand is in fact brewed by international brewers Heineken, which, having penetrated the Russian beer market in 2002, is now reputed to be up there among the top 10 brewers in Russia.
Three Bears Crystal beer in Kaliningrad Russia
The Three Bears brand has four variants: Three Bears Classic; Three Bears Light; Three Bears Crystal; and Three Bears Strong. At 7% ABV the Three Bears Strong speaks for itself: it sort of goes, ‘Grrrr’; the Classic at 4.9% ABV is not so ‘Grrrr’, but it is still ‘Grrr’; the Three Bears Crystal at 4.4% is no pussy cat; but as you would expect Three Bears Light is a mere 4.7% ABV ~ er, wait a moment, am I missing something here? Perhaps when they say ‘Light’ they mean light colour?
I chose Three Bears Crystal beer because when I have a session I will normally drink a couple of 1.5 litre bottles of beer in one sitting. How much of a lush you judge me to be will be entirely predicated on your own consumption criteria, namely, “Woah, too much!” or “What! Call that a session! I’d have that for breakfast!” The difference lies somewhere between broadcast and boast; prohibition and politician; and promise and perversion ~ all three tinged by the ‘men will always be men’ and ‘men will always be boys’ maxims, which could cause controversy by the time they reach the end of the UK rainbow but garner some butch-like brownie points with feminists on the way.
Sorry, all this has about as much to do with Three Bears Crystal beer as Biden’s worldview has with reality and, unless you know a feminist called Goldilocks, and you might, as the name fits, you would be better off not going down to the woods today but staying at home with Crystal.
I did, and was I in for that Big Surprise?
In the bottle and in the glass, Three Bears Crystal has an attractive amber tone making it the empathic ale for amber-lands consumption. Its hoppy, bitter fragrance tends to waft away a few minutes after the beer has been decanted, enough in these troubled times to alarm you with the question, “Am I losing my sense of smell?”, but, needing no better excuse to quickly take the taste test, as soon as it hits your tongue you breathe a sigh of relief: “Ahhh, yes, it was worth every ruble of the 125 rubles I coughed up for it,” ~ whilst wearing my mask, of course.
Three Bears Crystal has, what I like to refer to, as a ‘straw taste’ ~ and I seriously do not mean this derogatively. I know that it does not sound shampers or even Merlot, and most probably imparts itself from my days as a teenage farmer, but whatever the derivative, this term to me captures a specific beer experience in which the initial bitterness is offset by a blunt edge, a saturating mellowness. This is not to say that Three Bears Crystal does not pack a zing, although my suspicions are that it is the carbonation that does it, which is the ‘also source’ of the illusory bitter tang that retains itself after consumption, but for all that the essence of this beer is decidedly Matt Monro ~ an easy-on-the palate version of easy listening on the ears.
Three Bears Crystal beer is a session beer
In words that every beer-quaffing Englishman will readily understand, Three Bears Crystal is in my judgement a sound-as-a-pound (and as right-as-a-ruble) session beer.
It goes down lovely with a packet of crisps and a handful of nuts, which you would not be able to enjoy it with in an English pub at present owing to the latest virus curfew laws, which seem to imply that coronavirus hides in pubs waiting to pounce predatorily on those who would rather snack with their pint than eat a ‘substantial meal’, ie a large plate of burgers, frozen peas and reconstituted chips ~ the pub-grub answer to the vaccine.
Conclusion: The message is Crystal clear. You don’t have to get a Vaccine Passport and fly to the UK for a ‘substantial meal’. Three Bears Crystal can be found in most Kaliningrad supermarkets in 1.5 litre bottles at a price you cannot growl at. Why not buy two bottles! Should you over do it, there is always the hair of the bear!
Three Bears Crystal beer
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Three Bears Crystal Brewer: Heineken Where it is brewed: St Petersburg and in other Russian locations Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.4% Price: It cost me about 125 rubles (£1.23) Appearance: Light amber Aroma: Not much Taste: Light bitterness, the equivalent of a British light or pale ale Fizz amplitude: 5/10 Label/Marketing: Traditional Russian Would you buy it again? I have, on several occasions
*Note that the beers that feature in this review series only include bottled beer types that are routinely sold through supermarket outlets and in no way reflect the variety of beer and/or quality available in Kaliningrad from speciality outlets and/or through bars and restaurants.
We never did keep that appointment we promised ourselves and go for a picnic this summer in Königsberg’s Max Aschmann Park, but prompted by the delightful autumnal weather, all sun and blue skies, we did walk to the park today and, because it covers a large area, managed at least to stroll through one section of it.
Autumn in Kaliningrad
Our route to the park would take us through some of the most quiet and atmospheric streets of the old city. These are cobbled streets lined with great trees on either side. In spring and summer these trees are a silent explosion of green leaves, and although they have begun to shed them profusely in anticipation of winter’s dawn, sufficient remain to act as a filter to the last rays of the summer sun, which scattering through them illuminate their various hues and shades like a giant back bulb behind an origami screen.
Olga Hart photographing autumn in Kaliningrad, October 2020
Below the sunburst, across the humpty dumpty road surface, the grass verges ~ neat or overgrown ~ and on the pavements, where there are some, the leaves lay strewn like so much wedding confetti ~ yellow, brown, auburn and gold. They would form carpets were it not for the hardworking road sweepers, who are out and about at the crack of dawn piling the leaves into heaps ready for the administrations of the follow-up leaf-sucking lorries.
The street we are walking along is, like many in this neighbourhood and in other parts of remnant Königsberg, a cavalcade of architectural opposites. We pass by the Konigsberg signature flats, a series of long but detached blocks, three or four storeys in height, each one re-equipped with its Soviet steel door and, in this particular instance, curiously clad in wood.
If you know Kaliningrad you are ready for contrasts, but ready does not mean less surprised. In two steps we go from the scene I have just described to another quite improbable, yet not quite so improbable in the light of the status quo.
A large bushy tree rolls back at the side of us and there, of course, they are ~ the new-builds. We were half-expecting them, but not at any moment. They are three or four in number, big brand-spankers; demure-brick faced in parts but striking in their adaptation of Neoclassical principles. They shine and they sparkle with pride in the sun; the sun polishes them and casts an autumnal eye along the neat, trimmed verge evenly planted with shrubs, the upright expensive fence and the ever-imposing gate. The sun seems to wink at me, but perhaps in my admiration I failed to notice the slightest breeze and the way it secretly shifted the branches across my line of vision.
Some of the houses along this street conform to the more conventional and some, which must be flats, are hefty great slabs, albeit with nice arched windows. And then, just when you have stopped thinking ‘phhheww they must have cost a bit’, you reach the end of the road, and there in the corner, at the junction, you immediately fall in love with what once would have been an almost-villa ~ a lovely, lovely property, with its original pan-tiled roof virtually conical in form and with one of those small arched windows typical in Königsberg peering out of its rooftop like the hooded eye of an octopus.
For a few moments I stand in the road looking from my present, as its past looks back at me.
Königsberg house on the corner, autumn 2020
We have no choice but to leave Königsberg at this junction, making our way along a busy thoroughfare where the concrete battery of flats left us in little doubt that we were back in Kaliningrad ~ they in the 1970s and we, by the sight of a facemask or two, again in 2020.
We instinctively knew that we were on the right track for Max Aschmann. We did have to stop and ask someone, but immediately afterwards landmarks from our previous excursion remembered themselves to us, and it was not long before we recognised the lemon church and one of the entrances to the park, the one we had used before.
On our previous visit, we only had time to venture as far as the first group of lakes, but today we wanted to broaden our horizons, so we pressed on. We had not gone far when Olga, always on my left side, relinked her arm through mine.
The broad swathed track curved and as it did another expanse of water opened up to us on our right, set against a verdant backdrop of trees, some still green, others in autumnal garb. The leaves were thick on the ground, but not all of them had fallen, and those that were still aloft painted autumn across the skyline in nature’s soft and mellow brush strokes. It was as if we were walking into the heart of a picture.
At the front of a lake stood a fir tree, anchored to the ground by three or four ropes. It was a Christmas tree, bracing itself for the world’s first coronavirus Christmas. Close by, there was a great pile of tree trunk sections. We wanted one of these for our garden. We had the samovar, the juniper twigs and each other, all we needed now was the log, so that we could sit on it and count the stars like Meeshka and Yorshik in Hedgehog in the Fog (Russian: Ёжик в тумане, Yozhik v tumane)
Christmas comes early to Max Aschmann Park ~ Kaliningrad, October 2020
We walked on. Whatever Max Aschmann Park had been, and it was really something in its day, for all intents and purposes, its modern incarnation is more Max Aschmann forest.
On the hard-surface paths, long and straight that criss-cross the woodland, lots of people were walking. They were people of all ages, babushkas and derdushkas, family groups and teenagers, but no matter who they were or how old they were, a peaceful unification prevailed. There was nothing fast, nothing loud, nothing out of place or obtrusive, certainly no coronavirus madness or any other menace to interfere with the calm repose. And yet here we were in the midst of dense woodland, itself in the midst of a bustling city. The experience was simple but memorable. There was something wonderfully alien about it, not only by what there was but thankfully by what there was not.
An Autumn Walk in Kaliningrad
It does not matter where I roam; wherever I am, something old, something from the past comes forward and makes itself known to me, and that something this afternoon was the remains of a building, here, in the centre of the park. I had read somewhere that in its day the Max Aschmann Park had been a haven for the German well-to-do and a holiday destination for those who by virtue of wealth and status qualified for its privileges, so the sight of this leftover dwelling did not entirely surprise me.
What remains is little more than a great slab of concrete, but closer inspection reveals metal reinforcing rods and the remnants of one or two steps that lead down into a small recess beneath the concrete floor, now silted up with earth and woodland debris but which would presumably once have been a cellar or, perhaps, a subterranean garage, as these are standard features of houses in this region.
Mick Hart sitting on and surrounded by history in Max Aschmann Park, Kaliningrad, October 2020
Before I sat down on the concrete remains to have my photograph taken, as thousands had done before me and would continue to do so afterwards, I discovered one of the house gate piers lying prostrate among the leaves. There would have been a time when it was doing something practical, but it was doing nothing practical now, having relinquished its incipient function for matters of mind and heart.
Next on the voyage of discovery was another lake, this one more expansive than those we had passed already. The ground tapering gently to the water’s edge made an approach quite possible, and three or four people were gathered there feeding a bevy of swans. There were also two or three trees, not many, but just enough to satisfy the idyl along this picturesque border.
Olga Hart at the side of the lake in Max Aschmann Park, October 2020
Waterside trees always possess an anachronistic architecture, and these were no exception. Complementing the natural contours of the lake, and with the trees and bushes in their variegated shades rolling and billowing around it and into the distance, they and the scene they belonged to put me in mind of a 19th century lithograph, which, if it was mine to own, I would hang on a wall, preferably in my personal bar, in Mick’s Place, where I could sit and savour the view whilst sipping a glass of beer.
A beautiful autumn-leaf hat in Max Aschmann Park, Kaliningrad
But time was ticking on, as it has the habit of doing, and it was time to be making tracks. For this purpose, we chose instead to return through the woodland itself, at least for a short distance before we re-joined the path.
Under the trees, the ground was a little bit squelchy, but this natural hazard of woodland walking was only objectionable as far as our boots were concerned, and it had certainly made no difference to a small group of woodland wanderers who had removed themselves into the fringe of the wood for a spot of al a carte lunch. I wondered, had they carried that old metal barbecue on stilts with them, or had it been donated by an unknown benefactor who had staked out that spot on a previous occasion?
Even deeper into the wood and perched on wooden roundels cut from sizeable trees were people enjoying a picnic. Now that’s an idea, I thought, we really must do that and do that one day soon: go for a picnic, here, in Max Aschmann Park.
Published: 15 October 2020 ~ Ostmark Beer in Kaliningrad is Top Quality
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 8: Ostmark Strong
My previous review of bottled beer in Kaliningrad, sampled from the brands that can be purchased every day from most supermarkets, was written on 2 September 2020. I could claim that I have not written anything about beer since 2 September 2020 since that is the last time that I had a bottle, but that would be about as believable, not to say as ridiculous, as declaring that I voted to remain in the European Union.
Mick’s Place (aka, Mick’s Attic Bar) has been functioning as normal, but I have drunk elsewhere ~ on the outside seating areas of various bars and hotels and at friends’ houses ~ calculating that as the dark days of winter approach, with them cometh more grim coronavirus news and consequent restrictions, all of which will mean more Attic Bar and less drinking on location.
So, what have I been drinking at home, and have I enjoyed it?
Out of the beers that I have sampled so far, the Belarus beer Lidskae Aksamitnae is my beer of choice. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it wins hands down. Nevertheless, if you were to ask me, and I am sure you will, have I discovered another beer that in taste and quality equals Lidskae Aksamitnae then I would have to say yes ~ and that beer is Ostmark.
Ostmark beer in Kaliningrad
Now, as far as I can tell there are several popular variants of Ostmark. The one that is the subject of my reverence, however, is Ostmark Strong, the ABV (Alcohol by Volume) of which comes in at a not insignificant 7.1%.
I do not buy beers for their strength and, as a matter of fact, when I drink real ale in the UK I usually choose something that is within the range of 4–4.2%. I am happy with that. But Ostmark Strong appeals to me because, whilst it may be a strong-by-alcohol-content beer, it is also strong on taste.
The first test for any beer is the olfactory one. Ostmark Strong has a strong aroma. It hits you as soon as you take the top from the bottle. There is nothing limp-wristed about this brew. It is deep, dark and smokey. If it could wear tattoos, it would be the kind that real men wore, not the arty-farty slate-grey type that are everywhere today and to which even women resort to violate their bodies, as if forgetting that they and their tats will not stay young forever. Alas, for the fleeting fads of fashion and the relentless indifference of the march of time …
Ostmark beer in Kaliningrad
But enough of this idle banter! Into the glass with Ostmark, and what have you got?
You’ve got a dark-coloured beer that settles nicely into the bacal (glass) and whose head does not immediately die, but neither does it sit on top like a foaming ice cream sundae.
The first sip is yummy. It is so yummy that I have to take several more before I can ask myself, flavour? Its caramel and malts, plus a good toasty aftertaste, the type of aftertaste best described as moreish. And this is not an insuperable problem, because once you have finished one glass you can simply pour another.
Ostmark Strong has a good strong label ~ no wishy-washy rainbow colours here! Dark brown, deep red and silver tones complement each other. The design is simple, instantly recognisable and carries with it the hallmark of history.
Ostmark beer in Kaliningrad
Now, Ostmark made its debut in 1910 and was originally brewed in Königsberg, which was, of course, Kaliningrad’s predecessor, but be that as it may, and for all my love for Königsberg, as I had no knowledge of Ostmark’s pedigree when first I purchased and quaffed it, I refute any implication that my judgement may have been swayed by where it was born and when. But, since its history is no longer the mystery that it was when I started out, it would be remiss of me if I did not mention that Ostmark was first brewed at the Brauerei Ostmark Brewery and that after passing through various hands is now produced by the Heineken Group.
Rumour has it that throughout its change of ownership the brew retained its original recipe, and we who love beer and history have no contention with that. But as to where it is brewed today, I am not at liberty to say, because in October 2016 the trail runs cold. It was then that Heineken announced that come the following year its Kaliningrad brewery would close.
Some folk here in Kaliningrad who I have interviewed swear ~ usually at me ~ that Ostmark is still brewed here, and in the same brewery where it has always been brewed, that is here in the city of Kaliningrad, but some say otherwise, others don’t know and still others don’t seem to care, they just buy it and then they drink it.
As Ostmark is not a phantom, as phantoms as a rule do not come with hangovers, wherever Ostmark is secretly brewed I can recommend it, so much so that as I sit here reviewing it, I can honestly say that I would rather be sitting here drinking it.
A word of warning to the uncautious, however: The enticing taste and session-like character of this very fine quality beer belies its superior strength. “Everything in moderation, including moderation,” said Oscar Wilde. And who can doubt his wisdom? But how much of a good thing is too much? Until you try it, you will never know.
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Ostmark Strong Brewer: Heineken Group Where it is brewed: Somewhere Bottle capacity: 1.35 litres Strength: 7.1% Price: It cost me about 136 rubles (£1.36) from our local shop Appearance: Darky Aroma: Divinely smoky Taste: Subtle blend of caramel & malts with an after allegiance Fizz amplitude: 4/10 Label/Marketing: Just so right Would you buy it again? As soon as the opportunity arises (update February 2022 ~ bought many times!) Marks out of 10: 8.5
Ostmark Beer in Kaliningrad
*Note that the beers that feature in this review series only include bottled beer types that are routinely sold through supermarket outlets and in no way reflect the variety of beer and/or quality available in Kaliningrad from speciality outlets and/or through bars and restaurants.
