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
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.
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.
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.
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Published: 2 September 2020
Article 7: Baltika 3
It is, alas, customary for reviewers of almost anything these days that when confronted with something that they judge negatively to pan the product/experience with such acidity that you might well suspect that they own a moped and live somewhere like Streatham.
Subscribing to the modern misconception that recourse to expletives is the new humour rather than a substitute for lack thereof, these would-be social-media wits ‘gobshite’ it out as if there was no tomorrow, when the real pity is that that they were with us yesterday and are still with us today.
With this misfortune in mind, I shall, like the true English gentleman that I aspire to be, exercise restraint when I say that so far Baltika 3 is, in my opinion, not the best beer that I have drunk since coming to Kaliningrad.
“You don’t want to drink that,” snorted an acquaintance of ours, whilst driving us to the seaside, “It’s traction oil!!”
I used to work in publishing so, naturally, I never believe anything I read or anything anybody says, so when next I went to the supermarket to buy a bottle of beer, what did I do? Exactly, I bought Baltika.
First off, I did not like the bottle, well, not the bottle exactly, rather the label design. It said ‘Baltika 3’, which we will not carp about because that is what it is, but the shimmering blue and steel silver hues made me wonder if the graphic designers had not filched their ‘modern’ look from a motor vehicle advert.
I thought, “this is going to be very metallic, like that other lager ~ how does the advert go? ‘Possibly the nastiest and most metallic lager in the world’”.
It wasn’t. But guess who it is brewed by?
I took the cap off, mainly because I have not yet found an easier way to get to the contents of a bottle ~ as I have said, the bottle was fine ~ and took a poser’s sniff. Even if I had not smelt it before, and I had, because I used to work with heavy-plant machinery, I would recognise traction oil. It would not be fair to say that it did smell like this, but I struggled to determine what it did smell like.
I poured my premiere sample into an old Soviet bacal ~ a dimpled glass tankard ~ recently acquired, and tentatively, and with great trepidation, took my inaugural sip!
Not wanting to be scathing, the beer I had drunk previously, Lidskae Aksamitnae, had been so delectable that the inferior flavour of Baltika 3 could have suffered a severe case of amplification in consequence.
Being the nice chap that I am, I am willing to give Baltika 3 the benefit of this doubt. But I still cannot believe that Baltika is Russia’s most popular beer, and that this claim is out there. In 2018, Baltika 3 Classic received the silver medal in the Pilsner category of the British International Beer Challenge, so not all of my fellow countrymen agree with me on this one.
All I can say is, and all I am willing to say is, that if Baltika 3 is anything to go by, I dread to think what the higher numbers of Baltika beer are like.
I suppose the only way to find out is to drink them.
Life, as they say, is a lottery!
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Baltika 3 Brewer: Carlsberg Group Where it is brewed: St Petersburg, Russia Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.8% Price: It cost me about 160 rubles (£1.62) Appearance: Pale to light brown Aroma: Barley malt (I think) Taste: I am still working on it Fizz amplitude: 7/10 Label/Marketing: Modernistic Would you buy it again? I would drink it if it was bought for me
I am most concerned about what is happening in Belarussia (I mean, Belarus) at the moment, not least because I have just discovered Lidskae Aksamitnae, a dark, rich, full-bodied beer with a deeply refreshing flavour.
Prejudiced against dark beers, with a proud aversion to the twangy-harp taste of Guinness and generally unseated by the intensified sweetness that seems to be the signature of dark, strong, British ales, I hesitated both in the purchase of Lidskae and, once that threshold had been crossed, the subsequent quaffing of it.
Removing the lid from my 1.5 litre bottle, I sniffed at it gingerly. It did not have a strong treacly smell and, I am glad to say, there were no twangy notes of a suspect brogue nature. What was this aroma that was hurtling up my hooter? Chocolate? Toasty? Someone’s nuts roasting? Whatever it was, I liked it.
Out of the bottle and into my glass it was as black as Brickstun (the name of my neighbour’s cat). But, within seconds of pouring it, an effervescence occurred that brought to the surface a white head, which stood out in stark contrast to the mass from whence it had come. I eyed it with the cautious way one would before entering Taste Alley. Dark beers had always been no-go areas for me, and I knew I was taking a risk. I recalled a stormy night in Portland. I had drunk black beer there and had felt bad for about 80 days.
I took my first sip. What was the verdict? Guilty!! It had only been a thought, but I was clearly inciting beery hatred. Contrary to my expectations, this brew had a rich, malty taste. It was not a riot, not even demonstrative on one’s taste buds. It did not try to sell you something you would rather not have, nor did it mug you. I felt that feeling one must get in taking one’s case to the European Court of Beery Rights and having it ruled in my flavour. I was not just relieved but rewarded ~ disproportionately compensated, for so I secretly thought, by a richness I did not deserve ~ well not for £1.40, which is what the beer had cost.
Belarus beer at its best!Lidskae Aksamitnae
Lidskae Aksamitnae Beer in Kaliningrad
Like most things of value, Lidskae Aksamitnae’s pedigree is firmly rooted in history and in heritage.
As the date on the label testifies, the Lida Beer Brewery began life in 1876. It is one of the oldest breweries in Belarus, the brainchild of Nosel Pupko, and it remained within his family for three generations.
By the turn of the 20th century, Lidskoe beer, as it was then known, was already a winner in Europe, garnering various awards at respected exhibitions. Come the Soviet period, GOST standards meant standard beer; regional beers were restricted to the republic of its origin. But good news travel fast, as they say, and Lida’s reputation for producing tasty, quality brews somehow got out.
Today, with investment, ideas and technological input from companies in Finland and the Czech Republic, Lidskae beer continues to flourish, collecting international awards as high-class products and, more importantly, retaining and making old fans and new (such as me, the drinking Englishman) who certainly have no qualms when it comes to putting money where their mouths are.
A proud heritage beer!
They say you live and learn, and if I have learnt one thing and one thing only from buying and drinking this beer, it is BBM ~ Black Beers Matter!
Lidskae Aksamitnae – Gone but not forgotten ...
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Lidskae Aksamitnae Brewer: Lidskoe Pivo Where it is brewed: Belarus Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.8% Price: It cost me about 136 rubles (£1.40) from Spa (so near and also so far!) Appearance: As black as your hoody Aroma: Nutty and toasted Taste: Smooth, rich, malty with a little sweetness and light bitterness Fizz amplitude: 4/10 Label/Marketing: Proud heritage Would you buy it again? Too right!
*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 5: Zhigulevskoye Beer
As stated in my last beer review, my choice of supermarket-bought bottled beer in Kaliningrad is not influenced in any way by recommendation of any kind, which includes word of mouth. Neither do I purchase beer on the basis of its strength. The only selection criteria that I use is (i) have I drunk it before? (ii) do I like the label? As I know my Russian A Б B, I can sometimes cobble the name of the beer together. Not that it means very much, but as you might guess that was not the case with this particular brand, which when translated into English spells ‘Zhigulevskoye’.
I was attracted to this particular beer, as opposed to the many others on offer, as the label has a distinctly nostalgic resonance. Look at it: The lower half of the label is the colour of ripe corn, the upper a bright blue sky. In the foreground, stationed on the yellow bed, stands one of those old Soviet roadside tankers, the ones that used to dispense peeva (beer) but which, in later years, were phased out as mobile meeting points with the greater uptake of conventional bars.
When I first came to Kaliningrad in the year 2000, there were still quite a few of these little yellow containers on wheels in evidence, but as the popularity of bars and licensed restaurants increased they were put out to pasture, making a comeback in later years for the dispensation of one of Russia’s most popular drinks, Kvass, an unusual beverage with an acquired taste made from fermented rye bread. Not that this would interest you lushes, as Kvass is alcohol-free.
In this pictorial incarnation, the one on the beer bottle, the little two-wheeled tanker proudly displays the word ‘beer’, peeva, in Cyrillic script. At the dispensing end, a young lady sits, a small shelf in front of her on which can be seen two ‘pint’ glasses. There are trees in the background and peeping through them the red pantiled rooftops and tall rustic chimneys of small cottages. The scene is one of perfect idyll. It captures superbly the Soviet concept of harmonic relationship between people and Mother Earth, and the impression is made complete by one of the USSR’s most simple but potent symbols, the yellow ear of wheat.
The name of the beer (which, as history denotes, is fairly unpronounceable in English) is written at a sloping angle across the front of the label in a deep-blue flowing Cyrillic script and the whole ensemble edified by an award-winning stamp of quality, a circular medallion containing a strong and manly thumbs-up symbol.
When I asked my wife, Olga, what the unpronounceable name of the beer meant in English, she was unable to translate, but, after several attempts to solve the riddle with the help of the internet, it turned out that the name equated to a motor vehicle! So, here I was sitting in my Russian attic drinking a pint of Lada!
As my friend John Hynes would say, and does say, “You couldn’t make it up!” Actually, he would say, and does say, “You couldn’t make this shit up!” but as the expletive can only confer an inapplicable derogation, for the sake of propriety and for accuracy we will dispense with this unfortunate word and focus instead on dispensing the beer.
Intrigued by the vehicle anomaly, Olga took to the internet via her mobile phone and connecting with a Russian site she was soon able to supply me with some interesting background information.
History of Zhigulevskoye Beer Kaliningrad Russia
The story goes that originally Zhigulevskoye was called ‘Viennese Beer’. It first saw life when Austrian aristocrat and businessman Alfred von Vacano established his Zhiguli Brewery in Samara in the early 1880s. The beer proved to be extremely popular but unfortunately for Alfred, come the Russian revolution in 1917, he was not. He ended up in Austria, his brewery confiscated, passed into the hands of the new Russian state.
Thus captured, Alfred’s extremely popular beer fell victim to the communist zeal for outlawing anything and everything that had a suspect bourgeoisie ring to it, and this was reflected in the beer’s name change from something that once could have been very well easy to say to Zhigulevskoye ~ proudly named after a Soviet car.
In Soviet times the brand had the best kind of monopoly that any beer can have ~ it was almost if not exclusive. At the height of its popularity, it was dispensed from 700 breweries and was exported to a number of different countries. Ironically, its international success was hampered by its name, which was not only difficult to pronounce but in some countries resembled words of a vulgar or impolite nature. The crude connotations of similar sounding words did not apply in England, where the beer was exported for a short while but simply did not catch on. How could it when we had Watney’s Pale Ale!!
Following the dissolution of the USSR, former satellite countries continued to brew Zhigulevskoye, most notably Carlsberg and Baltika brewers from their outlets in the Ukraine. Nevertheless, purists, romanticists and nostalgic drinkers stick firmly to their revolutionary guns where Zhigulevskoye is concerned, refusing to acknowledge true Zhigulevskoye unless it is brewed in Samara.
Voice off stage: Get on with it!
So, how did I find my 2020 version of Zhigulevskoye?
For all that I have read and for all that I have said, I am afraid to say that I cannot commit myself to use any other evaluative word other than that of ‘moderate’. The beer has a golden hue, a soft, mellow, traditional lager taste, is light on the palate, with a distant scent of hops, is easy to drink and quite refreshing, but what Alfred von Vacano would make of it, is anybody’s guess.
Call me an old (no, that’s reserved for people who really know me and liberals who think they do), old sentimentalist, but what I could not discern in flavour I derived more, as I supped away at Zhigulevskoye, from the label on the bottle. Even had there been nothing to recommend it, and this is not true, I could never bring myself to trash such an emblem of historic import. I know this lacks impartiality, but then this is why I named this series of posts, Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers in Kaliningrad.
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Zhigulevskoye (after 2 x 1.5 litre bottles you can pronounce it) Brewer: More than one, including Baltika and Carlsberg Where it is brewed: Lots of places but Samara is its original birth place Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.5% (strength varies depending on brewery) Price: It cost me about 112 rubles (£1.16) Appearance: A lovely yellow corn Aroma: Faint this ‘n’ that Taste: Light, traditional pale lager taste Fizz amplitude: 5/10 Label/Marketing: Nostalgists heaven Would you buy it again? Yes, whenever I am in a Soviet mood
*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 4: Gold Mine Beer
Published: 24 July 2020
The bottled beer that I am reviewing today goes by the very enticing name of Gold Mine. As with all beers in this series of reviews, they are widely available throughout Kaliningrad, Russia, from most supermarkets, and, as with all of the beers that I intend to review here, they have been selected on an ad-hoc basis. Why did I choose Gold Mine? Because I liked the name and the label.
Labelling and product presentation plays a crucial role in leveraging purchasing decisions at every level, but is particularly important when it comes to impulse purchasing an unknown, untried and untested brand of, in this case, beer without recommendation or information to act as a guide.
The seductability value of a bottled beer’s label design is especially important if you are operating on a quick-decision buy-it-now basis. Nowhere is this more true if you are buying a beer that is produced in a country that is not your home country, where you may have no knowledge of, or only an elementary grasp of, the written language of that country. In this case, your purchasing decision will almost certainly be made according to visual appeal. In my case, as my command of the Russian language is limited, as is the time that we have on this Earth, making a purchasing decision from what is written on the bottle would leave me little time to drink it before its sell by date expired. So, for me here in Russia, labelling, as well as beer strength (since even I can read the percentage on the bottle), are the two criteria that I use before parting with my rubles.
Marketing wise, Gold Mine is great. The label has a retro feel to it, which is bound to be attractive to an old vintage and antique dealer like myself who has never moved out of the past. The label, which is unsurprisingly gold coloured, has an American bias. The words Gold Mine Beer (in English) romp brassily across the front of a dark-blue and gold-rimmed shield, reminiscent of a 1960s’ US police officer’s badge. The shield is surmounted by a New York City skyscape, a group of sketched skyscrapers and big city office blocks, one bearing the word ‘Urban’ written sideways and travelling vertically and another, in bold, ‘Light’. The US city design continues as a series of abstract shapes and line-drawn tower blocks that fade in and out of the golden background. The collar label above wears a complementary image, denoting skyscraper and suspension bridge together with the words ‘100% Light Beer’ and ‘fresh’, ‘premium’. What does all this mean? Well, nothing much, but the words are in different weights and scripts and as my Russian wife would say, when she gets her words in a mucking fuddle, it good looks.
We do not buy beer to look at the label, do we? That is about as daft as suggesting that we buy anything with alcohol in it to drink sensibly, because if we wanted to do that we would confine ourselves to mineral water, but, at the risk of repeating myself and sounding vaguely sexist, when it comes to trying something new appearance is everything and a bit more besides.
Leering at it in the supermarket cooler it occurred to me that if the product delivered as much as the labelling, it would be a darn good drink.
So, I bought it. Took it home. Retired with it to my gentleman’s drinking room, Mick’s Place, secreted in the attic, and plumbed the depths.
Gold Mine Beer in Kaliningrad
Verdict: Gold Mine Beer does have a colour that lives up to its name. It is a light, golden, lager beer. I have seen it described as crisp, but I would disagree with that: it has a soft, mellow taste with a standard, traditional lager finish. There is also a faint after taste, but not exciting enough for me to want to write home about it. Having said that, the texture is quite full bodied. It suits my palate in that its carbonation soon gives out, so it does not fizz up one’s nose like a glass of Andrew’s Liver Salts (sorry for mentioning the liver in a beer review).
Would I drink it again?
Yes. A 1.35 litre bottle retails in our local store for about 90 rubles (just over a quid). It is not the bees’ knees of beers but then neither is it the roadman’s wellingtons. It is drinkable and more. Real ale connoisseurs may well have a problem with it, but I suspect seasoned lager drinkers used to finding less ‘gold in them thar pilsners’ than they would like, might reasonably discover when prospecting this brand that it was good enough to bottle it.
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Gold Mine Beer Brewer: World Beers Where it is brewed: California, USA Bottle capacity: 1.35 litres Strength: 4.5% Price: It cost me about 90 rubles (98 pence) Appearance: You won’t believe it ~ Gold Aroma: Corny Taste: Soft, traditional, light-coloured lager tang with one or two hops struggling to the surface Fizz amplitude: 6/10 Label/Marketing: As good as, if not better than, gold Would you buy it again? Yes. But I wouldn’t go looking for it
*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 3: Cedar Wood beer
Published: 20 July 2020
Would you Adam and Eve it, the name of this beer is Wood? Well, to be more precise Cedar Wood. And no, I am sorry to disappoint you, I am not about to make comparisons between the smell and taste of this ‘Russian-brewed’ beer and a cheap, tacky aftershave of the same name that was rife in the UK back in the 1970s, if only because Cedar Wood aftershave did stink strongly of cedar wood (whatever that smells like) and may have tasted like it too, although, contrary to legend, I never did drink it.
I bought this beer not for its strength, which comes in at a not-to-be-sniffed-at 4.8% (not considered to be a strong beer in this part of the world), but on the strength of its label, which at first site is its selling point and some Wood say its last.
Three men and their log drinking Cedar Wood
The label shows three men, two sitting on top of a log and one standing nearby, which, one would logically (pun intended [or was it!]) conclude, is from the eponymous tree genus, cedar, as it would not make sense if it was something else. The three men are, supposedly, jolly Siberian peasants ~ the bottle states that the beer is brewed in Siberia, although I have since found out that it isn’t. One man has a foaming ‘pint’ in his hand, which must be any other beer but Wood, as although Wood does have a big head on it, it is rather wishy-washy. A second man has his chopper over his shoulder. Yet another boast, I suspect, that Wood cannot live up to. And I am not quite sure what the third man has in his hand or where his hand is. Ahhh, it appears to be in his pocket, possibly holding his wallet intact because he has no intention to pay for such a beer as this. Come to think of it, he does look a bit like my brother …
Cedar Wood Beer in Kaliningrad
That the marketing profile has good, old-fashioned masculine appeal ~ you can almost smell the pheromones ~ cannot be disputed. This beer is aimed at and drunk by hard-grafting manly men ~ none of your skinny-arsed trousers and nerdy spectacles here! Indeed, when I first saw the label I thought, I bet this comes from Canada, but I quickly remembered that the Canada of my youth and earlier ~ the Canada of fur trappers, mountain men, cattle ranchers, lumberjacks and the good old Canadian Mountie ~ was now, like John Wayne, an anachronism, replaced by new man, woke man, limp-wristed and Guardian-reading, the sort that would make Bob Hope look like Tyson Furry.
I suppose this is why when I took my first sip I won’t say that I was disappointed, as this might suggest all kinds of acceptable things by today’s gender-depleted standards, but it certainly was not what I had expected. Unlike the Mountie I thought it was, it never got its man.
In other words, it was not as manly as the label suggested. It did not have to be infused with the sweat of honest toil and reeking of rancid pipe tobacco, and neither, just because it was called ‘Wood’, did I anticipate that it would make me feel 30 years younger at half-past six in the morning, but a little more oomph Wood have been appreciated.
I am in no way attempting to criticise the alcohol strength, 4.8% is good enough for me; no, the missing ingredient was taste.
Here you have a light, golden-looking beer, with a hoppy taste and straw-like aroma. There is a touch of the aromatics about it, which conforms to the cedar name, and this ingredient loiters happily at the back of your throat after the beer has been quaffed. It is a fizz beer, with plenty of carbonation, but as both taste and aroma lacks clout, and is fairly bland, the effervescence compensates for the rest and does propel what vague distinction there is high up into the back of your hooter, which is by no means novel if, like me, you have the distinction of having belonged to the Andrews Liver Salts generation.
With Wood, you need patience, for you have to wait for the taste to come through, but it eventually does in a very eventual way.
In summary, Wood is a light, golden, traditional lager beer. The aroma and taste are hardly as memorable as the vintage aftershave of the same name, but at 4.8% by volume, it is deceptively strong. I purchased my bottle of Wood, 1.35 litres, for about 137 rubles (£1.50) from our local supermarket.
As standard supermarket retailed fare goes, it was not that bad, and the price speaks for itself. Would I buy Wood again? To answer that question, I will borrow that singularly important loaded word from the long-running Carlsberg advertising campaign ‘probably’, if only to enjoy the Pythonesque label!
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.
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Cedar Wood Brewer: Baltika-Samara Where it is brewed: Everywhere but Siberia Bottle capacity: 1.35 litres Strength: 4.8% Price: I got it for 136 rubles (£1.50) Appearance: Light, traditional lager beer Aroma: Still working on it Taste: A bit of this and that ~ hoppy, slightly bitter, tinge of herbs but no cedar Fizz amplitude: 7/10 Label/Marketing: Michael Palin and the Lumberjack song Would you buy it again? Probably
MIck Hart secretly drinking ‘Siberian’ beer in Kaliningrad, where no one suspects that he is English
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Preface
Published: 21 June 2020 ~ Bottled Beer in Kaliningrad
Prompted by no other motivation than a love of beer drinking, I have decided to review some of the bottled beers I am drinking here in Kaliningrad, Russia, whilst the bars remain closed due to social distancing rules. This is the preface to a series of posts on that most hallowed of subjects, beer. It places my own beer-drinking experiences in a biographical and historical context and is a precursor to explaining how I am surviving without real ale in Kaliningrad, the alternative beers available and a personal review of the quality and marketing success of the bottled beers that I have sampled. As they say, it’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it!*
Bottled Beer in Kaliningrad
When I told fellow Brits that I was moving to Russia, three responses
stick in my mind. The first, and the most obvious, was aghast amazement that I
was leaving behind the most celebrated democracy in the world (Ha! Ha!). The
second, a rather cynical comment on the number of times I visit the doctors,
was made by one of my brothers: “It’s a long way to travel to see Dr Kelly each
week!” And the third, “How are you going to survive without real ale?” The last
one worried me.
I was a victim of the first wave of lager drinking, which infected the UK back in the 1970s. I will not call it a love affair, it was more like sex for sale. In those days, the UK pub industry was dominated by the Big Six ~ six major breweries that had consolidated their monopolies by buying up many smaller regional breweries and their tied houses and incorporating them into their business portfolio. Real beer had long since been challenged, and in many public houses replaced, by what CAMRA (the Campaign for Real Ale) pejoratively dubbed ‘fizz’, keg beer, which was spearheaded in the 1960s by the now infamous Watneys Red Keg Barrel, both brewer and beer having since become a cipher for poor quality, mass produced.
It is an irony of fate that the beer and the brewery which set out, and partly succeeded, in changing the drinking habits of the nation ended up as the beer-drinkers’ pariah.
Remember the Firkin pubs?
Of the many insults levelled at Watney’s, possibly the quintessential one, certainly the one that I remember best, was when the Flamingo and Firkin in Derby, one of the David Bruce-inspired craft-ale chain of pubs, refitted the gents toilet with an oversized water cistern masquerading as a Red Barrel. The barrel design, shade of red and even the Watney’s name emblazoned across the front in a typeface identical to the one that Watney’s used, was the pièce de résistance of piss taking, and in that respect it was in the right place.
Whilst no one can defend with any credibility the instigatory role that Watney’s played in the fizz revolution, Red Barrel was not alone for long. Who can forget the dubious delights of such mass-produced keg mediocrity as Ind Coope’s Double Diamond (‘Double Diamond Works Wonders’ ~ it didn’t) Whitbread Trophy (‘Whitbread Big Head Trophy Bitter the pint that thinks it’s a quart’ ~ well it would; it was all head, no strength and as inflatable as a hydrogen balloon) and Charles Wells’ Noggin (its bar-top beer-pump head made of wood to look like a nautical mooring post complete with rope wrapped around it, presumably to remind you that the 15 pence you had just spent was ‘money for old rope’).
The bland and sterile taste that these truly revolting beers left in one’s mouth was gradually, but then meteorically, replaced by something not dissimilar. It, too, was gassy, bland and sterile but sold well, thanks mainly to the money thrown at it in mass advertising campaigns that succeeded in hiding its meretricious nature behind a macho, blokey image, similar in aspiration to the rugged sexuality exploited by aftershave brands Brut and Hai Karate and enlisting the same flared trousers, tight-fitting tank tops and downturned droopy moustache approach.
Make way for lager
Initially, the lager market was aimed at female and young mixed clientele, but its rapid uptake quickly recommended it as a manly alternative to keg, escalating sales into brand warfare as brewers vied with one another to gas-tap their product into the number one slot.
My lagers of choice at that time were Lamont, Tuborg Gold and Tennent’s Extra. But the gold standard in lager for myself and my drinking confederates was undoubtedly Stella Artois, which, unfortunately, we could only seem to find in freehouses, and in our area these were few and far between.
My return to beer drinking and my induction into real ale is
a vivid memory. It was 1979 and I was on a pub crawl in Norwich with a fellow
student from the University of East Anglia, a chap called Clive. We had not
known each other long, but long enough to know that we both liked beer. We met
in the student’s bar on the then Fifers Lane campus. It was a full house that
evening and a group of us were sitting on the floor surrounded by beer cans.
Clive had just rolled in from a late game of squash. “A fitness fanatic,” I
thought. I revised my opinion six pints later, but I have to say it was beer at
first sight.
Clive was a Londoner and as such, insofar as beer-drinking
trends were concerned, he was far ahead of the game than folk like myself who
hailed from the sticks or from small provincial towns, places at that time
where the only escape from the big brewers and their bog-standard fare was the
occasional hard-to-find freehouse.
It was Clive who introduced me to real ale. We were in a pub overlooking Norwich market when Clive asked if I would like a pint of Director’s. As a lager drinker, used to less esoteric names, such as ‘Extra’, ‘Gold’ and ‘Red Stripe’, I remember thinking ‘what a bloody silly name for a beer’. Moreover, I had not drunk anything from a wooden handle pulled at the bar since my light and bitter days. Gas-tap beer was typically dispensed through a little plastic box with a light bulb behind it, whilst lager frothed and foamed worse than the liberal-left from out of conspicuous chromium taps, large, brassy and brazen things which over the years have become incredibly more stupid. Where does the light and bitter fit in? We were young when we started drinking in pubs, about 14 I think, but even then we eschewed Charles Wells’ bitter, which, unfortunately was a staple brew in most of the pubs in our area. We could drink it, but only ‘half-and-half’, that is a half pint of Charlie from the handpump diluted with light ale from the bottle.
Silly name or not, Directors was my first pint of real ale,
and to me, at that time, it tasted like nectar. I was hooked from the first
sip. Here, at last, was something different; something which had flavour!
All praise to CAMRA!
It was CAMRA (the Campaign for Real Ale) which revived the fortunes of real ale and put the final nail in the keg-bitter coffin. CAMRA launched a relentless campaign throughout the 80s and 90s, encouraging small and later micro-breweries to experiment with and increase their beer type and range and as the ‘cold tea’, as my cockney friend called ale, caught on the major brewers were forced to follow suit and up their real-ale ante to keep pace with the craft-beer experts.
Local beer guides and national Good Pub Guides
coinciding with the arrival and development of the soon to become ubiquitous beer
festival, which ranged from large-scale events featuring scores of brewers from
around the country, fast-food outlets and live music to mini-festivals held in
pubs, compounded and accelerated what for real legacy Britons such as myself is
a unique and treasured part of our national heritage: proper beers and British
pubs! No wonder that our saviour from the European Union, the indefatigable
Nigel Farage, is himself a beer connoisseur!
Opening time at the Rushden Cavalcade beer tent c.2017
But these are troubled times, comrades. Coronavirus’s New Normal is sweeping across the land like an out-of-control temperance league and ideological agendas threaten British life with a rehashed version of British heritage. Our only hope is that beer-drinking patriots stand firm in the face of adversary. Keep the beer-drinking faith and stamp the virus out! Pubs are a national treasure and beer the jewel in its crown.
It is not ‘Time Gentleman, please’, yet gentlemen!
Bottled Beer in Kaliningrad
In the next astonishing instalment of Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers in Kaliningrad, we will see how exactly Mick Hart adjusted to the New Drinking Normal of no real ale!
Mick Hart, with his wife Olga, enjoying a magnificently well-kept pint of real ale, on the platform of The Station, Rushden, Northants, England c.2017
*If you make your obsession your profession you will never work again ~ so some clever fellow once said. Well, I was fortunate to make one of my obsessions, beer, my profession for a while, and yes, if I had not moved on to something else, I might never have worked again! I was fortunate enough in my publishing career to work on and contribute to various licensed trade publications, hospitality titles, pub guides and drinkers’ manuals, which also gave me the opportunity to interview brewers, publicans and report on real ale and cider festivals. Consequently, I can vouch for the fact that you can have too much of a good thing, so I switched from drinks’ publications to medical ones, thus exchanging the fear of becoming an alcoholic for becoming a hypochondriac.
