Argentina 2006   

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his momentous adventure began it’s lengthy gestation as a chance comment during the Sheffield scooper’s annual piss-up in 2005 by Herbal and, although it was primarily motivated by the old and particularly loud diesel locomotives still working in Argentina, the beer side sounded interesting too – both Mark Enderby and Steve Westby had visited the city and visited two brewpubs there, one which sounded an essential visit, and a quick search on the net revealed over a dozen breweries active in the city – maybe - as it proved difficult to distinguish between a brewery, a brewpub and someone who might be trying to pass himself off as a brewery but, at this early stage, the move seemed sound so we agreed to commit ourselves to the trip and the mammoth planning began!

Our idea was to fly from Manchester if possible, as Dave could get there easily from his new house in Sheffield and so could I from my parent’s house in Cheshire, and to reach Buenos Aries as quickly as possible whilst scooping any rare traction on offer in the plane department.  The initial searches trawled up that the best routings seemed to be via Paris with Air France or Madrid with Iberia (no easyJet flights to South America yet, unfortunately) and a total journey time of around 15 hours and distance of approximately 7,000 miles!  I remembered my 12-hour flight to Durban in South Africa and winced at the thought of the mind - and arse - numbing boredom involved in flying such long distances.

The first obstacle was getting my head around paying more than £45 for a flight; the average cost seemed to be in the region of £600-£700 return, which I suppose is what you get with flag carriers monopolising the routes.  After a tortuous week-long search we’d managed to find a few deals for around £550 on our chosen dates at the end of May but there seemed to be nothing lower; I even resorted to checking air courier possibilities, which involve paying a much-reduced fare for the honour of carrying a package for some shady character (thinking about this now, maybe it wasn't such a good plan), but Buenos Aries didn’t seem to feature on their radar at all so that was that grand idea out of the window.  I tried one online travel agency (who I won’t give the kudos of mentioning by name) that promised an all-in fare of £516, but when I’d dutifully filled the screen in the price suddenly shot up to £575 – bollocks to that, and the booking was duly cancelled.

Eventually, realising we weren’t going to crack the £500 band, we resigned ourselves to the price of £550 (which still hurt!) and I booked via Opodo for £553.10; Opodo are a travel agency owned by a multitude of flag-carriers, but somehow it hurt my principles less to pay them the money than to pay an extra few quid to Air France directly!  We’d booked on the 19:35 out of Manchester to Paris CDG, diagrammed for an Airbus 319 according to Opodo, and then a rather tight 90-minute connection for the 23:45 to Buenos Aries, apparently one of the huge Boeing 777's.  We then had nine days there before coming back at 17:25 on an overnight to Paris then a long wait of 4½ hours for the rare plane move; an Embraer RJ145 on the 16:05 to Manchester! I’d figured we might be late into Paris so this move made more sense, but Herbal knew I just wanted to score an Embraer…

The travel arrangements sorted I spent the next few weeks engaged in a gargantuan research project into Argentinean breweries, aided greatly by my shiny new connection to broadband internet, which turned out an astounding amount of prospective breweries in Buenos Aires – a minimum of ten and, amazingly, a possible upper ceiling of around fifty breweries might be contained within the sprawling boundaries of the city, including roughly seven brewpubs – although it was difficult to tell with some of the establishments whether they were brewpubs, micros or even just homebrewers with a homepage!  What was encouraging was the large interest in “artesanal” beer in Argentina and, even better, a lot of brewers seemed to produce interesting beers such as strong stouts and IPA’s. 

Time would tell what the beer scene would be like, but it seemed promising from this side of the screen!  Herbal had completed a similar exercise on the train front, having compiled a complete wad of timetable, diagram and locomotive information; one prospective bonus was that we might be lucky enough to scoop some English Electric locomotives – well, Portuguese-built EE, but that was good enough for us!  This unlikely event had been brought about by the shipping to Argentina of a quantity of locomotives and coaches from Portugal which were, reportedly, to be used on the San Martin line out of Buenos Aires, although the service hadn't yet begun.

Friday 26^th May 2006.

Here we go.

At long last, after countless hours of research, the big day had arrived.  I took the train to Manchester and scooped a few last UK beers, just to give me some kind of benchmark, before I headed off to the airport on the amazingly un-British (i.e.; good) rail link.  After walking literally miles along travelators and endless passages to the correct terminal I arrived at the check-in area about half and hour ahead of Herbal and decided that I would try and check us both in using a seemingly convenient computerised check-in machine.  However, when I inserted my card, it only allowed me to check in – cheers then!  Unimpressed to the extreme, I stomped up to the Air France desk in a huff and succeeded, after much patient explanation, to book Herbal into the seat next to me, although he needed to check in to receive his boarding pass.

Eventually Herbal arrived and we joined the shortest check-in queue.  When we reached the front, however, we realised why it was the smallest – it was the business class desk!  The Ada manning it looked decidedly unimpressed at two scruffy ruffians such as us gatecrashing the pompous Tory line but, using our wit, good looks and charm we talked her around and soon we were both in possession of our boarding passes.  The important bit done we decided to go through security and see what was on the other side – which, as we’d expected, was little different than every other airport – so we chilled out at the gate until the plane boarded; as expected, it was an Airbus 320, which was better than yet another mundane Boeing 737 in the book!  One amusing incident happened when we passed through security; we were welcomed by name through the control desk where the French woman got my name just about right but, as Herbal predicted, didn’t even attempt his – well, he would have a ridiculous one like Szwejkowski … no-one can pronounce that, can they?

I was secretly relieved that the plane was on time as, when I’d checked online during the preceding weeks, it had regularly been an hour late which would have severely blown our move to pieces; on questioning as to what would come about if this should happen, Air France informed me, rather vaguely, that we would be “looked after” – what this might comprise of hadn’t been elaborated on but I’d heard that we’d probably be routed via Madrid onto the Iberia flight which arrived later… it would have done, but I was glad the Air France plane had decided to leave on time…

We were meeting Redhill at Paris on the Buenos Aires plane and he had a shorter connection time than we did, so we sat back and munched on the cheap snack we’d been given which obviously allowed Air France to charge £100 more than the budget airlines without a smidgeon of embarrassment.  As soon as we’d taken off, the curtain between business class and what’s called “traveller” class nowadays (it's still second class to me) had been drawn, presumably to allow the pompous bastards up front to beaver away on their laptops without having to clap eyes on the unkempt proles at the back but, suddenly, they were ripped apart and the drinks trolley trundled through, propelled by a jovial young French steward; after a quick inspection of the contents of the trolley we both opted for a fortifying orange juice as, for all we knew, it might be the last nutrients we’d consume for the next 10 days, although I secretly had high hopes for Argentine food!

A quality blag.

With the trip still young we were after anything we could blag and, amazingly, we struck gold at the first try; I’d noticed that a bottle of Taittinger champagne somehow hadn’t been emptied by the posh food-guzzling snobs behind the curtain and, before the trolley could vanish aft, we managed to persuade the steward to decant the remaining champagne into some cups for ourselevs and the French bloke next to us – result!  Well, sort of; I don’t really like champagne to be brutally honest (although, at the risk of sounding like a right pompous tosser, I must confess a slight penchant for Dom Perignon and Billecart-Salmon), but it was just the getting something for nothing that we were after and so, with our blagged champers, we toasted the success of the trip and even got our French row-mate to take the first seminar of the trip!

The travel documents had assured us that the connection would be within terminal 2F, but when we arrived it quickly became obvious that we’d have to take the free bus to terminal 2C to connect with our flight –cheers then! Another confusing matter was that the flight was being tagged as the “Santiago” as that was it’s final destination (we hadn’t known this previously) which at first caused a slight frenzy of confusion as we couldn’t see anything to Buenos Aires on the departures board!  The bus seemed to do a huge circuit of the entire airport before arriving at what looked like exactly the same place, whereupon it deposited it’s human cargo on the tarmac with no indication of where to go – and then stormed off!  Whilst other passengers milled around in a confused state, a few of the more switched-on, Herbal and myself included, ascended some steps nearby and found ourselves in the right place – although more by luck than judgement!  After getting ready for the mammoth 13-hour flight, we boarded the plane to be amazed at the sheer size of the thing; 9 seats across and four separate seating areas make the Boeing 777 a truly colossal machine and I felt myself wondering the same things I’d felt when travelling to South Africa – how could something this big get off the ground?  I know they do every day, but when you see how big they are…

Just as we were getting settled into the reasonably-sized seats Redhill arrived as the final cache of passengers were boarded; he said that there had been a personal call out for him and a special car transfer to the plane!  Looking around the cabin, it was obvious that the plane was only around two-thirds full so we quickly moved places, giving us all a window seat and – more importantly – lots of legroom to sleep during the flight!  Just before we took off, the cabin crew suddenly marched along the aisles spraying cans of insecticide into the air; apparently this is a requirement of international travel, but I didn’t miss the opportunity to wind up the other two about being “insects” and telling them not to breathe!

We were soon thundering along the runway and I watched with some concern as the slender wings flexed and bent alarmingly when we left the ground, although I’d soon forgotten about them as the drinks trolley came around almost immediately; the champagne was flagged as it was the same as we’d scooped on the flight from Manchester so Vin de Pays red wine it was – well, it was that or Kronenbourg so you can see why I chose wine!  The food menu then appeared and I was pleasantly surprised at the edibility of the food I received; I think it was beef of some description, but I fell asleep shortly afterwards, aided by another glass of wine, with my LCD screen in the headrest in front of me dimmed, displaying our course and flight data, as we ponderously climbed out over the Atlantic ocean and into the unknown.

Thanks to this screen, as I woke throughout the night I could follow our progress first over the Atlantic and then over South America and the Amazon rainforest; as I looked down 40,000 feet to the ground below there were no orange lights as in Europe, just a fascinating inky blackness and the lonely flashing of the wingtip marker which showed the wing – still flexing in a way which might have been concerning had I woken up and thought about it - back to sleep again then!  Even though I’m a bit cautious about heights for some reason, looking down 40,000 feet from a plane has never (yet) made me very worried – maybe it should do, but I suppose it’s the old chestnut of “familiarity breeds contempt”?

Saturday 27^th May 2006.

Another day, another continent.

I awoke, needing a piss, somewhere over Brazil so wandered off down the aisle towards the central bogs (there are three lots in a 777!) before having a quick drink and munch on the snacks left around for the insomniacs and toilet visitors during the night and then dossed out again for what must have been another hour or two.  Suddenly the cabin lights came on, shattering my happy sleep and announcing breakfast being served, to the dismay of most of the passengers who had been totally unconscious and, as it was still dark outside, were about as happy as me at being woken up with 90 minutes still to go until arrival!

After rubbing my eyes vigorously for a minute or so I had awoken and was sufficiently alert to peer at my LCD screen.  It informed me that we had 69 minutes to go and, after a complex piece of adding up at 06:10 local time, I calculated that the complete flight would be 6,900 miles; the other information was equally as impressive and, apparently, it was -50°C outside and we were travelling at 590mph whilst at 38,000 feet!  Another of those things it’s probably best not to think about too much…

Breakfast was served by the improbably happy stewards before we began our long descent to Buenos Aires.  We executed a large turn which saw us swoop high over Montevideo and then a long, gradual approach over the city – which was absolutely massive!  We must have been descending for a good twenty minutes over the suburbs as the sun slowly rose above the horizon when, as if in welcome, the clear sky exploded into a myriad of reds and oranges around us which glinted off the wing outside my window, as we made our final turn over yet more grid-like suburbs before we finally touched down at Ezeiza airport which, itself, was a good 20km south of the centre; Buenos Aires was one big city!

I’d read that Ezeiza airport was a very civilised introduction to South America and, as we stood in the reasonably-sized queue for immigration, it certainly seemed that way; we were all sniggering in a schoolkid-like way at a sign which proclaimed that no semen was allowed into the country and we were still speculating how they were going to enforce that rule when we arrived at the security kiosks; I presented my passport to the friendly-looking geezer behind the desk who, after a perfunctory glance at both me and my passport photo (which actually does look reasonably like me, being a new passport), selected and empty page and thumped home the appropriate stamp and that was it – I was in!

We walked towards the customs section but, as we approached it, we noticed some passengers were casually wandering past the x-ray machine and bored-looking policemen showing the whole setup scant respect so, taking the view of anything to avoid potential hold-ups, we followed them – fully expecting to be called back at gunpoint any minute – but no-one in authority seemed to care and so, within ten seconds, we were in the arrivals concourse with a fully-valid passport and ready for some South American cultural experiences!

Outside we soon acquired a taxi tout who followed us around like a rash offering to take us into the centre of Buenos Aires; no matter how many times any of us tried to explain to him we wanted to take a taxi to Ezeiza rail station he was still convinced that, as we’d just arrived, we must be making a fundamental error of judgement and he knew where we really wanted to go to!  We gave up trying to elucidate our request and, after obtaining some cash from a sociable cashpoint which greeted us by name when we inserted out cards (never seen that before!), we skilfully sidestepped the tout and headed for an official-looking taxi reservation office.

“I think it’s called local culture”

We’d soon organised a taxi to Ezeiza station for the surprisingly high price of ARG$25 (about £4.50) where we would get our first taste of Argentinean culture.  At this point I should say that all three of us were there for different reasons although we all shared the same aspiration to have a good experience; I was mainly there for the burgeoning micro-brewer scene but also for some experience of the heritage diesel locomotives which populated the railways there, Herbal was there for the beer too but for a higher percentage of trains then me, whilst Redhill was there just for the trains!

After a very interesting taxi journey, which took a lot longer than I’d thought it would do and involved everything from potholed lanes to a multi-lane carriageway, we were eventually dropped off just up the road from the station at Ezeiza, where we stood and looked around at our surroundings.  Ezeiza was hot, dusty and I suddenly felt a very long way from home as we walked the final metres to the station; buses passed every few seconds bound for destinations unknown and seemingly without silencers, whilst randomly sized and coloured dogs rushed past on their own private missions.  I had a look in the various shops we passed in the hope of finding some beer, but it was soon looking as if my hopes of finding beer in shops was going to be dashed – all I could see were huge 1 litre bottles of Quilmes (Heineken) and other such shite; cheers then, maybe the artesanal brewing scene wasn't so widespread as I'd hoped!

We quickly acquired train tickets to the end of the line at Canuelas for around 15p each – I’d heard the train tickets were cheap, but I’d not thought we’d be able to travel for 45 minutes for basically nothing!  I shan’t bore you with the details of our escapades on the railways that morning apart from to say that, as we waited to depart at Ezeiza, we got our first taste of the vendors who patrol the carriages selling random items such as biscuits, drinks or just about anything else you can imagine (99% of the time for 1 peso) and then, as the engine was coupled to the coaches, there was a sudden cacophony of hammering and shouting from underneath the front of the train; we risked a quick look and saw that the brake pipe had fallen off the engine and was in the process of being reattached by means of a large hammer and what looked suspiciously like wire… I chose to ignore the nagging doubt of what might happen should this makeshift repair not conform to European safety standards!

The rest of the day followed in a similarly strange vein as we got to know this new culture; one thing I was immediately taken with were empanadas – these little pastry savouries, looking just like miniature Cornish pasties, were available just about anywhere we went!  Our first encounter was on Temperley station where we acquired some Carne-filled examples for around 20p each.  When I bit into my first one I was amazed – the meat was superbly flavoured and I think it lasted about two bites!  My second one, however, seemed to be of lesser quality with lumps of fat embedded in the meat; I pulled them out in disgust and flicked them onto the platform until I realised that this wasn’t fat but bits of chopped egg… my empanada initiation was complete!

We then travelled along a line where we got our first experience of the less salubrious side of Buenos Aires with people living in makeshift huts alongside the tracks and a less welcoming air to the place as a whole – this wasn’t an area to get off and look for microbreweries, then!  Soon, however, we were back into a better district where we experienced some extremely loud 50-year old diesel engines working trains which, to be kind, had seen better days!  Our last move of the day was to an allegedly very dodgy area, Puente Alsina, which was decided on as the train there was another loud diesel – we’re so easily persuaded!  It turned out to be just another slightly shabby area but a lot better than our visit of the afternoon although, by this time, I’d almost given up ever seeing any micro-brewed beer in bars as every one we’d looked in only served huge 970ml bottles of crud from Quilmes (Heineken) brewery!  My target of 100 scoops for the week was looking very precarious indeed as we headed back into the centre of the city to find our hotel, but not before witnessing the surreal spectacle of a horse stood on the platform somewhere near Temperley…

The plug for giants.

We checked into our hotel, the Central Cordoba close to the Retiro stations, which had been booked for us by a friendly Argentinean rail enthusiast as multiple emails (in English and Spanish) from both myself and Herbal had failed to elicit a response!  We’d chosen the hotel for it’s proximity to the stations we’d be visiting the most and for being about as cheap as is possible without being a fleapit – we’d heard various stories about some of the hotels around Retiro so, once our Argentinean friend had reassured us the Cordoba was fine, we’d booked a triple room for ARG$120 a night (around £26) and, just to make sure, it was the top-class one; we could afford it!

Our room seemed very decent indeed with a separate granny-annexe which we immediately allocated to Redhill (because, apparently, he snores!) and a very luxurious  bathroom with a massive shower cubicle large enough to hold a party – not that we were planning one, but you never know – although one thing was missing, the one thing we really needed as we were laden with electrical gadgets : an electric socket!  After an exhaustive search behind the beds, inside the cupboard and even in the bathroom, we’d managed to find two possibilities; the shaver socket in the bathroom and the plug the TV was connected to; this would have been ideal if it wasn't 8 feet above the ground!  We needed a plan, a cunning plan… sorry, Blackadder was on TV last night…

With a quickly-constructed pile of bags we discovered that we could precariously balance our very expensive cameras and suchlike on top and still charge them – one at a time, but it was a start!  By now it was gone 21:00 and, although none of us were suffering from the dreaded jetlag yet, we decided to restrict ourselves to just one pub close to the hotel for a few beers and some food, hopefully the famous Argentinean steak, although I was hoping for a few scoops into the bargain!

I studied the gen sheet but there were no brewpubs nearby which fitted our criteria so I resigned myself to a night without many – or any – scoops and immediately I began fretting about my “hit-rate” of 11 beers a night which I needed to hit in order to reach my 100-beer target by the following Monday!  A quick walk along San Martin brought us to the Matias Irish pub which, I must admit, didn’t sound too promising but the other two were keen to sample the steaks advertised outside and, with it being the first night, I reluctantly agreed so in we went with no real hope of finding anything worth drinking.

My first Argentinean beer…

I was first to the bar with the vain hope of seeing a shedload of scoops lined up along the beer taps – no joy was forthcoming in the draught department, but a line of bottles caught my eye and I suddenly felt a stab of excitement; there were some winners available, and they were micro beers too!  Beaming like a village idiot I joined the others at a large table where I prepared to ingest my first beer from South America; although the choice was fairly limited, at least micro beers was available and I was off the mark!  We ordered our steaks (tenderloin of beef, called lomo locally) and then our scoops – Antares Porter (5.5%) from La Plata, a short distance to the east of Buenos Aires, was soon in our glasses and, after a chorus of “cheers!” and much clinking of glasses, I raised the beer to my lips and took a long pull.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Argentinean beer; by all accounts most beer I’ve had from wine-producing countries has been boring, mundane pale lager-like fluid with very little to recommend it, but my research into this country had unearthed around 200 breweries which produced a bewildering array of beers in styles culled from all over the world – I’d found breweries making stout, porter, strong stout, dunkel, helles, blonde, amber, brune, wheat, scotch and a myriad of others which, along with the excellent reviews I’d read about many of the beers, had convinced me to break the shackles of my usual European trips and do some real ground-breaking exploration in a continent not on many beer scoopers’ itineraries – yet!

I knew that Antares beers weren’t the best I was likely to scoop during the following nine days, but I was happy to get off the mark and anyway, I thought, how bad could a Porter be?  Well, it wasn’t bad at all – not tremendously exciting, but it was mid-brown with a mainly caramel, toffee and sweet malt flavour then a fairly average yet satisfying sweet malt finish.  It wasn’t a very porter-like beer to my tastes, more of a brown ale, but I’ve had a lot worse in a lot better brewpubs and it was a good start to my Argentine scooping adventure! 

Happy with life, I sipped my beer until the steaks arrived.  The huge lean hunk of cow on my plate managed to attain the two pinnacles of steakness – it was very tasty and also exceptionally tender – and it certainly lived up to the praise heaped upon Argentine beef by almost every report and guide book I’d read thus far; this was turning into a superb voyage of discovery and I grinned with delight in the knowledge I’d come to a country with the three essentials – good beer (although I didn’t yet know just how good it could be), great food (likewise!) and characterful old diesel trains!

I finished off with Antares Scotch (6%) which, in common with the other beer, was smooth, sociable and sweetish without having too much character but was very drinkable.  I also tasted the downside of Argentine beer when Herbal had a bottle of San Carlos Otro Mondo – it ended up as the lowest score of all the 78 beers I had with zero points; sweet, sickly, syrupy and unpleasant, this orangey-brown solution was going to be my last beer but, after that quick taste, it was declined – although my desperation got the better of me the following week and I did buy a bottle, only to have my opinion confirmed and the whole bottle was jettisoned down the drain, but more of that later...

As we relaxed after consuming the excellent steaks and average beers, we suddenly discovered that we had pulled!  A woman of middle age (yet still of fine build, it must be said) came across to our table and began chatting with us in English as, so she said, she was amazed to see Englishmen in Buenos Aires!  As we quickly ran out of topics of conversation, she began to compare our hairstyles and ask why we had our hair so; Herbal had recently shaved his head, which contrasted well with my poorly-executed comb-over and pony tail and Redhill’s “ironic post-modern mullet” as Herbal had described it!  After some amusing banter regarding our choice of hairstyles she decided to leave us in peace and headed back to the depths of the bar, leaving us amused by the antics of the locals – and it was only our first night in town!

We paid up and thanked the cheerful staff before wandering the short distance back to our hotel and crashing out almost immediately into the very comfortable beds; despite it being winter in Argentina the weather was still very clement and we had to turn on the roof-fans and open the window which, fortuitously, faced a courtyard rather than the noisy road out the front.  With the predicted snores already coming from the Redhill annexe, I sank into a deep sleep feeling extremely happy with my lot – I was off the mark on the beer front, my first beers had been a taste of what was to come and the food was already shaping up to be more than adequate; put it this way, I thought to myself, I won’t starve or die of dehydration!

Sunday 28^th May 2006.

Start as you mean to go on.

I’d already decided that the last fragment of Buenos Aires’ once enormous tramway system had to be scooped in (the city once had over 850km of tracks, one of the largest networks in the world, which was closed in 1962 by the military government at the time) although, as is usually the case with public transport aficionados, you can’t keep a good thing down for long and a group of enthusiasts have resurrected a number of trams – both indigenous and not – which run from the Subte depot at Polvorín around a 1km street-running loop, much to the bemusement of the car drivers who encounter them en-route!

The loop is still used by the hellfire wooden-bodied underground trains (EE, 1912!) on Subte line A to get from the terminal station of Primera Junta to the surreally-located depot which is plonked in the middle of a residential area, so the panic-stricken avoidance techniques of the car drivers must simply be part of the national driving technique as surely the drivers around there would have encountered the trains previously!  I’d found the gen about the trams whilst searching for train gen on the net and, amazingly, the trams ran most evenings and Sunday afternoons around the loop for free – yes, nothing!  In such a relatively poor country I’d have gladly subbed them a few quid just to travel on some of their superb-looking beasties and was feeling a little uncomfortable about taking advantage of this offer when I saw that merchandise was for sale during the trip, although quite what this comprised of I’d have to wait to discover…

I’d allowed myself a lie-in to celebrate scooping my first Argentine beer the previous night – although I knew that I’d have to severely pick up my act to get back on target of 11 a day – so hardly woke from my comatose state as the other two got ready for a full day’s diesel cranking and slipped out at some unearthly hour of the morning.  We’d arranged to meet up on some particularly outrageous diesels later on in the afternoon which gave me plenty of time to have a spin on the preserved trams, have a wander around the cow parade at the docks (Sue was gutted at missing out on this one, I can tell you) before the rendezvous later on.

I eventually crawled out of bed and tried out the superb shower, which was as fantastically reviving as it looked, before striking off into the city towards the nearby metro station.  The morning was sunny and warm and I wore a huge smile as I wandered along the slightly shabby pavements towards my target, admiring the colonial architecture and green parks along the way.  I’d bought three 10-trip Subte tickets the previous evening so simply inserted my ticket into the barrier which, after a second of consideration, returned it to me and informed me I had 8 rides remaining – a “ride” is one trip on public transport until you emerge from the turnstiles at the other end so, if you were really desperate, you could bash Subte trains all day for 12p!  Not that I am, obviously…

Half an hour later I’d alighted at Emilio Mitre and walked the short distance to the train depot where I simply stared in amazement for a while as trains shunted back and forth into the road – I couldn’t believe this busy industrial installation was housed on what was basically a residential street!  There seemed to be quite a lot of rearranging of the trains inside as every few minutes a convoy of the rickety old units creaked out into the road, totally blocking it, before reversing back into the shed again!  They obviously didn’t abide by any considerate neighbours scheme, I mused, as yet another consist of elderly trains clanked out into the road with barely a look to see what was coming!

“Dick Kerr, England”

I found a poster on the wall confirming the tram times so, with ten minutes to go, I propped myself against a wall to see what would emerge from the depot; the list of trams was salivating to a sad tram-lover such as myself and, although any of them would be acceptable, I was secretly hoping for the recently-restored “Fabricado Militaire” vehicle, built in Buenos Aires, the body of which had been serving as a classroom for the last 40 years before being rescued and united with a chassis from a place unknown.  I was joined at the tramstop by an Argentine family who seemed to be as excited at the prospect of riding around the streets on a heritage vehicle scattering cars and pedestrians on all sides as I was. 

10:00 passed and nothing happened – well, no trams appeared from the murky depths of the depot, although the constant shunting of Subte trains continued unabated until I was sure that every single coach in the shed must have been out and back in again at least once!  Half an hour later and I was growing slightly concerned at the non-appearance of any trams, a feeling echoed by the family who asked a member of the Subte staff as yet another train clanked out onto the road; he nodded and held up five fingers, although I wasn't sure if this meant the tram would be five minutes or there were five more tube trains to re-organise first!

Finally, around 45 minutes late, a silver bathtub-shaped vehicle slowly nosed it’s way out of the depot to my intense relief; I had been thinking that maybe the trams weren’t running and had considered giving up but now it had all been worthwhile and - as an added bonus - the tram was the one I’d been hoping for all along!  The family and I climbed aboard and made ourselves comfortable whilst the crew made the final preparations for departure which seemed to comprise of tying the trolley pole securely to the rear cab and arranging the merchandise in a tantalising position, and then – with a healthy grind of gears and drone of motors - we were off!

The driver, a rather jovial fat bloke, opened the controller a few notches which, unfortunately, resulted in a loud thump as the breaker tripped and we ground to a halt not twenty metres from where we’d started – this journey might take some time, I thought to myself, as the same thing happened again about the same distance further along the line!  After a few minutes of fumbling with the breaker the driver appeared satisfied with his running repairs and so off we went again – and it was third time lucky as we trundled around the loop with no further power outages!

After inching past a slightly unstable metal fence protecting some roadworks, which the secondman had to push away from the tram through every window, we stopped for the driver to give us a short presentation about the tramways and trams of Argentina and, after he’d ascertained that I was English, he interspersed his commentary in Spanish with some random phrases in English!  With my basic knowledge of Spanish I grasped the gist of the driver’s rantings although I still had a few questions of my own to ask about the tram so, as the family perused the souvenir tray, I stepped forwards to examine the control gear!

I noticed, with little surprise, that the control handle’s notches and directions were written in Portuguese; with the decline of their tramways it seems as if every tramcar restorer is after a chassis from Lisbon or Oporto these days!  The driver confirmed that this particular one was a Porto chassis and then added, with an expansive gesture, “Dick Kerr controls from England!” which – as all cranks will know – became the godlike English Electric company.  I thought I’d better invest in some merchandise seeing as the whole experience had been a very rewarding one and so, clutching a cardboard tram kit and a list of the trams in preservation, I returned to my seat as we completed the loop and returned to the depot.

My fellow passengers, now they knew I was English, were eager to speak to me and we clumsily exchanged sentences in a mixture of Spanish and English.  Strangely, the oldest member of the family spoke the best English and she informed me that that very tram body had been her classroom at school when she was young and it was the first time she’d seen it in 30 years!  As we arrived back at the depot we said our goodbyes and I had to resist the driver’s insistence I took another trip around the loop aboard his pride and joy of a silver bathtub; as much as I’d have liked to I had other things to do and, I reasoned, I could always come back another evening and see which tram was working… aaah, the naivety of the man with seven nights left!

Cow parade in a land of cows.

I quickly returned to the Subte station and headed for the centre of the city where I had a quick look at the central square of Plaze de Mayo before walking down to the dock area.  Here everything was new and gleaming, and it looked as if lots of money had been invested in the area to make it a kind of honeypot for the tourists who are now starting to explore this long neglected part of the world, and cow parade was just such an event which showed how the city is trying to enter the circuit of capitals which are considered an essential visit.  In contrast with other cities where the bovines were scattered throughout the whole area, however, here in Buenos Aires they were all clustered around the docks as if the organisers didn’t quite understand that finding the cows in dodgy suburbs was half the fun!

I wandered around the docks for a good hour, peering at all the usual accompaniments of a dockyard such as massive cranes, fancy paving, industrial remnants and even huge cast-iron-things-they-tied-ships-to which were made in Cardiff!  The docks area has been transformed from, presumably, a seedy run-down area to a modern tourist attraction with the old warehouses having been converted into flats or restaurants which looked rather non-traditional and expensive so, leaving them to the steady stream of sightseers, I headed back to the Subte for my arranged meeting with the other two out in the west of Buenos Aires.

I took the underground to the strangely-named station called Once for a very tedious ride on an electric unit out to Moreno where I changed for one of the old smoky, noisy diesels which were one of the primary reasons for our visit to Argentina.  I shan’t bore you with the details of the rest of the afternoon save to say that the clag from No.657 would put many a steam engine to shame!  I was intending to return to Buenos Aires early but the superb engine was just too good to resist and, accompanied by Herbal and Redhill, I headed out in the wrong direction in order to maximise the mileage on 657!  After a superb run back in the dark, standing in the bike van immediately behind the smoke-belching monster with some very colourful characters gazing at us in a exceedingly confused manner, we made the long trek back to the centre of the city where we were all set to hit a couple of the many brewpubs on my long list – and we were thirsty!

“There’s never a brewpub out here!”

 We took a train out to yet another station with an amusing name – Dr Drago – where the first brewpub to be scooped was apparently located.  On alighting from the train, however, I wasn’t too sure; this was a residential area and, as we plodded along roads lined with faceless modern houses, I was feeling a tad nervous; coming all the way out here for nothing on my first brewpub hunt wouldn’t be the best way of making friends and influencing the other two!  Naturally, I said nothing about my doubts and plodded stoically onwards towards where I hoped against hope there would be a brewpub situated and, even more improbably, one that would be open on a Sunday night in an area where nothing stirred at all.

Suddenly I saw lights ahead and, as we drew closer, it appeared as if the impossible had come to pass and we’d not only found the brewpub in what must be one of the most unlikely settings I’ve ever found one in, but it was open too!  I gave the impression of being blasé about finding Spangher (for this was it’s name) but secretly I was secretly very relieved that it had all worked out for us!  As we entered the pub I was suddenly struck by the atmosphere of the place; it was very small and cosy with a piano having it’s ivories softly tinkled in one corner and a smattering of locals – surely they must be locals or hardcore beer scoopers to find a place like this – quietly enjoying the scene.  There was no sign of a brewery but there was a beer list on the wall with the magical words “cerveza artesanal” on it, and that was all that mattered!

We bagged a table by the large windows which gave us a view out into the dimly-lit silent streets outside that had convinced me this place couldn’t possibly exist, and perused the menu to see what beers were on offer.  It turned out that the three standard beers which I call the “holy trinity” of Argentinean beers were on offer; rubia (golden), roja (red) and negra (black) with no seasonals – but as this was my first brewpub I didn’t want to be greedy, so we settled for a large litre jug of the rubia as it worked out at the best value (ARG$20, £3.75) and soaked up the very bohemian surroundings as our jug was filled from the unmarked taps on the bar.  We were soon in possession of a brimming jug of hazy golden beer and three glasses and so, with a joint “cheers!”, I poured the beer into the glasses, seeing that we still had another half to go once we’d drunk the first glass; with three jugs to go this might be a good session!

I took a mouthful of the brew – my first Argentinean brewpub beer – and swirled it around my mouth to analyse it’s flavour; it wasn’t a blockbuster of a beer or a hop-monster, but it was a very drinkable and, for the want of a better word, sociable beer! It had a malty flavour which led to a smooth, grainy, toffeeish and quite complex finish although the true test of the beer’s sociability was the speed at which it vanished down our throats; within ten minutes the jug was empty and we immediately ordered the next beer, the roja, to the amazement of the barstaff who seemed to be very impressed by the beer consuming ability of the three strange Englishmen who had somehow managed to find their little bar miles from the usual tourist haunts!

Roja was a lovely reddy-copper colour with the tell-tale haze of yeast suspension, and as soon as the beaming barmaid had plonked the jug onto the table I could smell the delicious treacle-toffee aromas billowing from the beer; this was going to be even better than the last! Once again I acted as mum and poured the beer, which smelt much better once I’d agitated a bit of air into it – the roja was a lovely treacly, malty, toffeeish brew in the same easy-going sociable vein as it’s golden brother but with added dark malt notes and went down even better than the first one!  The barstaff must have been getting a bit concerned at our rapid demolition of their beers as they tried to sell us a huge plate of cheese and ham; we were asked if we wanted it three times before, as we’d decided to eat in Buller and were saving ourselves so had politely refused, they actually brought the plate over to show us!  It looked delicious and it’s one of my regrets that we didn’t take advantage of this feast, but we’d decided on a massive blow-out later in the evening so, once again, courteously refused the delicious pile of snacks - although I’m definitely having it next time!

The final beer of Spangher’s arsenal was the negra which, obviously, we’d saved until last and I was pleased to see that it followed in the by now obvious Spangher house style of a subtle, sociable toffee-malt style but this time overlaid with a strong roast and caramelly flavour, although I think I preferred the roja for it’s downright suppability!  We took a bit more time with this jug and watched the cosy little bar fill up around us with locals enjoying the beers and atmosphere; this was certainly a characterful introduction to Argentina’s brewpubs and nothing like I thought it would be – the feel was more Soho coffee bar than a brewpub in one of the biggest cities in the world!

From one extreme to another.

Reluctantly we finished our beer and paid the bill, bidding the very friendly barstaff good night, then walked the short distance to a busy road which brought us back to the reality that we were in a huge sprawling metropolis and not a quiet little village as it had seemed in Spangher, despite being just 5km from the city centre.  We hailed a taxi – easy, there are hundreds of the things about – for the trip back into the centre as by now it was around 23:00 and we couldn’t be arsed to walk back to Dr Drago station for the last train!

The driver seemed somewhat confused that three slightly lubricated Englishmen had hailed her taxi in a quiet residential area and, unexpectedly, she didn’t seem to know where our next target, Buller, was located; I’d assumed everyone would know as it’s next door to the famous Recoleta cemetery where Evita Perón is buried so all it took was a quick mention of said cemetery to elicit a smile of recognition from the driver and that was it, we were off, storming along the wide highways towards the city centre and our second brewpub of the evening.

Ten minutes later we were climbing the steps towards our garishly-lit objective, the Buller brewpub, which I had mixed feelings about; it did six beers and food until very late, but was distinctly American in style and outlook which meant that the beers wouldn’t be particularly local in flavour.  When we arrived I immediately saw what the reports meant as it looked like something you’d see in a documentary about Las Vegas or some other repulsive brash city with neon lights glaring out of the huge plate-glass windows and some sort of “house” music thumping away – this was some contrast from the quiet, local character of Spangher and I felt a little uncomfortable about supporting such an obviously American venture, but we wanted food and more scoops so, as usual, my principles went by the wayside and in we went!

A table was soon acquired and we studied the beer list intently – well, Herbal and I did, as Redhill was only along for the trains and wasn’t actually a beer scooper, although he does rate proper beer rather than fizzy junk!  I saw with a mixture of delight (8 scoops!) and disappointment (none of the “holy trinity” but plenty of international recipes) that we could order a tasting tray of all beers for a reasonable ARG$16 so, when we managed to collar a waiter, Herbal and I ordered a tasting tray whilst Redhill opted for a pint of the much-vaunted IPA which, according to many reports on the internet, was the best beer in Argentina – although most of those who had said this hadn’t been to many of the other brewpubs and were mainly Americans!  I was aiming to visit as many as possible in the nine days we had and be able to offer a far more considered opinion than those who had only been to Buller; I was already wondering what those American tasters would have made of our experience in Spangher where a very European subtlety, rather than American brashness, had been the house style.

Eight scoops and a massive pizza.  With an egg on it.

Our tasting trays soon arrived and we arranged them into scooping order of flavour intensity – light lager first and dry stout last – then immediately kicked off the scooping as I was interested to see if these beers were simply international clones or if they had a bit of character to them.  First impressions, unfortunately, weren’t that good; light lager (4.5%) was creamy and malty but ultimately bland if very drinkable.  The small glass didn’t last long and I was soon tucking into the second beer, cream pale ale (5.2%), which was far better and resembled an English bitter in character with lots of maltiness and a good, bitter hoppiness – happily, things were looking up already!

Our food soon arrived in the form of massive pizzas covered in all manner of random meats and finished with an egg in the middle – as per the ethos of Buller; not very authentic but decent enough all the same – so we gorged ourselves on the enormous plates of food ostensibly to soak up the beer but more prosaically because we were absolutely starving; maybe we should have had that mountain of cheese and salami in Spangher?  No matter, the pizzas were soon no more and, with chins dripping saturated fats, we recommenced the beer tasting session from the cute little glasses in the cute little wooden glass holders.

Honey ale (8.5%) was next up; this may seem a surprising choice given the ABV, but I was counting on it being pretty unpleasant and reasoned I’d need the rest of the beers to wash the taste away - honey beers are an art form in themselves, owing to the unpredictable nature of the wild yeast and bacteria found in honey, and consequently I’ve not had many good ones in my scooping career with some absolutely rancid ones just to show how even some otherwise excellent brewers can be undone by bees’ sweet output.  Grimacing in preparation for the expected infected taste, I supped the amber brew – and was surprised, pleasantly so! As I’d expected it was very thick, sticky and sweet yet without the bacterial infection so common in honey beers; I did momentarily wonder if honey essence had been used, but surely that wouldn’t have given the stickiness and sweetness the beer possessed?  Even if essence had been used, I ruminated, this was still a decent beer and much better than I’d expected.

Next up was Oktoberfest (5.5%) which was a decent attempt at a European lager with brown sugar, malt and nut flavours and a mellow nutty-malt finish; OK, it wasn’t really up to German standards, but it was perfectly acceptable and I had to reluctantly admit that the Buller beers were far better then I had been expecting they’d be!  By now the time was gone midnight and the crowds were thinning out – and the shite music had got quieter – so I reached for my second-to-last beer in the hope that the good run would continue; it should do, I thought, the two best beers are still to come!

IPA (6%) had now reached drinking position and I had reasonably high hopes for it as most visitors to Argentina had chosen it as their favourite brew in the whole country – although, as I’ve previously said, a lot of these visitors were Americans who aren’t known for their tolerance of balanced beer and prefer beers with huge, simple flavours – so I’d assumed that it was a typical American “hop monster” which, despite being out of place in Buenos Aires, might at least have a decent flavour and might also be the hoppiest beer I’d taste the whole week!

Well, I don’t know what beer those Americans were drinking, but if they think Buller IPA is a great beer then either I had a poor brew or they were simply drinking with the name in mind and not actually tasting the beer at all!  I knew something was wrong the moment I noticed that the brew wasn’t pale but a dull brown and the aroma wasn’t as intense as I’d been expecting so, intrigued, I took a big swig (which almost emptied the little glass) and swirled it around my tastebuds; well, it certainly tasted better than it looked, with a fair amount of citrussy hops and bitterness along with, in my view, a rather overpowering toffee maltiness.  Yes, it was a decent enough beer, but it was nowhere near as good as I’d hoped as the bitterness was a touch too astringent and the malt far too overpowering for my delicate European tastes – but, as I’ve said, Yanks love unbalanced and garish beers!

The final glass was now glistening darkly at me from the tray and so, unable to resist, I had a large gulp and analysed it – which is far less scientific and boring than it sounds – to see if this beery finale had been worth waiting for.  Dry Stout (5.8%) certainly had a bit of a kick to it; a massively intense charcoaly roast maltiness with a sweetish body before a long, burnt, toasted grain finish then a raspingly burnt aftertaste; to me, this was the most American beer I’d tasted thus far with it’s hugely over-the-top flavours and, although it was a reasonably balanced beer with a good flavour, it was just a touch too “in yer face” for my liking, with the intense burnt grain flavour overpowering everything else, although it was certainly a huge finale to the evening’s drinking which had convinced me that the Buller brewer was a competent man if a little too enamoured with the American way of doing things!

We considered having one more proper-sized glass of our favourite beers of the six but, with Redhill asleep on the table and the customers drifting away into the darkness, we took a quick timecheck and decided enough was enough for one night; after all, we’d scooped two brewpubs and nine beers which, although still lagging behind the very ambitious target of 11 a night I’d set myself (and was now considering a bit far-fetched), was respectable enough for the second night in Buenos Aires!  Buller is theoretically walkable from the Hotel Cordoba if you’re feeling energetic but, at 01:00 in the morning, we didn’t feel that way inclined so hailed the first taxi we saw and, five minutes later, we were back at the hotel, although the driver had a touch of bother negotiating the one-way system in the locality; ARG$6 very well spent if you ask me!

Monday 29^th May 2006.

That’s enough about my situation, wouldn’t you like some train information?

Once again I indulged in a lie-in, leaving the other two to their early morning exit, as my priorities were the beer and, as I’d already gathered, most bars didn’t open until late in the evening – well, that’s my excuse anyhow for being a lazy bastard!  After another long and relaxing shower I headed off to Retiro San Martin station to sample some of the ancient diesels which worked the trains there.  Confusingly there are three Retiro stations, decreasing in size and aesthetics as you head away from the centre, with vastly differing facilities;

1        The first one you reach after crossing the frenetic Avenue Libertad is called Mitre, and is a superb cathedral-like building with a multitude of food options available and a huge domed roof looking not unlike King’s Cross.  Boring electric trains go from here to various destinations including the Spangher brewpub!

2        The second is the Ferrovias station which is a compact yet still attractive structure with lovely period fixtures and the cleanest toilets of any of the stations! The trains don’t go anywhere interesting beer-wise but are good if you like unsilenced GM’s.

3        The third, San Martin, is more of a tin shed with zero visual appeal and the tightest security, hidden behind a scruffy market, but has the best trains by a long way… there is a cheap football clothing shop on the concourse where, if you are so inclined, you can get a Boca Juniors or River Plate shirt for around £6 or, if it’s raining, an Argentina skull-cap for a mere 80p!  More usefully, there is also a chemist shop which sells razors and suchlike.

After a good spell riding up and down the San Martin line – which had higher security than the others I’d done so far with security guards on each train and policemen randomly making appearances too, although this didn’t seem to dissuade the on-train hawkers – I decided that sustenance was required and went to explore the market beside the station which, on my quick sprint through earlier, had looked promising for food and any cheap clothes I might require.

As funny as it may sound to want to purchase clothes whilst on the bash, I say this in all seriousness as my trousers were gradually ripping in the gusset area having implausibly begun to deconstruct as soon as I sat on the plane from Paris!  The original small rip had now transformed itself into a gaping tear and, despite the positive point of this additional ventilation preventing me from getting sweaty gonads, having a big rip in my trousers obviously wasn’t an ideal situation especially when climbing stairs continually at Subte stations… therefore, I’d decided to have a look through the market in the hope of finding something a little less breezy!

I had a quick look in the football shop as, despite hating the game myself, my dad had requested a River Plate shirt if possible so I gauged the price of the requested garment – after having to work out what colours River Plate played in as I’d no idea whatsoever! (white with a diagonal red stripe just in case not knowing was going to keep you awake tonight).  I decided to buy one at a later date and so, my first task accomplished, I headed out of the station’s side door to ascertain the food possibilities on offer, which turned out to be not bad at all; there are two fast-food stands just outside which sell the usual Argentine staples such as Chorizo (spicy sausage in French bread), Hamburguesas (pretty self-explanatory, this one), Pizza or Empanadas of which I scooped a couple each of the meat and ham/cheese varieties and, as expected, very good they were too.

Market forces.

A little further on there is a strange sort of bar which seems to double as another fast-food outlet (no scoops on, I checked!) and, on the other side of the passage, several shops selling food items such as water and chocolate.  Behind all this mayhem of humanity – it’s very busy along this passage to the station’s door – is a covered clothing market in which I suspect you could buy almost any pirated “brand” clothing should you so wish although, as I’ve previously said, purchasing branded clothes wasn’t my motive for venturing inside…

I followed the seething mass of people into the indoor market and was suddenly struck by just how much clothing was for sale in the room; it hung from the stalls, walls, and even from the roof in places – and 75% of it was football shirts of one type or another!  Ten minutes later, after a walk around the complete maze of stalls, I’d not found any trousers I would be seen out in but I now knew the names of every player of Boca Juniors and River Plate…

Resigned to having windswept nads for the duration of the trip and not wanting a football shirt, I had no option but to abandon my search and return to the slightly less seething outdoors for a few more trips on the old trains but, this time, I did have a normal excuse; we’d seen a shopping centre a few stops out of town and I was determined to have a look around just in case there were some rare beers available anywhere inside… unfortunately, no beers of any sort worth drinking were found within and I was eventually driven out by the discovery of a McScum on the top floor – no need!

A double blow-out.

After a lengthy wait for a train back as, during the rush hour, most trains run fast back into Buenos Aires in order to turn them around quickly and get more people out of the capital and back home, I eventually arrived back in the city on a mission – to visit the Cossab brewpub out in the southeast of the city.  This nirvana of beer culture sounded like the best venue for beer scooping in the whole capital with, as far as I could tell (the pub has no website), eight draught beers and a whole load of bottles too; on the Subte down to Avenida la Plata I was frothing at the mouth with anticipation of a proper night’s scooping and, hopefully, the chance to bump up my scooping tally to a more acceptable level than the grand total of eleven it currently stood at!

The short walk up to the brewpub seemed to last an age but, eventually, the building hove into view – with no lights on inside – surely it must be open, I gibbered to myself… standing outside the locked door I cursed the lack of any website for this pub which had caused me to trail all the way out here for nothing; nevertheless, there was an opening hours notice inside the door which informed me that I’d have to return on Wednesday at 18:30 to get my scoops here… I trudged back to the metro station mightily gutted, but at least I now knew when to come back and where the pub was!

Studying my beer gen folder back at the station I realised that I could pay a visit to another brewpub on my way back into the centre, namely the Cao bar, although this was one of my “maybes” as I wasn't sure if it was brewing, going to brew, thinking about brewing or had never even entertained the idea at all, although my best guess on the gen I had was that I had a 50/50 chance of getting a scoop there and, with it being en-route, I wasn't losing anything apart from a 12p Subte ticket.

The pub was a five-minute stroll from Pichincha station and it was immediately looking better then Cossab – it was open, for a start! Situated on a busy arterial road, the Cao was an attractive building with a superb wooden interior which wouldn’t have looked out of place in an Edinburgh pub.  I made my way to the bar and desperately scanned the whole area for scoops, but there were none to be seen; had my curse struck again I wondered?  Deciding to grasp the nettle, I asked a passing waiter if there was any cerveza artesanale on the menu; he consulted with the Josef Stalin lookalike behind the bar and his shake of the head told me all I wanted to know – I was withered again!  “Next week!” suggested the waiter, and off he went carrying a gorgeous-looking plate of food.

Expect nowt and you won’t be disappointed.

As far as I could work out from my limited Spanish there was no beer available, although I got the feeling that this may only be temporary, so I decided to re-visit the pub as late into the trip as was possible and left, noticing on the way the words cerveza artesanales painted outside, so maybe they are indeed going to brew very shortly?  Unfortunately, this second blow-out had left my scoops tally in a parlous situation – zero winners today, eleven on the board in total, and the time was already approaching 20:00 on Monday night; I was getting a bit concerned at this point that I might not even reach 50 scoops during the trip and, what was worse, it wasn’t through lack of trying on my part!  My best option now seemed to be to take the Subte into the centre and leap at Indepencia where I could experience the very promising San Telmo area for the first time and, Insha'Allah, at least here – in the buzzing city centre – the bars should be open…

I walked along Estados Unidos towards my first targets and was enthralled by my surroundings; the streets were laid with cobbles and occasional remnants of tramlines protruded through the stones, the streetlights were dim, the frontages of the buildings were crumbling colonial in style and, strangest of all, there seemed to be an almost complete lack of any people wandering around!  Slightly confused, I pressed on towards the first place I would encounter, the Bohemia Bar and Art; this place is the place where both Messrs Westby and Enderby scooped some huge winners when it brewed as the Brewhouse Club but, with the owners now relocated to Cossab, the place had apparently morphed into an ordinary bar, albeit with real beer still available.

As I neared No.745 I glanced at my watch and saw that it was now 21:00 but very little seemed to be happening; I grimaced as I remembered the advice in the Rough Guide which had warned that “Argentineans are night owls who wouldn’t dream of dining early” and thought just how bad for my scooping tally this would be if it were true… and, predictably, I soon came up against the bolted door of Bohemia; I glowered at the heavens in the hope of seeing the malevolent deity who was heaping all this bad fortune upon me, but none could be seen.  Feeling like I may as well give up on scooping any beers at all due to my rock-bottom luck, I decided to carry on a few blocks to have a look at the beer museum which Tim Proudman had told me about a few weeks previous.

It was only a few minutes walk along Estados Unidos to the Museo de Cerveza which, on form for the night’s proceedings, was firmly shuttered and closed… I was now becoming a tad disillusioned with the whole concept of scooping beer in Buenos Aires; how the fuck was I supposed to scratch beers when every bastard pub was closed? The one silver lining of this walk along Estados Unidos was that I’d noticed a bar which prominently advertised artesanal beer (and it was open!) and, also, another of Tim’s recommendations had also been spotted with activity inside so, feeling like I was at last going to get some winners on the scoresheet, I retraced my steps back to the crappily-named Gibraltar bar on Peru where, hopefully, some Stone beers from Pilar would be available for my delectation!

The only handpump on the continent?

I entered the door of the Gibraltar and immediately saw that this wasn’t some crappy theme pub targeting Brits (probably a sound business plan, as there aren’t many there!) but a cosy bar, all dark wood, with a good mix of expats, locals and the occasional tourist and a good atmosphere although these observations paled into insignificance when I arrived at the bar and just stood and stared for a couple of seconds with, had I been a cartoon character, my jaw on the floor as there – right in front of me on the bar – was a handpump complete with Stone IPA pumpclip!  Talk about seeing the thing you expect the least right in front of you...  a poster announced that “happy hour” was currently in full swing and for every beer you bought, another would be given free; this made the prices of ARG$5-8 for a pint very reasonable indeed!

With my choice made for me by the handpump, I ordered a pint (for that’s the only glass size they seemed to have) of the Stone cask IPA (6.5%) and, as I was absolutely ravenous, a home-made beefburger with chips and, the essentials sorted, cast my eyes around the bar area in search of more scoops; amazingly, the more I looked around, the more I saw!  Apart from the cask beer I was now enjoying (an amber ale, fruity and solidly malty, with a rich, strong bitter finish; intense and hoppy whilst being quite well balanced) I could see two other Stone beers on tap (XB and Stout) as well as some bottles from what looked like a micro – a quick request to the sociable barmaid produced five beers of Artesanale nature, namely Baires Rot Dort, Antares Barley wine, and Del Castillo Special Stout, Whisky Malt and Barley wine; I was beginning to like this pub!  I quickly secured all of the above as carry-outs to consume at some point later in the week and, the bottles stashed in my rucksack, I carried on with the pleasurable task of drinking the pint of IPA…

I drained my pint with relish and redeemed my happy hour token for my next pint, Stone Stout, and stood by the bar admiring the fixtures and fittings until my burger arrived – and it was absolutely enormous!  With my stomach threatening to begin digesting me from the inside I immediately tucked into the huge home-made slab of meat and found it to be gloriously beef flavoured; this may seem a strange thing to say about a beefburger, but just think what 99% of them taste of – whatever it is, it’s not beef! I was busy stuffing burger and chips (also real!) into my mouth when the woman sat next to me suddenly burst into conversation – just why she had chosen the minute I began to eat I didn’t know – and, to make matters worse, she was a septic tank! (Cockney rhyming slang for Yank there - sorry, it's my ancestry!)

To be honest, she was one of the better Americans I’ve met and seemed well up on where places are in the world – something a lot of her countrymen have problems with – and exhibited surprisingly left-wing attitudes to a lot of topics.  As she was from New York, and therefore blessed with a big mouth and voice which I assume could be utilised in times of emergency as a public address system, I didn’t have to play any proactive part in the conversation (well, I suppose it was technically a monologue as I didn’t say much!) and simply continued to eat and grunted occasionally to show that I was actually listening to her, even when I actually wasn't.

As she seemed to know the city reasonably well, I asked for a recommendation for a traditional Parilla grill-house as, obviously, I didn’t want to get stung in some crappy tourist haunt.  The American and barmaid had a quick discussion and then, after coming to a decision, drew me a map of how to reach the Desnivel, a short distance away, which they said was very highly regarded by the locals for it’s superb steaks and house wine – just what I wanted!  I thanked them both and carefully filed the map in the back of my big orange scooping book for further reference; I didn’t have time to visit that night, but I certainly would before we returned home!

Two more breweries in the book!

My excellent food finished (I hadn’t expected a simple beefburger and chips could be so good!) and the last of my stout drunk (excellently roasty, with a frazzled, burnt grain taste with some sweetness yet not overpowering) I made my excuses and left the American behind to annoy some other poor English-speaker – I reasoned that I’d have the Stone XB another night – and set out for the pub I’d seen earlier on in the evening, the Territorio bar, where a sign had promised cervezas artesanale and, seeing as I’d only just scraped into the lower reaches of the 20’s as far as scoops went, it was a pretty safe bet that I’d require almost everything there – unless it was another Stone pub of course!

A short walk later, I had reached my destination and was stood by the bar admiring the numerous beer taps.  The sociable barman, although not speaking much English, was quick to extol the virtues of the beers available; Koala stout, Shopron red and two “house” beers of which the brewer wasn’t known but I was assured were “artesanal”.  A quick glance at my watch told me that I’d missed the last subte back to the hotel (they stop running at around 11:00, apparently as a hang-over from the power shortages which dogged the country during the economic troubles of the early part of this century) and so settled down with a glass of the Koala to continue my scooping, resigned to walking the mile-and-a-half back to the hotel after I’d ticked the beers.

The stout was a delicious example of the genre; it was deep red/black with a sweetish, roasted flavour which turned nutty, burnt, malty and very complex in the dry, roasted grain finish and would give quite a few well-known European stouts a run for their money.  The café itself was small, quiet and very modern with a large plate-glass door allowing me to see, from my tiny table, the comings and goings outside in San Telmo as I supped the delicious stout.  The glass was soon empty and so I switched to the Shopron red; Shopron was a brewery I’d been desperate to sample as many of the reports regarding Argentine beer I’d read lavished praise upon their beers and I was extremely pleased to see one of their brews on draught for my delectation.

I was aware that Shopron were at a tiny disadvantage here as red ale isn’t my favourite style of beer, usually being too sweet and caramelly, but I reasoned that a quality brewer should be able to produce good beers of any style – Brendan Dobbin always could, for example – so I bravely took a large pull from the glass.  As I’d hoped, Shopron did me proud with a delicious toffeeish (but not sickly toffee!) and full-bodied brew with lots of character, a pronounced fruitiness and some bitterness to balance the toffee in the finish perfectly; this was one good beer, and I couldn’t wait to try their Porter!

By this time I was becoming tired and so decided to leave the other beers until later in the week – oh, the luxury of long trips – and, after paying the bill and checking my map and seeing that I simply had to walk north along Bolivar, which turned into San Martin, until I reached the hotel after around a mile and a half, I trudged off into the night trying to look as un-touristy as possible as I’d read about some of the slightly dodgy inhabitants of San Telmo and wanted to arrive back in one piece if possible…

The time was around 00:30 and lots of people were still milling around the streets on their way to or from the many bars and restaurants clustered around the district.  I soon left this area and the buildings gradually became more run-down with a total lack of people on the streets so, not knowing if this was a “dodgy” neighbourhood or simply one where the inhabitants needed their sleep, I doubled my pace in the hope of reaching a nicer one as quickly as possible.  I was relieved when the buildings changed into financial institutions and offices so I concluded that I’d reached the banking centre and eased my pace.  I took some money out of one of the many cash machines situated in the lobby of a bank where a card-swipe at the door was required to gain entrance and pressed on towards the hotel, already over half way through my walk.

I soon began to notice the piles of binbags on the pavement ready for collection by the municipal authorities and further on, saw that the bags had been ripped open and the contents searched through for something; I remembered reading about the cartonerios in the rough guide and how much of the city’s desperately poor population earns a meagre living by sifting the rubbish for recyclable materials to sell on for a few pesos.  A short while later and I saw them at work, ripping open the bags and quickly transferring the cardboard and paper into their home-made trolleys and then sifting through the rest for any glass or plastics; it’s sad to see people reduced to rummaging through other people’s rubbish to earn a living, but I suppose it’s better than simply begging or mugging poor travellers who happen to be walking past after a few scoops so I gave them a respectably wide berth and trudged on.  Before long I was at the hotel and saw that the walk had taken a good 40 minutes, but seeing the cartonerios at work had shown me a side of the city which few tourists see and, in a way, I was glad to have witnessed the “other side” of Buenos Aires for myself rather than simply reading about it in a guidebook – after all, isn’t the experience what travel is all about?

Back in the hotel, the receptionist asked me if we’d be able to pay for our first three nights in the morning and, having just replenished my cash reserves, I agreed and headed off to bed for some sleep.  I awoke the other two with my clumsy entrance and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow…

Tuesday 30^th May 2006.

My first - and only - Argentinean multinational!

I’d decided to join the other two in a journey out into the suburbs on some particularly hellfire old diesels and so it was with difficulty I awoke after only five hours sleep for the bracing walk down to Retiro Mitre station (it was almost the middle of winter in Argentina and, although not cold, the temperature in the morning was certainly conducive to helping us wake up) where we caught an electric train out to Victoria for our link with the diesel line.  As we boarded the train we saw that the front two carriages were simply vans with no doors or windows, presumably to allow the local cartonerios easier access, but we opted to travel at the very front anyway, which caused a fair few bemused looks from the locals at a bunch of Englishmen travelling in the “free” part of the train – there seemed to be no tickets required if you travelled in these carriages and, despite many as the tickets being only around 20p, we wanted to be as close to the engines as possible…

We spent the morning travelling up and down the line – which was severely overgrown and more in need of track maintenance than almost any railway I've ever seen – on a variety of superb and slightly less superb engines (including a cab-ride at one point) before we broke at Maquinista Savio for some food.  As we stepped out into the main street it was as if we’d walked into a wild west film; the streets were filled with dust and ramshackle vehicles, the buildings were similarly constructed, and I half expected a posse of blokes on horses to come riding along accompanied by some tumbleweed!  No posse appeared, however, so we walked along what appeared to be the main street but found nothing in the way of scoops or proper food so returned to the station, where I bought a handful of cakes from the small shop which cost me less than 50p!  Herbal returned with a huge bottle of Quilmes Bock for the train and I almost wished I’d got one for myself as by this time I was feeling like a drink, although I remembered that it was made by Heineken and plotted to drink some of Herbals’ beer than give the multinational tossers any of my money!

As we waited for the train to Capilla we spotted an amusing beige dog limping around the trackbed.  It seemed to have a bad leg and couldn’t climb onto the platforms, so was basically stuck on the tracks until a kindly local lifted it onto the unused platform whereupon it hobbled off on a mission unknown.  We also witnessed a money collection from the station with an armed guard complete with shotgun to protect it; as he stood menacingly only 10 metres from our position I began to feel slightly uncomfortable about the state of affairs, but he’d obviously decided we posed no threat to his charge and didn’t point the gun at us once…

We headed off to Capilla on an excellent freight engine and Herbal opened the bottle of bock, which he pronounced to be “alright”.  I blagged a swig from his bottle and discovered that it was just as I’d anticipated, being caramelly, sweet, industrial-tasting crap and I was so glad I didn’t have 970ml of it to drink myself!  We eventually arrived at our destination, but Herbal was confused; we were meant to change for a train to Zarate but no other trains could be seen.  After some discussion with the station manager it became apparent that there was another station in Capilla – and the train should have left there by now!  Deciding to go for it anyhow on the off-chance it was late, we marched through the quiet streets until we found the station hidden behind some trees and looking like some abandoned branch-line complete with water tower, very English station buildings and various animals wandering around the place including the customary dogs and even some horses!

Two trains a week.

To our relief there were still passengers waiting for the train, so we selected a spot on the platform away from the scarily-large ants and waited… and waited… Herbal informed us that this station had two trains a week – one in each direction – so if we’d missed this one there would have been no waiting for the next train… eventually a horn was heard, getting closer and closer, before the train pulled in and we climbed aboard.  The trip was only twenty minutes yet, this being a privately-run train, the ticket cost almost a pound each!  We were soon at Zarate where we realised that this was another of those “multi-station” places and we only had 20 minutes to reach the other!  It seemed as if the rail company didn’t really expect anyone to alight there as the station was basically a freight yard so, with no taxis outside, we had to ask the supervisor to order us a remis which, he assured us, would be there very shortly… we hoped so, as if we missed this connection at Zarate we’d have to wait over an hour for the next one!

Almost as soon as we’d reached the gate to the complex the taxi had arrived – well, taxi is probably not the best description for it, I’d say car would be better – I have suspicions that it was simply a member of staff who had volunteered to run us across town for a few pesos!  After agreeing a four peso fare we were off through the mud roads of a huge shanty town, along a major road, and then through another slightly less shanty area before arriving at Zarate station with less than five minutes to go before the train departed – always makes!  We thanked the driver for making the train and paid him a full ARG$5 before scurrying over to the station and getting our tickets for the train, which was sat in the platform ready to depart.

I shan’t bore you with the happenings of the afternoon as they weren’t that exciting to those who don't appreciate noisy, smoky old diesel locomotives, except for one incident at Benavidez where Redhill and I decided to take a photo of the cartonerios boarding the train with their unfeasibly large trolleys.  A few took exception to this and waved us away, so we wandered over to the other platform to watch the train leave; as we photographed the departure, herbal suddenly started bellowing in an agitated manner – some of the cartonerios had decided to spit at him, as he was the closest to the train, and a few direct hits had been scored!  Redhill and I were slightly further back and so out of range of the spittle barrage, but Herbal wasn’t pleased and blamed us for getting him gobbed on by a bunch of low-lifes!

Around Palermo.

Leaving the other two to do some more train moves, I headed off back into the city for some more (I hoped) serious beer scooping; I had four brewpubs in my sights and I intended to score the lot!  I alighted from the train at Ministerio Carranza and found my way to the Dalinger brewpub… to find it, you guessed, firmly closed and bolted.  Okay, so it was a Monday evening at 19:00, but I was growing just a bit frustrated at not being able to find any of the brewpubs (or many other pubs, for that matter) open, although I suspected that it being the week after a bank holiday near the middle of winter may have had something to do with it…

I searched high and low for opening times but found none so, with no sign of life inside, I trudged down to Ru bar, a short walk away, with a feeling that tonight wasn’t going to be my lucky night, if you get my meaning, as Tim Proudman had visited the city a month previously and had come up against a closed door when - by the times on their website - the bar should have been open… and it came as no real surprise when I encountered the building with shutters in place and a notice in the window informing me that the Ru bar was on “vacation”!

A pattern was forming again and I wasn’t impressed with it but, with little I could do apart from carry on trying the pubs on my list, I crossed the busy San Martin rail lines and headed down to a pub whose name didn’t exactly set my imagination alight, the Sullivan Pub; I suppose I was blinded by knowing just how crap and, well, un-Irish so-called “Irish” pubs are back home so I wasn’t expecting too much by the time I arrived at the front door of this large building in the posh suburb of Palermo Soho, but as they were supposed to have the rare Munster beers on sale, so I went regardless of my prejudices.

Once inside the pub I felt a lot better; this wasn’t like some fake “Oirish” place but a sociable, well-fitted out place with plenty of room inside and a relaxed atmosphere, although I couldn’t see any artesanale beer thus far…  I selected a table, sat down, then studied the menu and, to my elation, there they were – Munster rubia and negra!  I was quickly in possession of a 350ml bottle of the rubia (golden) beer but something was wrong; I could smell phenols coming from the glass and that isn’t a promising thing when tasting beer!  This unfortunate twang was also prevalent in the taste, where it mixed with wheat, malt and sweetness to give me the impression that, had this beer not had it’s TCP problems, it might just have been a decent drinking brew – but sadly that was not to be and the phenols ruined it for me, I’m afraid.  After struggling through this glass I wasn’t that enamoured with drinking a dark version of it but I’d come 7,000 miles to do just this and I might never get another chance… and, after all, the bottles were only small…

Beamish Stout revisited – 7,000 miles away.

The negra proved to me conclusively that the phenolic twang in the rubia was an infection or cleaning problem, as my second Munster beer was an absolute stunner!  The negra (black) was, as it’s name suggests, almost black in colour and lurked in the glass in an intimidatory manner, giving off pungent wafts of roasted grains and liquorice.  As for flavour, well, who remembers Beamish before the multinationals ruined it?  About ten years ago, Beamish was a lovely drink – even on keg dispense – with a mellow, nutty, sweet roasty taste and bitter finish which slid over the tongue like a divine caress, mesmerising in it’s silky, nutty mellowness.  Then, as befits multinational scum, S&N decided that it wasn’t shifting enough volume and, predictably, came to the conclusion that the beer’s flavour was putting prospective drinkers off – and “rebranded” Beamish stout as “Beamish black” which had the soul ripped out of it and tasted just like any other bland, boring stout – therefore condemning another beer to the dustbin of history, sacrificed on the altar of profit and homogenisation of taste.  Wankers.

As I said before that tirade, Munster negra reminded me a great deal of the old Beamish stout and as I drank the beer the more I loved it; it was very roasty and nutty with lots of roast and bitterness, but with that indefinable mellowness which makes good stouts great and instantly became my favourite Argentine beer thus far.  I was really tempted to order another bottle to drink and even one to take home in order to show Sue just how good Argentinean beers were, but I put that off until later in the week and set off for my next port of call, the newly-opened Clandestina brewpub, which had been a bit of a bonus when I discovered it had opened two weeks before our visit!

I actually walked past the door of the brewpub as it had a very low-key sign outside and wasn’t at all obvious but, looking at my map, I knew I’d passed it and returned the short distance and in I went to, hopefully, increase my meagre tally of two for the night; I’d long since given up any hope of matching my initial aspirations of eleven scoops per day and was happy to take whatever I could get in the hope of maybe reaching fifty by the end of the trip, or at the very least a lot more than the meagre total of eighteen I was currently on, and it was day four already!

Inside the door was a well thought-out bar with understated yet cosy furniture and a bar sporting five beer taps and the brewing kit visible through windows above it.  There were a few other people in enjoying the beers and the atmosphere was very welcoming – I felt as though, at last, things were starting to turn in my favour and marched to the bar to see what was available.  I was greeted by a gorgeous young lady who quickly ascertained that my Spanish wasn’t really up to scratch and so shifted effortlessly into perfect English, asking me which of the three beers I’d like.  “Only three?” I moaned silently to myself, but outwardly I smiled broadly and started with a glass of the rubia which came with a bowl of home-made popcorn – to stimulate thirst, presumably.

I’d be lying if I said that this beer was superb, as much as I wanted it to be; I think that when the brewery beds in then the beers will be excellent but, two weeks in, the rubia had slight TCP hints to the flavour over a wheaty, malty body and, although it was drinkable, the phenolic twang was similar to the Munster rubia I’d had not an hour previously… time for the next beer, then!  I was soon in possession of a glass of the roja and, more importantly, a plateful of chips and home-made beefburger as – once again – I was hungry!  This beer was far better than the rubia, with an amber colour, a flavour of toasty maltiness and then a dry, toasty, grassy hop finish which went down very well indeed.

I had been joined at the bar by the brewer whose English was about as good as my Spanish and so we required the services of his missus to act as a go-between; I learnt that he had been home brewing for quite a few years until he’d finally been persuaded to set up properly although, unlike most of his contemporaries, he was determined to do the job properly with a clever branding exercise on everything from the website to the beer labels and, I must admit, the image of the beers does stand out as very professional – but, as we all know, it’s the beer that really matters, not the image, and so I ordered a glass of the final brew available that day - the negra - whilst the brewer informed me that another beer, Purpura Americana, would be on later in the week and that all his ingredients are Argentinean, even the cascade hops!

As I’d expected, this was the best beer in Clandestina and by quite a fair margin; a rich burnt coffee and toasted malt flavour gave way to a dry, bitter roastiness and it was so good I had another – surely the ultimate measure of satisfaction? (as wine writer Hugh Johnson says, 1 glass = tolerance, 2 glasses = you quite like it) and had a decent chat with the owners.  I think that I’d rate Clandestina as the most sociable of the brewpubs I visited in Buenos Aires, but whether that was because they were trying hard in their first month of opening or they were just nice people I don’t know – but I reckon the latter to be true!  Oh yes, and if you go, take some beermats for the walls!

Gold and Black, winners galore!

Having finished my scooping at Clandestina for now I said my goodbyes and took the subte back into the centre and then walked the ten minutes or so down to my last visit of the evening, the Rubia y Negra brewpub - or at least I thought it was a brewpub, but I had some doubts that an upmarket place as this seemed to be would actually bother to brew!  Yet again, I found myself retracing my steps along the road having missed the entrance, but in mitigation I plead that it was dark, I’d already had some beers, and the entrance is merely a door with a sign above it; it’s really not that obvious at all… honest.

I climbed the stairs and emerged into what I’d class as a “yoof” bar back home – all soft colours, bright young things chatting, easy listening on the sound system and an overall impression of wealth; I thought back to the cartonerios I’d seen at work the previous night and considered the amazing polarity of fiscal distribution in this city.  On the wall was a drinks list and on it were two beers “on offer” at ARG$6, but I still saw no brewery – until I looked above the bar, and there it was - looking very operational and shiny!  Hey ho, here we go…

Once at the bar I found a menu and saw that there weren’t two beers here, but eight… including some rather unusual choices such as barley wine and Belgian ale!  The barstaff, as befits such a monument to affluence, were patient and tolerant of my pathetic attempts to speak Spanish and switched to perfect English straight away, although they did ask what an Englishman was doing in their bar… I replied I was there for the beer, a comment which brought the whole crew of barstaff out into a big cheer!  Having made friends and influenced people, it was time to begin the onerous task of tasting all of the beers – except for the wheat, as that was going to be flagged!  Helpfully, the menu for the beers included comments by the brewer on flavours and ingredients and so, forewarned and forearmed, it was time to begin the scooping!

My new best friends behind the bar advised me that a “taster tray” was available for ARG$15 which gave me five samples for around £2.50 – this was London prices, I thought to myself, but I suppose it’s set at such a level to keep the clientele “exclusive”?  With my beers laid out in front of me I began with Cream Ale (4.5%) which was light on the palate, gently bitterish and reasonably malty with a pleasant, well balanced finish – I was off to a good start!  Next up was Pilsen (5.5%) where the malty, nutty palate faded into a malty sweetness although it was lacking hoppiness in my opinion.  I was now on a roll and feeling good, so next up was Bitter (5%) which, in keeping with the house style, was toffeeish and malty with a smidgeon of bitterness but nowhere near enough to be a serious bitter; the finish faded to a dryish, malty, smooth and sociable aftertaste.

Scotch (6%) was my next scoop and this was a strange one; it’s almost as if the brewer associated whisky (in particular, Islay) with the Scottish taste and made a beer with smoked malt… I know this happens in France, but this was really a rauchbier rather than a Scotch, although it was in reality a very subtle and drinkable beer with a lot of character – but not like many Scotch beers I've drunk!  The next beer was lurking darkly in it’s glass and I expected a lot of it simply from the delicious aromas wafting from it, but it was a touch disappointing, being more of a new-style porter than a stout, and overly caramelly rather than roasted yet, still, the brewer managed to pull the rabbit out of the hat and I actually quite liked the brew overall, despite the stylistic differences, and the finish was good and tasty with more bitterness than I’d been used to in the previous beers.  Okay, that was my tasting tray finished, now it was time to scoop the (hopefully) more serious beers in!

Heaven knows I’m pissed up now.

Right then, I had three beers left to go and these were going to be served in glasses of uncertain provenance but which looked larger than half a pint; it was then I realised that I’d drunk a lot of beer and wished I’d had the barley wine in the smaller taster glasses… too late for that now though, but before I could order a glass of the bizarrely-named “Trappist Abbey beer” (6%) the barman asked which beer I would like “on the house”!  Beaming broadly at this munificent act I requested the Trappist which, despite being commendably different, was overloaded with coriandery spice.  It was decent enough in taste with the usual toffee-malt in addition to the spiciness and a toffeeish, bitter, spiced aftertaste which I thought a touch medicinal – not the best beer of the evening, then!  I decided to flag the wheat beer on the grounds that I don’t like them and ordered an unnervingly large glass of the barley wine (12%) for the ludicrous price of ARG$10 for a 350cl glass!

As I brought the glass to my nose I could smell that this beer was the brewer’s pride and joy; it had obviously been matured for a long time (six months according to the menu) and had all the lovely Madeira-like and Brettanomyces character I’d expect from such a brew.  Just as I was bringing the glass to my lips, the music changed and I stood there for a minute or so unable to grasp what it was… I knew it, but I just couldn’t place it!  Suddenly I realised – it was the Smiths!  Drinking 12% barley wine in Buenos Aires listening to Hatful of Hollow wasn’t something I did every day!

The beer was superb; intense, strong and malty, it had caramel flavours with lots of the promised brett twang and Madeira esters coming through.  The flavour went through several stages of maltiness and sherried toffee before finishing alcoholic, malty, sherried, and amazingly complex – this was one excellent beer!  The glass (or it may have been two – I have the feeling I either bought or was bought another barley wine) lasted for almost the whole Smiths album before they changed it for something far more mundane, but it was at that point I realised that I was very drunk – as I returned from the toilets down the stairs I was struggling to put my feet in the correct places to enable me to ascend the steps back to the bar!  After grimacing at my watch for a while I concluded it was around 01:00-ish and so I said goodbye to my friends behind the bar before wobbling down the steps and out into the busy street below.

Standing outside the brewpub I came to the realisation that I’d somehow got very pissed and hadn’t got a chance of walking back to the hotel as planned, due to the map resembling a plate of spaghetti to me at this point, despite my attempts to read it.  After a few minutes failing to comprehend why the map had suddenly become meaningless, I decided that it was time for a taxi and so drunkenly lurched in front of the first one which ventured close enough to my position.  The driver was obviously used to seeing English scoopers stagger out of Rubia y Negra at one in the morning and so didn’t bat an eyelid as I slurred my greeting and destination to him before slumping into the front seat – after tottering around the car as I’d been trying to get into the driver’s door!

The journey must have only been a couple of minutes in duration and soon we were at the hotel and so, after paying the driver an exceedingly generous ARG$4 (the fare was only around 2, but even in my drunken state I felt I should pay extra for allowing me into his car), I breezed past reception, trying to appear as sober as possible, before arriving at the door to our room.  Now I don’t remember much about what happened next and so I’m relying on Herbal’s testimony and the notes I made in my book the next day (which is where the past page comes from) but he claims that there was a fumbling sound at the door for a few seconds before I burst into the room, bellowing about “barley wine”, and then – rumour has it - told the same story a good number of times about my escapades in Rubia y Negra and how pissed up I was!  I vaguely remember describing the place and how everyone and his dog should go and drink the barley wine, but I’m sure I only told the story once…

Wednesday 31^st May 2006.

A well-deserved lie-in.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a heap on the floor, half clothed, with a sore head through presumed contact with the bedside table!  Herbal says he was woken by the crash and asked me what I was doing, to which I apparently replied “I fell out of bed” then immediately righted the offending object before climbing back in and dossing out again straight away!  I vaguely remember this happening, but only because I hit my head on the table and that sort of broke through my still-drunken state via the pain of impact!

I finally surfaced fairly late the next morning, unsurprisingly, and had a bad head courtesy of it’s overnight get-together with the table and the quantity of beer consumed the previous evening, although 15 minutes in the shower soon sorted me out to 75% scoop-readiness in preparation for the day ahead.  I’d planned to have a lie-in anyhow and so, at around 11:00, I headed off to Retiro Mitre station to catch a train to the terminus of Bartholomew Mitre and thence to find the wine shop “Wine and More” where, apparently, I could find the rare Bersaglier beer for sale and then I planned to spend the rest of the evening in the legendary Cossab brewpub – as long as it was open as per the schedule on the door!

After a lengthy walk along Avenue Maipú in the uncomfortably warm winter sun I arrived at the shop and found, disappointingly, that there were only two beers on offer from Bersaglier (the Scotch was out of stock) and nothing else beery, although the sociable owner spoke perfect English and he ribbed me about the forthcoming world cup, which I feigned interest about in what I hope was a reasonably convincing manner.  My beers in the bag, off I went back to the station with a stop on the way at La Fabrica Empanada where I bagged some carne picante empanadas and provided some entertainment to the locals who couldn’t understand why an Englishman was in their local pie shop!  The empanadas were superb, with lashings of chillis inside and after three my mouth was well and truly overloading with the effects of chilli – but it was worth it…

I took the next train back into the centre and then a subte out to Entremes Deli in Palermo where, so the internet promised, there would be some proper beer on sale… and there was, but the shop was closed during the afternoon and so the Antares beers (and maybe others) remained firmly on their shelves with me fuming outside!  The trip wasn’t a total waste of time, however, as on the way back to the station I just happened to look into a little bakery in search of empanadas (well, it was a couple of hours since I’d eaten one) and just happened to see a Koala brewery font sat on the counter… ten seconds later and I was inside!

My luck turns.

The Dolcetto café turned out to be a nice little place which made it’s own cakes and such and, more importantly, sold two beers from the rare Koala micro br