Why I'm drinking less Real Ale

I was in a pub in Richmond not that long ago. It was early afternoon on a warm day in June. The pub, The Sun Inn, was highly inviting. I'd noticed it on a previous visit to the lido and it had lodged in my mind. A Fuller's house, with a pleasant shady patio out the front adorned with hanging baskets and colourful planters - I needed no further encouragement.

A grey flag loomed across the threshold however. The pub was filled with televisions, all showing sport. Nothing unusual about this per se, and it was during the soccer World Cup/the latest toe-curling attempt at American sportswashing/Trumpian grifting daisy-chaining extravaganza. There were also a couple of screens showing English rugby, but here's the point - nobody was watching. The inside of the pub was deserted, all the patrons were outside on the patio or in the beer garden enjoying the balmy June weather. My conclusion is that management orders dictate that the tellies need to stay on regardless of viewership. It's my belief that this is not only a waste of electrical energy, but that it also incredibly distracting for anyone wanting to enjoy a pint in peace. 

What I did next however, was foolhardy in the extreme. I ordered a pint of real ale. 

I know, I know.

In my defence, this was a Fuller's rather than a Young's establishment and this perhaps gave me unrealistic cause for hoptimism. In my offence, it was still early in the day and the ale I'd chosen (a pale by St Austell) was only 3.6%.

I was served, I went outside and took my seat. I took my first sip, and it was immediately apparent that the beer was in poor condition. It had that damp cardboard taste where it's been sat on dead yeast. Probably the end of the barrel. Or it had just been on too long and had gone stale. Perhaps the beer hadn't been pulled through that morning and I'd been served something that had been sat in the lines overnight. Maybe even a bad batch from the brewery, it happens. All I can say with certainty is that the ale was sub-standard. 

Now begins the ordeal. Having to tell a bartender - or worse, a publican - that they have served you an 'off' pint is a bit like being a Newsnight presenter and trying to tell Nigel Farage that accepting millions of pounds of donations from convicted fraudsters and Singapore based crypto-billionaires might appear to some people to be just a tiny bit dodgy. You will be met with denial, anger, counter accusations, ridicule, and possibly demands for money. I wish this was only true of bad pubs, but it's also true of some very good ones, allow me to provide a couple of examples. 

It was a Sunday afternoon, and with little else on I decided to visit a local pub - it shall remain nameless - which usually had on a decent selection of cask ales. I ordered a pint of chocolate stout. I forget the brewery, but this is unimportant. I was served, I paid, and I took my stool. Upon the first sip, it was clear that something wasn't right. I couldn't quite put my finger on it though. There were no red flags like a vinegar aroma, but when you know, you know. I held the glass up to the bright Autumnal sunshine streaming through the window next to me. If you've ever done this with a pint of settled stout you will notice that it is not in fact black as it first appears, rather it will glow bright red. This however, did not. It was like trying to look through a bucket of collier's lungs. Mystery solved. It was the end of the barrel. I'll get this swapped over, I thought. 

I approached the bar with some trepidation, as I'd become accustomed to bartenders arguing the odds over stale beer. I got the attention of a bartender and explained that I had been served the end of the barrel - using the opacity of the glass as evidence. I was informed by the bartender that

"Stout is meant to be black."

After further argument they went to seek out the bar manager; a man who chooses to bear a back to front baseball cap even when indoors. Make of this what you will. He took a sip, studied the glass momentarily and loudly announced (although it wasn't clear to whom)

"Absolutely nothing wrong with it."

Disheartened, I wasn't quite possessed of enough certainty to argue. I returned to my stool and began to very gingerly sip from my suspect stout. It was going down slowly and I wasn't enjoying it at all (fnaar fnaar). About a third of the way down my glass and I glance over at the bar. My chosen ale has been taken off sale and a fresh one is being pulled through. So I had, as suspected, been served the dregs. I just walked home then. That night I suffered stomach cramps so intense and prolonged that I was rolling around in agony on the bathroom floor and was forced to call in sick the next day. I vowed at that moment that I would trust my judgement and never again accept a substandard beer.

By the time a similar trick was pulled at The (Welsh) Harp on Chandos Place I was ready to stand my ground. I mention the pub in this instance because anyone familiar with said hostelry will know exactly how difficult it is to actually use the bar, let alone return to it for a protracted argument. 

It's probably the best pub in the West End, so it's always busy, and the bar runs along the narrowest part of the pub. There is space only for one person at the bar, and one person behind them, either stationary and queuing or trying to squeeze through to reach the rest of the pub - but not both. The staff are usually excellent however, and service somehow manages to be fairly brisk.

I got my pint of pale ale (possibly a Bristol Beer Factory) and returned to my chums standing on the street because it's London. I took my first gulp (long day) and it was immediately apparent that the beer was dead. It was mouthfeel as much as flavour, it felt soapy. I studied the glass; the head had already disappeared and there was no sign of any life on the walls. Flat as a witches tit. But much more expensive one would imagine. Given the costs involved there was no way I could let this stand.

I negotiated, once again, the rolling maul in front of the bar and as a stroke of luck was able to get hold of the bartender who had originally served me. I very succinctly explained that the beer was off, and that I wished to exchange it for another which I specified. A simple enough request you might have thought. But I must shock you dear reader, simple it proved not to be for a drawn out and repetitive argument ensued! The key bone of contention was thus; as my new ale was being pulled, a card machine was placed in front of me which I studiously ignored. If only I could do this every time a card reader was placed in front of me demanding £7.60 for a pint. When the bartender realised that I was not proffering my card, an exchange of views began. The bartender insisted that I must pay for my replacement pint. I insisted that I must not, as I had been served a beer that was spoilt. The bartender insisted that it wasn't their fault if I didn't like the beer. I explained that it wasn't a case of not liking the beer, it was that I had been given a substandard product and wished to exchange it at no extra cost. After a few rounds of this I began to attempt to explain the Consumer Rights Act (2015) and the alchemic cask conditioning process of  Real Ale but my barkeep got bored of waving a card machine in my face and went off to have a very brief conflab with the bar manager who immediately decreed that I was in the right. 

You may ask dear reader why I do not simply request a taster of ale given the risks involved when ordering a full pint, as most pubs are willing to provide this service. Well to pose such a question would be utterly amateurish of you. In most pubs a taster will get you a shot glass containing the most parsimonious dribble that the publican can get away with. The beer will have been sat in the beer engine since it was last pulled through. It will be at room temperature, which in a busy establishment in summer could be in the high twenties. The amount poured will not be enough to tell you anything useful about the quality of the ale by sight. The shape of the glass and the complete lack of agitation that you would normally have when a pint or even half pint is poured make it difficult to get any aroma from the sample. But more to the point: if you ask for a taster, are given a sticky plastic shot glass and thimble of twiggy hot beer, and decide that you can't immediately detect any major fault in that sample and order a pint, and that pint turns out to be undrinkable for whatever reason - good fucking luck getting that swapped. You might as well ask for a Holy Grail full of Koh-i-noor diamonds. 

I've been taught this lesson time and time again. These days, if I'm given a beer that's stale I stand my fucking ground. Yet I still dread the imminent exchange - which takes us back to Richmond upon Thames. 

I returned to the bar and informed the member of staff that I wished to change my beer. It probably sounded something like this:

"Hi, I'd like to change that please, it's off."

This should be enough, but sadly it's not. Now there needs to be a debate, which I'm starting to wonder is a bit performative. Like the scene in Life of Brian where the market trader refuses to let Brian buy a beard without haggling for a while first.

"Hmm... Can I ask what you think is wrong with it?"

Not "What's wrong with it?" but what I think is wrong with it. Trying to sow doubt. Implying that whether or not the beer is stale is a matter of opinion rather than something objective and probably measurable if I had the correct lab equipment with me. Nice try. I explained my reasons, as already listed earlier in the article, in no uncertain terms.

"Hmm... It did only go on yesterday."

This is irrelevant. A barrel of yak's piss may have only gone on in the last five minutes, I still wouldn't fucking drink it.

"Hmm... No one else has mentioned anything."

Also irrelevant. Who knows, perhaps the people happily imbibing the ale enjoy spending their Sundays firing rusty water through the eye of a needle at fifty paces. Each to their own. I don't. Unless it gets me out of attending a family gathering. 

"Hmm... Have you had any St Austell beers before?"

Okay, so this was a new one on me. Where to begin.

1. As noted in a separate article, there was a period of my life where at any given moment my body mass was about 20% Tribute.

2. I'm being asked about a Cornish brewery that makes mostly cask or bottle conditioned pale ales in the traditional English style. This beer isn't supposed to be some 800 year old Trappist masterpiece, or some funky Flanders farmhouse saison. Perhaps since I was last in Kernow St Austell pivoted entirely to lambics, geuze, grissettes, weizendoppelbock, fruited gose and rauchbier. Maybe they now brew with wild yeast in open-sided barns and produce oxidised beers from open wooden fermenters made from pieces of Noah's ark with a dead rat in every vat. But I suspect not.

3. Why would that even fucking matter?

I didn't say any of the above. I just said 

"Yes."

In quite a wearied tone. 

"Hmm... Well. On this occasion..."

And I was poured a pint of lager. 

This is why, every time I go to a pub now, I think long and hard about whether I want to try the cask ale. What day is it? Early in the week, forget it. What time of day? Before people have left the office - no chance. Is it busy? What's the ABV? Am I in the mood for another tedious fucking argument? I never thought I'd be writing this, but I'm increasingly finding that life's too short for Real Ale.