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In keeping with the post I made earlier, I figured I would follow up on the Anheuser-Busch/InBev saga. The AP reports that A-B has rejected the $46 billion offer InBev has put up for the company, stating that the Belgo-Brazilian brewing giant was not taking into account the value of Anheuser-Busch brands and their market presence.
As previously mentioned, the Busch family has little control over the actual sale, as InBev is expected to come back with another offer aimed squarely at the shareholders, who have the ultimate say in the matter. Rather than a defiant gesture to remain an American brand, this seems like a ploy by the shareholders to squeeze more money out of InBev in order to line their pockets. Business as usual.
Part of being an international brand is actually becoming international. I see parallels between the British beer market and our own in this respect. Many of their largest breweries, some with distinctly British branding, are or have previously been owned by foreign/multinational companies. Sure, this is happening all over, but notice the nationalistic American ties to Budweiser, just as Scottish & Newcastle had its own, despite having operations around the globe. And while I’m not much concerned as to whether Anheuser-Busch remains independent or joins the ranks of InBev (I’m sure they’ll all be just fine when the day is through), it does make for some interesting “what if?” scenarios for the future, especially after taking a look at the European beer market as a whole.
After a couple days’ recovery time from my medical misfortune in Prague, I was back on the beer horse. The only problem was, I had no idea where to find good beer in Budapest, and my internet access was so scant, I had only a brief window of time to post a “see you in a week or so” message on this here blog. Still, I did what I could.
As an aside, this trip has made me view this blog as more of a collection of experiences for myself, rather than feeling like I’m writing with everyone else taking a look. If that happens, and you dig it, then so be it. Regardless, I’m starting to feel more tuned into a life with good beer rather than good beer as life. Feel me? Who knows, I could be back to nerding it up in a week, but there are so many things going on at the moment that beer can only take up so much of my time.
Back to the story. So we went to a restaurant called Citadella, high above the city, looking out on Budapest all lit up at night. We were on the hilly side, the original Buda, and Pest was once the market town on the opposite, flat side of the river. They merged, hence, Budapest.
Anyway, the beer at the restaurant was decent enough, but I didn’t indulge. The following night, I made it a point to order something tasty with my free time there. We went and toured the city, stopping at Fisherman’s Bastion, another breathtaking view on high where you could see Parliament in all of its spired glory, and some great ice cream to beat the heat of the afternoon. Not to mention the girl serving the scoops was fantastically gorgeous in that distinctly Hungarian way. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense, but if you were there, you’d understand.
After crossing a few magnificently designed bridges, we ended up on the main drag of the Pest side, where countless shops and street vendors invited unsuspecting tourists into buying useless knick-knacks and, what I imagined to be knock-off soccer jerseys. Our group would have none of that (at least until one of our friends fawned over these psychedelicly painted ceramic mushrooms… I have no excuse for him), so we sauntered over to the nearest outdoor cafe to order some drinks. There was a regional beer available there, which turned out to be nothing more than not-Heineken. I was a little beat from walking around in the balmy air, so I drank it. No notes, no poetic sermon on it or gloomy damnation for the product; it hit the spot and that was that.
The restaurant we ate at later was actually located not too far from Fisherman’s Bastion. After climbing a few hills, we realized where we were. Five of us dined out, and I, being the vegetarian I am, ordered the cucumber salad. Little did I know that it was all cucumber in a light, barely noticeable oil. I drank Budvar Dark and didn’t say a word about it. I was just happy to be in the company of good people and quality libations. It was one of those nights where you felt right at home, even in a foreign country; one where some risque humor was met with laughter rather than contempt from the girls. Everyone was running on little sleep, but having a blast. The exhaustion never seemed to wear us down, only make our jokes that much funnier.
When the five of us returned, there was a bit of shuffling in the group. We lost a couple, gained a couple, and headed off to infamous Moscow Square. Moscow Square was a bar, and one of the few in the area that stayed open late enough for us late-night Westerners to let loose. The place was friggin’ empty, but we didn’t care. It was a bungalow-style building, mostly wooden with plastic coverings opened up so the night air could breeze through. The Stanley Cup playoffs were on, and we got the DJ to play Daft Punk. He said all he had was electronic music, and if I had to hear the synth-pop German-techno stuff again, I thought I’d have an aneurysm. At least the ol’ Daft Punk rock it out.
So, some more not-Heineken and, though only being there for just over an hour, we closed the place up. The ability to get out early hurt out enjoyment of the nightlife, but we managed the best we could. Later in the trip we were better able to adapt, after the days packed with scheduled events had ended.
Arriving back at the hotel around midnight, everyone was ready to hit the hay. As was I, until I heard a strange noise coming from the hotel bar, which was supposed to be closed. I look over, and there are several older people, had to be in their 50s+, wrapping up a drinking song. For some reason, I felt compelled to go over and see what it was all about. Then I spotted my buddy on the trip, who would disappear at night, sometimes returning the next morning when the group was leaving for important functions. Somehow, he always found the after-hours spots, or something interesting to do late-night without actually dying. He beckoned me to come over and meet his new friends.
Irish. They were singing Irish drinking songs. Now, I’ve picked up a few tunes in my day, and this group from the Emerald Isle, whose itinerary nearly mirrored ours, welcomed me in by offering me a beer and letting me belt away. They were quite impressed that an American would know such a variety of tunes, and we all had a great time making a ruckus in the hotel lobby. These were a wily bunch: they knew the place closed at midnight, so they ordered several beers, wines, and spirits right before closing time that sat on the bar, waiting for anyone to walk up and swig. I recall that night fondly, and am inspired to put on a little “Wild Rover” and reminisce.
The next morning, we were heading back to Vienna to say goodbye to half our group, who were headed home, while the rest of us would trek to Venice, but not without a goodbye ceremony first.
The Onion has a brief American Voices section devoted to the efforts to prevent Anheuser-Busch from being bought out by InBev. Good stuff.
The night started, interestingly enough, with a beer from California, and just so happened to end with a beer from Massachusetts, appropriate for a showdown between the Boston Celtics and the LA Lakers in Game 6 of the NBA Finals. Call it fate, happenstance, or me just getting through my dwindling stockpiles. Whatever it was, it was tasty.
But, to be fair, I must say that the Californian beer contained fresh hops that had been flown in from New Zealand. Sierra Nevada’s Southern Hemisphere Harvest Ale was an enjoyably quaffable libation, but it only stood in its North American cousin’s long shadow. While I absolutely loved their Harvest Ale, this one paled in comparison. Sorry I can’t be more helpful than that, my mind was elsewhere at the time. (Hint: Celtics breaking away with the lead)
As the glass emptied, Boston only got that much better. Taking a commanding 30-point lead, the Celtics entered the second half with confidence. Toward the end of the fourth quarter, with a win and an NBA Title looming, it was time to crack open a beer that was gifted to me by my buddy Ed: Harpoon’s 100 Barrel Series Weizenbock, Session 21.
Since this was the championship beer, I took some time to savor this one, and bask in a glorious Celtics victory. About a centimeter of soft white head formed over top of a deep ruby- and russet-colored body, which was transparent when held to light. A rather clean caramel and molasses bouquet presented itself with a hint of fig.
On the palate, it opened up to a more noticeable, yet balanced hop character, with the notes in the nose making an appearance on the tongue up front. There was a sugary, almost Belgian trait, and from the hop side of the coin, it washed out fairly cleanly toward the finish, slightly dry. Clove-like spice came to the fore as the beer warmed and showed another degree of complexity.
With the Celtics gaining that insurmountable lead and ultimately clinching the title, no other beer would suffice. It may not have been the most astounding selection, but like most Harpoon brews, it was reliable, not to mention incredibly sippable. Enough malt with a delicately hopped profile was just what I needed for a proper celebration.
Our visit to Prague was to be the pinnacle of my beery travels in Central Europe. What with the first annual Czech Beer Festival kicking off, the chance to meet acclaimed writer and beer blogger Evan Rail, and all the wonderful Czech lagers I could handle.
The ride there from Vienna, though, was emphasized with a somber note. We had the privilege of visiting Mauthausen concentration camp, one of the last to be liberated by Allied forces in World War II. A particularly sunny and mild day in the idyllic pastoral setting of the village of Mauthausen only served to highlight the horrors that occurred behind the large stone walls of the camp. It was hard to imagine that such brutality took place there, nestled in such serene surroundings. The details here are best left for another discussion, but the visit was a rather poignant glimpse into the past, and one that I think everyone should experience at some point in their lives.
When we arrived at the hotel in Prague, spirits had lifted a bit and it was time to explore the city on our first night in town. After getting a map from the front desk and making a lame attempt to hit on the attractive clerk helping me out, I plotted my course for the Prague Fairgrounds, preparing for the following night. I even had enlisted some friends to accompany me, who wanted to see what all the fuss regarding Czech beer was about. So I called up Evan and asked for some quick recommendations for places nearby the hotel (should’ve bought the book!), but he was kind enough to mention a few spots, Budvarka sounding the most enticing. We planned to meet up the next day in the afternoon, the start of the Fest.
Budvarka is a restaurant and pub in Prague (one of two) that serves exclusively Budvar beer, the unpasteurized stuff. They’ve got several selections of their line to choose from, as the place is owned by the brewery, and was quite well-appointed. The place looked immaculate, with shiny brass and polished wood features at the front bar, and plenty of table settings in the back. The four of us grabbed a table and began to order. We were waiting for another group to arrive, so we had a couple different Budvars (their Pale and Premium Dark Lager), and then they showed up. Now it consisted of about ten people, and I anticipated wrapping up the night there so I could try two other selections.
And then we got the bill. The total came out to 591 Czech Koruna, which seemed pretty steep, until I saw the Euro equivalent on the bill: around 24 Euros! Seeing as how everyone there had at least one beer, that was an incredibly cheap bill. The recommendation proved worthy, but I had a thirst for the other tastes of the town, and was hoping to get a condensed version the next day.
When I woke up, my throat was swollen and I had trouble speaking. During the previous night’s jaunt, I was strolling around town in a short-sleeved polo shirt in the damp, misty weather. Other people on the trip had already caught the same thing, partially due to the changes in climate we experienced, so I knew I made the mistake of thinking I’d be fine. I had to call Evan up the next day to cancel.
The one part of the trip that I wanted more than anything for myself, and I had to be sidelined for it! Although the pharmacist was extremely helpful, and the day I spent in bed help me recuperate, it was all for naught. We boarded the bus for Budapest the next morning, spending less than a day and a half in Prague. I hope to return someday on my own time, and really get a taste for that enchanting city.
Brewery Ommegang hails from Cooperstown, New York and is renowned for their outstanding reproductions of classic Belgian ale styles, so much so that Duvel Moortgat purchased the business outright in 2003. Months ago, I picked up their Ommegeddon offering, a self-styled “Funkhouse ale with Brettanomyces.” With summertime just around the corner, I’m ready to hit the saisons full force, but thought this one might be good to sit down with and mull over.
Only about half the glass, if that, can be filled with actual liquid. I should’ve known by the loud popping sound the cork made as I yanked it out of the top of the bottle. The densely-packed, brilliant white head billows up quickly and maintains a solid presence on top of the muted gold color of the beer itself.
Maybe it’s just an unconcious association, but when smelling the beer, it reminds me a lot of the great Duvel himself; there’s that blonde ale grainy aroma, with the unmistakeable scent of sugar that lends just enough sweetness to be delicious, and not cause a cavity. The subtle fruitiness of its Belgian cousin brings to mind pear and apple, and I detect a hint of spice. Over top, however, is the barnyard funk of Brett, which in this instance reminds me of hay and freshly mown grass, like being out in the country. That’s perfect, because it’s what the style is famous for, actually being brewed in small barnyards out in the countryside.
As for the flavor, it was more Hennepin (their own saison-style beer) than Duvel, but that should be the case. On the palate, the sweetness and pale malt characteristics don’t kick in until midway through, followed by a funky cameo by the Brett, but nothing too outrageous (which, considering the artwork on the label is a mushroom cloud, I did not expect).
That’s why this beer is enjoyable though, enough of a funky twist with well-rounded flavors that satisfy the tastebuds rather than injure them. There’s enough complexity, what with a hint of fresh fruit, which again was reminiscent of apples or pears, and a slightly spicy finish. This was buoyed by a creamy texture to the body, which provided an ample stage where these notes could play. The label also advised that this should be laid down for 6 months at least, and it’s been about a year, as it also indicates that this was Batch #1 brewed in June of 2007.
While I’m not sure if this was just a flight of fancy for Brewery Ommegang or if they have future plans for the usage of Brettanomyces, I found this to be worthy of a good review and even better for a warm, almost-summer night.
If pride comes before the fall, what comes before the pride?
I’m sure by now many of you have heard the recent talk of InBev’s $46.4 billion takeover bid for Anheuser-Busch, or at least rumblings thereof. Well, it’s officially been offered, so we’ll wait and see what happens.
The New York Times mentions that rising material costs are a concern, and that by expanding and consolidating, these commercial brewers may be able to temper the effects of these price increases. I’m sure the recent acquistion of Scottish & Newcastle by Heineken and Carlsberg, and the joint venture between SABMiller and MolsonCoors have also raised some eyebrows. The article also adds that craft beer is cutting into their market, or at least slightly chipping away at it, and that wine is also luring consumers away from industrial domestic beer. Nothing new, but I think it bears repeating.
I anticipate that A-B, with half the US beer market (if not more), and an ever-growing global presence will not be swayed by this maneuver. They may work out some sweetheart deals with InBev as far as distribution and access to markets goes, but I doubt the ol’ A-B boys would be willing to be bought out entirely.
However, I could be wrong. According to the article, there are setbacks to A-B’s corporate structure as far as voting goes, and less-than-stellar stock performances may have shareholders singing a different tune than August A. Busch, IV. Even uncle Adolphus has been overheard saying, in effect ”that any decision about the company should be based on shareholder value, not nostalgia.”
It’d be nice to see a little nostalgia in an effort to retain a massive, family-owned corporation. Only problem is, the portfolio comes before the pride, because, in A-B’s case, that’s where the real power lies.
Wednesday came, and with it, beer.
Well, that, and a whole host of adventures, for that particular May 21st was the night of the UEFA Champions League Final. As much as I like Premier League football (soccer), the UEFA Champions League is for the best club teams in Europe; this was a match between two English sides in the Final for the first time, and it was two teams I happen to despise.
Nevertheless, a few of us had scouted out a place to have a drink and watch the match the day before. The best we came up with was an Australian-themed bar. Although I hadn’t seen their tap list, I’d heard they had plenty of screens inside the place. That afternoon, I felt like I had to explore Vienna more, and couldn’t bring myself to patronize such an establishment. Instead, after some independent sight-seeing with another small group, we ended up at a fine dining restaurant/winehouse.
Okay, so sue me. I’m not a big fan of wine. Austria has exceptional wines, or so I hear. But dammit, I was there for the beer! The meal was delicious, as was the water I sipped with it, but after we left, it was time to find a venue that had some suds already.
Club Excess. I think that’s what it was called. Yeah. Need I say more? There was a bar upstairs, and a dance floor downstairs, both of which had the loveliest sounds of electronic music. Let me just say, this trip was not in need of any “excess” German techno. Anyway, it was ladies’ choice. But its one saving grace was the fact that they had Hofbrauhaus Traunstein on tap. It was beer. Decent enough.
We moved along the lovely, historic Viennese streets in search of another place to grab a drink, perhaps one without such lively synth music. About a block down the road, we find “Swizzl”, or some such nonsense, which sounded worse than Excess. As we peaked in to take a look, I immediately pick up on something that the women in our party didn’t: the blatant ogling. But it was more than your average drool-and-stare; these guys looked intense, and there were plenty of them. The gents at the bar all had Chelsea shirts on, but the ones doing the gazing were standing at the perimeter wall, and didn’t don the team colors.
I put two and two together: boots, braces, Harrington jackets, some a little more sharply dressed… these weren’t your average football fans, and they instantly clocked us as Americans, sizing up the men in our party next. This surprised me, in Austria of all places, on a night where two English teams are playing in Moscow. Headhunters in Vienna? After suggesting we find another place due to the ‘limited seating’, I looked around intently, rolled up my jacket sleeves looking the part, and headed for the exit. I hear they can smell fear. Good thing I was wearing deodorant.
Several blocks away we settled into a cafe that was once an English language bookstore, but had been converted into an English-speaking restaurant and bar. Don’t remember the name, but cozy as all hell, and with the Final on a projector screen. I had a Laphroaig 15-year to start, and the beer came in the form of large bottles of Stiegl. I’ve always appreciated the Stiegl I’ve had here in the States, and this wasn’t a letdown at all. The letdown was having to see either Man United or Chelsea win.
That night, when we got back to the hotel, we were clamoring for one more drink, just a night-cap to properly end the evening we spent out and about. Tomorrow we’d be cramped on the bus, en route to Prague, so we could allow ourselves a little more time carousing before bed. We ended up at the saddest bar in all of Vienna, just a block or so from our hotel. I ordered a round of Wieselburger Gold in bottles, seeing as how that looked like the most appealing option they had available. A sad beer for a sad bar, old drunks dancing about, singing along to US Billboard hits from the 1970s that had been covered and had the lyrics translated into German.
And I loved it! Hey, it beat listening to more techno, right?
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