AUTUMN FOOD AND WINE Beer
Eastern ales
Adam Zamoyski
THE FALL OF the Berlin Wall opened up new fields for tourists and culture-vultures, but it did little to excite the Western palate, Particularly where drink is concerned. As in so many other things, northern climes impose serious checks on bacchanalian pur- suits. Theonly beverages of real quality pro- duced in the region are the wondrous Tokay wines of Hungary, and in ages past the aristocracy of Eastern Europe used to pay well over the odds for all those Put- tonyos points. Minor gentry had to content themselves with the solid plonk of the Danubian principalities of Moldavia and Walachia (present-day Rumania) or the heavy reds of the Hungarian plain. Czechs and tradesmen drank beer. The peasants drowned their misery in vodka. In more aristocratic circles, vodka was red beyond the pale until quite recently by all except the Russians, who always loved it. Quite how disgusting this taste was considered is best shown by a description of a grand Muscovite embassy to Warsaw in 1635, written by a horrified Polish court dignitary. Once the treaty had been signed and sealed, the scrolls exchanged, the oaths sworn and the cruci- fixes kissed, the whole company adjourned for a banquet. But before this could begin, the Muscovite ambassador, Prince Alexis Mikhailovich Lvov, was ushered into a sep- arate chamber with his entourage, where they 'delighted their brutish throats with all manner of different flavoured fire-water'. The idea of anyone drinking vodka in the king's presence was quite out of the ques- tion. Grandees stuck to wine. This meant buy- ing up all the Tokay that was going and top- ping up with wine from France. Expense did not come into it. In the 17th century the Poles even imported Jesuit-produced wines from California — you could still savour half-bottles of 17th-century Californian White, a recherche alternative to sauternes, at Fukier's restaurant in Warsaw in the 1930s. Nobody touched German wines in Poland, considering them to be rather undistinguished and too thin. And a terri- ble misunderstanding occurred when a German ascended the Polish throne at the beginning of the 18th century. Augustus II (he of the Meissen porcelain) promptly founded a 'Society of the Enemies of Mod- eration', which sounded like fun. But it turned out to be no more than a confrater- nity - nity devoted to swilling all manner of alchohol in oceanic quantities. At one ball given by Prince Karol Radziwill in 1768, the English diplomat James Harris records that over a thousand bottles of champagne were drunk, as well as several dozen barrels of old Tokay. All this high living came to an end with the eclipse of Eastern Europe in the 19th ry, as well as the influence of the gen- eral embourgeoisement of the times. Vodka stole on to the trestle-table at hunting lunches, and eventually into the dining- room. Iced and downed in small shots, it is ry undeniably a salutary companion to nice greasy things such as caviare, herrings or smoked sausage. But vodka is only alcohol, and provided it is not made from wood shavings or old socks, its national origins hardly matter, although some people relish the slightly viscous oiliness of Stolichnaya. That leaves us with beer. In the past hun- dred years, gentlemen have certainly start- ed drinking beer in Eastern Europe, and this has given rise to some surprisingly good brands. I am no Campaign for Real Ale buff, but one thing that has always depressed me is the eclipse of good local brews in this country by the characterless standard lines of the large breweries, and then the flooding of the British market by the acidic offerings of Europe and the thin, metallic swills from America and else- where. The Mexican Sol may be very nice with an enchilada on the beach at Cancun, Tiger beer helps to put out the fire of a good thorn yum on a tropical night in Thai- land, but drinking them here is frankly non- sense. The beersof Eastern Europe are another matter, and their still somewhat tentative appearance on the British market is very welcome. The Czechs have always been a nationof beer-drinkers, and their ales are rightly famous. They produce the real Bud- weiser, fruity, delicate, and as far superior to its watery American namesake as it is possible to be. The other Czech product widely available in the country now is Pil- sner Urquell, with a strong, bitter taste, full-bodied and smooth. The Hungarians do not appear to export to this country, but, astonishingly, the Ukrainians do. Unfortunately, their Zhiguli r, and a bit o is soupy and sour, a bellyful. The Russians too have entered the British market with the Moscow-brewed August, but even the importer implied that it was not ry worth tasting. The Poles have been catching up fast, and they produce a wide range, from the robust dark ales of Gdansk to the crisp, sparkling Zywiec beer, distinguished not only for its taste, but also by the fact that it comes from the former Habsburg brewery — the 'Polish' Habsburgs, that is, the last of whom ended up in a concentration camp because he met the invading Germans in 1939 in his old Polish army uniform, and told them where they could stuff it. Anoth- er good all-round Polish beer is Okocim, fresh and light, but my own favourite is Lezajsk, full and fruity, as nourishing as any English local ale and as welcome on a cold winter evening as it is on a hot summer afternoon. These imports deserve to do well, far bet- ter than their Belgian or American com- petitors, but the chances are they won't. They have no snappy image, and their packaging does not go with baseball caps worn back to front or baggy designer suits and pony-tails. Nevertheless, several can be purchased at Ogden's and Thresher's; the Czech beers are even available at the Europa Market and Sainsbury's. The Polish beers can be found at Polish delicatessens and Polish clubs from Ealing to Manch- ester. The Russian and Ukrainian beers are imported by Beer International, who might be willing to supply bottles in large quanti- ties for sleigh rides and gypsy music evenings.
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