The glorious EU-BILEE is nearly upon us! We're opening things up with a small taste of Cologne on Wednesday 1st June with the delightful Gaffel Kölsch on tap. Here's a quick run-down of what Kölsch is, how it's drunk and why any member of staff being rude to you is, in fact, just an expression of authentic local Köln culture.

Kölsch can also refer to the local dialect, but talking about beer as we are, it's a strictly protected style that has to be made within 30 miles of central Cologne to qualify for the name. The beer has to be pale, bright (not hazy), hoppy (by German standards), well-attenuated (lighter-bodied and dry finishing), between 4.4% and 5.2% ABV, brewed in accordance with the Reinheitsgebot (don't get me started), and most confusingly, top-fermented but cold conditioned.

This last part means that you can - should someone ever ask you whether Kölsch is a lager or an ale - simply reply "yes" and be correct. Ale yeasts are top-fermenting yeasts, ergo: Kölsch is an ale. However, it's then given time to mature (condition) at low temperature, which is what Germans might call lagering. We consider lager a catch-all term for a type of beer, while they consider it a technique. Kölsch might eschew lager yeasts, coming out of a different brewing tradition than the Bavarians, but it still takes advantage of the benefits of a slow, cool maturation to bring out a beautiful little local hybrid.

Digressions on brewing terminology behind us, what can you actually expect from your lovely glass of Kölsch? Well, it's fresh, pale, crisp, and an approachable 4.8%. It's slightly fruitier than a helles, and rather less austere or bitter than a pilsner. There's a little hoppy note to the aroma, but it's a cleaner finish than most pale ales can hope for. It is, in the best possible way, perfect drinking beer. You can enjoy sessions on it without finding your palate overwhelmed, but there are enough subtleties and nuances to keep things from getting stale.

A vital aspect to the proper enjoyment of Kölsch is in how it's presented. No crude litre steins here: instead, the beer is brought to you in delicate, narrow 200ml glasses, known as "stange". In a Cologne beerhouse, these glasses are rinsed out with cold water before a swift two-part pour, and then taken straight out to the punters to be drunk before the head can fade. Kölsch is not a beer to be drunk old or warm, so you have it in measures that allow you to enjoy it at its peak.

This leads on to the practicalities of drinking these delightful little glasses. No waiting to be served at the bar, no thank you. A barrel is tapped on the bartop, and waiting stange are quickly and expertly filled. The waiters take these freshly poured stange straight out on trays, automatically swapping anyone's empty glass for a fresh one. A quick mark on the coaster with a pen and they're on their way to the next thirsty patron. You've had enough? Put that coaster over your glass and they'll be over to settle up, based on the marks the coaster has accrued. Leave your glass uncovered and they'll just keep bringing you replacements. As long as you aren't inclined to fiddle nervously with your beer mat, it's marvelously simple and efficient.

And if you are an inveterate coaster fidgeter? Well, you'll get a crash course in the humour of the Cologne barman. Known as "kobes", their manner was pithily described by a friend as "those guys who are pricks to you for half an hour, then hilarious after that?" when I mentioned going to visit a few years ago. I never suffered so on my visit, but the humour definitely gets warmer the longer you're there. So, if Lee gives you the strong impression that he thinks you're a peabrain when you sidle in for that first delightful stange, he is merely trying to do honour to the traditions of his German peers.

So, Dunkel. An perennially underloved style over here, despite the recent upswing in interest in lagered beers, this is where you should look if you like the smooth clean lines of German brewing, but want a little more character. Darker and maltier than the pale lagered beers (Dunkel translates as German for "dark") you usually see. There is some divergence within the style, but you can expect something amber-to-dark-brown with the delightful body that Munich malt gives a beer. Alongside that colour is a gentle sweetness reminiscent of darker sugars balanced by fairly discreet hopping. The malt character here bridges everything from hearty brown bread, toast, biscuits, sugars and caramel light to dark, liquorice, cocoa and coffee. Don't be afraid of those latter flavours, this isn't porter or stout and those elements will be subtle, not dominant.

It makes the English race to the bottom when the big breweries moved to keg fifty or sixty years ago all the sadder, as Dunkel could almost be the path we didn't travel. Imagine top quality best bitters, brown ales, winter warmers or ESB translated into a German idiom, rather than the horror of Watney's Red Barrel et al. that CAMRA was brought into existence to rage against. Point is, this is drinking beer par excellence. Here are two examples we are very happy to be stocking for our current Oktoberfest doings:

Firstly, the Augustiner. Purveyor of an impeccable Lagerbier Hell, not to mention their Edelstoff and Oktoberfestbier, the brewery are what you might consider well-established, claiming roots back to 1328. With that history, you won't be surprised that they are an operation that does things properly. As such, their Dunkel is clean, classic and eminently drinkable.

A deep copper in the glass, the nose is fairly understated, but hints at malty bread, smooth dark sugars and a touch of herbal German hops. It drinks delightfully smoothly - growing layers of Demerara sugar, granary loaf, toffee, hints of cocoa and a balanced bitterness. The finish is clean, a delicate bitterness holding out over immediate sweet notes, before fading out to a backnote of dry caramel that invites another sip. For all that this description might make it sound rich, the body is light for the colour and strength (5.6%) and, in the grand German tradition, incredibly drinkable - I'd knocked through half the glass before I realised that I should be taking notes!
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The second offering comes from Schönramer. Less well known over here, and with a mere two and a half centuries of experience, they've a deeply loyal following for their beers, which adhere rigorously to the edicts of quality and purity that the Bavarians have somehow read into the Reinheitsgebot, a glorified bit of weights and measures regulation. Part of the respect in which they are held is due to the quiet attention to detail and exacting standards of their brewmaster Eric Toft, a rare American brewer to be held in high regard by his German peers. If you see their Pils or Hell around, rest assured that it's the good stuff.

Slightly darker than Augustiner's Dunkel, the Schönramer has a ruby-chestnut hue in the glass, with a lovely polished clarity. The nose is slightly sweeter, with hints of cinder toffee. It drinks, again, deeply easily - the body is lighter than expected, edging you effortlessly towards the promised toffee notes, with dark caramel, a tweak of liquorice and and some cocoa notes coming in over the expected wholemeal bread malt base. It finishes comparatively dry, with a beautifully judged bitterness that naturally leads to the next mouthful.

Five Points are, by the novelty-addicted sugar-rush standards of the craft scene, a reassuring presence. They’ve been about since the heady days of 2013 and one of their lovely, warm, minimal labels says now, as it always has - “I don’t have to worry that this is going to be anything less than solid.” This might sound like I’m edging into faint praise, but in a brewing scene as delighted by novelty as ours can be, consistent quality should be applauded.

While their Best is also available in cask (and you can rest assured that you’ll enjoy it on draught), the bottled variant is a slightly different beast. We’ve currently got in the version hopped with Fuggles, a grand and storied hop that has, unfairly, fallen out of fashion.

Anyhow, you can expect to pour out a half litre of polished beer that glows a light, burnished copper, with a fine white head. The carbonation is a little higher than the cask variant, but still fine and gentle enough not to obscure subtleties. The body is lighter than you might think and crisp, with malt shading from biscuit to toffee, all a little honeyed. Hops, as mentioned before, are classic fuggles - coppery, a touch of mint-led herbal notes, some spice and a little earthiness. It has a clean finish, with the residual malt sweetness intertwined with a balanced bitterness that compels another sip.

As you might be guessing, we’re in recognisably classic bitter territory, and all the better for it. That said, it’s a little cleaner and brighter with that additional carbonation, making for a deeply refreshing drop this summer.. Should the heat and humidity be getting to you, a bottle of Best might just be the cure for what ails you.

Goes excellently with pizza (in this case an nduja/pepperoni and aubergine/parmesan split, if you were wondering).

I mean, really well.

I had intended to start talking about Burnt Mill (founded a few years ago in rural Suffolk, early hype status has translated into consistently excellent beer, with a confident touch on the hazy numbers) for context, maybe throw in an anecdote for interest and then reel you in with the tasting notes, but then I cracked open the can to go with a takeout pizza on a too-hot Sunday evening and was transported.

Given how fast it's selling, go grab one pronto, and then have it with slice of something good in the summer gloaming, just as temperatures are approaching bearable.

Oh, you actually want to know what it tastes of before sourcing some? Hmm, well, ok...
Dank notes, lemon/pineapple aromas.
Weed, citrus, hints of gooseberry and elderflower,  on a soft, but not heavy, body where the soft malt merges delightfully with melon and grape. A well-judged light bitterness comes in at the end, emerging from that earlier dankness. Repeat sips a necessity.

Balances well at the colder end of the normal drinking temperature range, so don't be abashed about having it straight from a cold fridge. As you might have guessed, pairs well with hearty food, like, I don't know, pizza?

Pastore are an outfit hailing from the famously hilly landscape of Cambridgeshire, second only to Flanders' vertiginous horizons. They're new to me, and focus on mixed-fermentation and sour beers, with some interesting winemaker collaborations and a recent brew with the similarly minded, and generally excellent, Little Earth Project.

Whilst fruited sours are delightful when done well, they also tend to be pretty straightforward - depending on the strength and what's added, you usually have an idea of what you'll get. Pastore have neatly upended such presumptions by switching out a standard ale yeast for the current brewing hotness, a kveik strain. Kveik is a loose family of yeasts unified mainly by the fact they've been harvested from Norwegian farmers' traditional brewing cultures. They've all sorts of unexpected properties, but as certain strains add lovely soft and tropical fruit notes, you see them being used in hazy IPAs (look up Lars Marius Garshol's blog - https://www.garshol.priv.no/blog/ - and accompanying book for a better explanation).

So, at the very least, this adds an element of surprise to my drink, but how is it? Well, it pours a soft, almost glowing, opaque purple-pink, with a white fluffy head that succumbs quickly.
The nose is both recognisably a fruited kettle sour, with fresh, lush blackcurrants and a tart edge, but there's a whole other element in there - almost beetroot sherbet - and hints of blueberry and a coppery note.

To drink, it feels remarkably full-bodied for its strength (4.3%) and acidity, with a decent carbonation keeping it spritzy. The fruit is immediately apparent, with a big hit of freshly picked blackcurrants rather than Ribena, but other elements come through - very ripe apricot, slightly underripe peach, watermelon, gooseberry and, at the finish, that beetroot hint comes through again as an earthy note. The lactobacillus culture gives you a lovely coolness, gooseberry fool on a hot day, and the finish is dry with a hint of raspberry pips.

I'm worried that my description might make it all sound a bit disco, but this is a really delightful spin on something that was getting a bit too familiar. Kveik has occasionally just been used as a gimmick or for the novelty, but here it adds a marvelous extra dimension.

Now, I'm just jealous that I've not been able to try out the Passionfruit and guava version the Folkestone branch had on tap...