One day you might find yourself standing at the platform of Tivoliparken in the small Swedish town of Kristianstad, looking across the railway line at this pub. You’ll think that looks like a typical British bar. A good place to have a beer. And it is.
It’s both a bar and hotel - guests checking in and out through the bar. Inside: dark wood, low lighting, that slightly serious pub mood. The kind of place raucous Liverpool fans would flood after a win.
There is beer. All manner of beer. Which is wasted on someone like me for I’m no beer person. I don’t know my pilsners from my lagers. Beer, to me, is just beer.
Thankfully, there was the barman- Nicholas, a Swede with perfect English that sounded faintly British. He introduced himself as a barman who is also a computer nerd.
“What you need,” he said, “is something with flavour. Fruity. Slightly sweet. I think I know what you’ll like.”
He returned with an IPA in a small glass - the kind that feels like it should come with permission if you’re underage. I took a sip.
“It tastes like muratina,” I told him.
He stared back blankly.
I explained the Kikuyu brew. He listened politely, without much interest then said, “Well… this is an Indian Pale Ale.” Which, as it turns out, has nothing to do with India.
Back in the days of the British Empire, British brewers made beer for soldiers and traders in India. The journey by sea was long, and beer spoiled easily.
So they added more hops, a natural preservative, which made the beer survive the trip - and people liked the taste. That became the IPA. “It’s strong, though,” he warned.
“The hops.”
I enjoyed it. It rushed to my head sluggishly, made me feel light in the head and heart. Great evening light, slightly warm, streamed through the pub windows. Outside, which was still biting cold by my tropical standards. Amazingly, lots of people sat out on the terrace in that cold, in their sunglasses, drinking beer and watching trains come and go.
