My first experience with homebrewing was back in Los Angeles in the early 1990s. I was meeting up with mates just before heading out to a Björk concert. While waiting to leave, the owner of the apartment, a guy called James, offered me a beer: “This is my brew,” he said, and then proceeded to show me a boxful of bottles tucked away in his closet.
James’ beer hadn’t been particularly remarkable, but it left me with an inexplicable aftertaste of personal envy (and so it was then that the homebrewer’s seed was unwittingly planted, buried deep within me). Over the years I’d see beer making kits for sale, but always resisted purchasing one somehow insisting “real” beer couldn’t possibly be made that way.
Fast-forward to spring 2010, at the apartment of my colleague, Neil. I’d just finished a four-day beer making seminar; Neil invited me over to watch him brew. Pots and pans and silicone tubes littered his kitchen as I gawked impressed by how uncomplicated making beer appeared to be. I took copious notes, encouraging myself to give it a go.
Fast-forward nearly exactly one year and a number of brews later, and I’ve since become an undeniable homebrew maniac. In a few hours I’ll be at Tokyu Hands, shopping for yet more pots and pans and silicone tubes of my own. Yesterday, I spent the day back at Neil’s place, again to watch his brewing process and talk beer. I learned more about carbonating kegs, stir plates and refractometers, and Neil introduced me to force fermenting yeast starters. I took pictures (and more copious notes) as he walked me through his latest Blonde Ale-Kölsch hybrid boil.
And so here he is, my Obeer-Wan Kenobie, the bloke who kicked my ass into homebrewer gear.
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