There’s Always Something to Do If You’re Not Averse to Day Drinking
There’s Always Something to Do If You’re Not Averse to Day Drinking
New Zealand Pale Ale in Moscow
Heavy, almost tropical late summer rain forced us to abandon our plans of meandering around Gorky Park. Still peaky from last night’s intake of Russian imperial stout, I feigned disappointment. It was my second-to-last day in Moscow, and as a first-time visitor, I had failed. Kremlin line—too long. Ostankino—turned away by grumbling guards for arriving late. Red Square—fenced off and full of scaffolding ahead of a military festival.
Antipodeans aren’t averse to day drinking. I needed only a gentle nudge from my friend Nikita to get us out of the downpour and into Vanya Nalyot, a craft beer bar hidden in the city’s former Red October compound. Now a red-brick maze of bars and galleries, the factory once churned out some of the Soviet Union’s most loved chocolate bars, including those bearing the ubiquitous face of Alyonka, a plump-cheeked girl wearing a floral shawl.
Nikita recommended we try a few from Salden’s, a craft brewery based in Tula. Hailing from a city better known for producing samovars and honey-laden gingerbread, they brew an aggressively creative range of beers, from Tomato Gose to Sour Ale with Sea Buckthorn.
Weeks of traveling had worn me down, and in a moment of rare patriotic weakness, a New Zealand Pale Ale appealed to me amid the Belgian Brune and Carrot Cream Ales. One mouthful and the fruity aftertaste of Rakau hops, likely grown in the sun-soaked tip of New Zealand’s South Island, buzzed in the back of my throat. My parents once spent a back-breaking summer there picking apples, an experience evidently tolerated only by downing huge jugs of lager at the local tavern.
It wasn’t the only taste of home I’d sipped in the Russian capital. On my first night, before heading to Red Square, we’d stopped for a drink at a slightly tacky bar on the Arbat. Suddenly the familiar faces of the All Blacks, New Zealand’s revered rugby team, grimaced at me mid-Haka from the label of a Russian-brewed American Pale Ale. Overly sweet for my tastes, I still chugged back the bottle in the name of diplomacy.
In Vanya’s, the hours started to bleed together. A French couple languidly played cards at the table next to us, while the barman’s bearded friends huddled around eating Chinese take-out. It felt like a lazy afternoon at a friend’s house rather than a bar walking distance from the Kremlin.
We drank a few more rounds, my growing hunger tempered by the smoky tang of chechil, an addictively salty Armenian string cheese. Popular in Russia as a bar snack, the chewy strands are reminiscent of dried squid.
Eventually, the rain faded to a mist and the tables around us emptied. Quiet filled the bar, signaling that uncomfortable lull between afternoon drinks and the start of the night session. I drained the warming remnants of my glass and we reluctantly headed outside, met by a bracing breeze flying off the Moskva. But we didn’t care. It wasn’t that far to the next bar.