Guest Blog: Bruce Pascoe
Bruce Pascoe is an award-winning Australian writer, editor and anthologist. His books include Shark, Ruby-eyed Coucal, Ocean, Earth and Nightjar. Bruce has also written a number of non-fiction works, the latest include Convincing Ground, a Wathaurong language dictionary and The Little Red, Yellow, Black Book. His novel, Bloke, was published in 2009. The children’s novel, The Chainsaw File, was published by Oxford in 2011. Dark Emu, Fog, a dox and Imperial Harvest are imminent.
Hopping Around Canada
After fourteen hours on Air Canada from Australia and a self imposed drought it was with alarming enthusiasm that I fronted the bar of Vancouver’s Georgian House Hotel and, after casting a glance at the unfamiliar taps, chose to go safe and ordered a pint of Stella. Bliss. The second pint was even better. The Jade Emperor in Chinatown didn’t look too promising but the BBQ duck was the size of a goose and superb. Once again natural conservatism prevented me from drinking anything more adventurous than Moosehead, but as it helped me survive Toronto in 1986 I owed it respect. There was a special on offer for 500ml of Yungshin or something similar. I wasn’t tempted.
Next day we boarded the Rocky Mountaineer to Banff. The Mountaineer staff were on strike so we had to pass the picket line to get to the train where the new staff greeted us; strike breakers, just what any good socialist despises.
Needless to say I was anticipating the evening beer with even greater enthusiasm than the previous 17, 146 days of my amber research. The scabs (Australian for strike breaker) served a Whistler Pale Ale and later a Lager. I don’t know if it was the extreme tension my labour principles were under or whether, in fact, Whistler is a very good drop. I enjoyed it immensely.
First night, Kamloops, a town whose only grip on reality is to relieve Mountaineer tourists of their cash. Nevertheless the draft Heineken in the pub revived me and just as well because the eating experience at the Mongolian BBQ was eccentric and manic but surprisingly palatable. The music, however, was so loud I was too nervous to drink. Back on the Mountaineer next day I re-introduced myself to the Whistler and later that night in Banff was involved in a round of drinks with an American I felt sure I didn’t know but the beverages were all quite fine.
While working in Banff I maintained my stamina with a slab of Moosehead and several sorties into Keith’s and the last bottle of Prosecco on the mountain. They don’t serve it after summer. Don’t ask me why, I’m from Australia.
On return to Vancouver it was back to the Jade restaurant in Chinatown. This time I took up the offer of the Yungshin 500ml special and after 38 ml decided this was a mistake. Brewing to the Chinese is like cooking to the English. A mystery.
After some reassurance at the Georgian Court’s brace of taps it was on to Vancouver Island and Port Alberni. Port Alberni is the birthplace of the beverage we now call beer. I don’t know this for a fact but PA is the second ugliest city I have ever seen and I’m just presuming the incentive to produce forgetting juice would be higher here than anywhere else.
The closest restaurant was the Jaded on Third Avenue but one glance at the patrons staring morbidly at the TV news had us moving along to the next which was the Bavarian. It looked closed but we pushed on the door and it swung inwards and there was a gush of light and laughter and we thought we’d stumbled on the last of Hitler’s Youth, but it was just a restaurant that specialized in strudels and schnitzels and sauerkraut and anything else that started with ‘S’, thus the naming of the SS I suppose, but I’m not much good at history so it could be wrong.
The dumpling waitress was keen for me to try the Natureland lager, and being from Australia I was too polite to refuse, not to say scared. It was OK but then I tried the Hermann’s Dark lager. It is produced on the island and tastes like smoke. It is dense and dark and particularly seductive. I had two.
Next day, having escaped Port Alberni’s understanding of architecture, we travelled on the Frances Barkly to Bamfield where they prefer their stores shut. If they’re open you are urged to purchase and piss off. A little flustered I avoided the Buds and Heinekens and Molsons and grabbed six of the only cans I didn’t recognize . And so I was introduced Granville Island’s Cypress Honey Lager. If my eyes had been good enough to recognize the word cypress I would have avoided it like a month in Port Alverni. Several dramatic interventions with bottles of Retsina had made me allergic to anything coniferous. I couldn’t even sit on a pine bench without feeling bilious. That’s what I always told my football coach anyway.
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