retiredmartin

March 2025. Chisinau. Moldova.

Our Moldovan tour guide guide Vasili (“call me Les”), a chap in his 30s with a colourful history that took in Ashford (Middlesex not Kent) was a good lad, though with a cavalier attitude to the Highway Code. His partner in the tour company was less than impressed with the muddied car he brought back.

On the journey I asked him insightful questions about Chisinau. “Where do the Old Boys go for a pint ?“.

I was hoping for some tips on corner spit-and-sawdust bars serving the local lager with free ashtrays full of walnuts, but instead he named Craft Baza, and said he liked the tomato gose.

And so it was, on arriving back at our hotel at 5pm and raiding the complimentary cookies, my only thought was to head back to Alt Ceva for tomato gose. Despite four glasses of wine that afternoon.

I won’t say service at Chisinau’s top craft bar (there were a twenty-eight check-ins on Untappd that night, that’s how we judge these things) was suerly, but it was certainly brusque.

I asked for a small gose and got a large. I asked for an espresso from the posh machine and got a blank look.

But I still want to be back NOW, drinking this remarkable beer, which tastes more Bloody Mary than sour.

Probably one of your five a day, and I sobered up immediately.

I was glad I had a pint, and when I saw other folk drinking little espressos I summoned the courage to go back and demand “Cafe”. That worked. Like beer, coffee is (almost) a universal language.