retiredmartin

October 2025. Bucharest.

Six hours on the Bucharest tourist trail, time for a beer.

Luckily for Mrs RM, a brand new bar awaited yards from our coach drop-off.

Seven years on from our first trip, the capital has lost a couple of Old Town craft bars, including one with London Pride on handpump, denying BRAPA of a possible trip to Bucharest when CAMRA sees sense and brings back overseas cask outlets.

The Mikkeller bar has gone as well, too expensive for even the Bucharest elite, but there’s a few newbies like decade-old Ground Zero’s tap, which has the feel of a Beermoth or Old Shoe about it.

Not a pub for the Mudg(i)es of course, even with Michelangelo on the ceiling.

You’ll get the idea from the beer names and strengths.

I’ve described service in eastern Europe as “efficient if not effusive“, a line I’m proud of, and the service was a bit wordless and perfunctory to start, with a bonus telling-off for not tapping my Monzo card properly. “You should know that” he said, though I couldn’t be sure if that meant “that’s good to know” or “You really ought to have known that already“. Perhaps I should fret and ask Mumsnet.

I’d also been chastised in front of the tour group for sneaking off on the Parliamentary tour in vain hope of an Untappd check-in at the staff café (fingers were wagged by Germans, but then they stop at red lights at pedestrian crossings, so can’t be trusted).

But he lightened up a bit (“Hey man“) as it became obvious I wasn’t just choosing beers called Imperial F**k, and the visit perked up immeasurably with the visit of some Young Boys.

Three mates following their team from Bern around Europe (and Birmingham, next month), we stayed on to talk travel and pubs and Brum for half an hour over a Pantera soundtrack.

It was the best of decisions, it was the worst of decisions, as double IPAs led to cherry sours and imperial stouts.

Our new Swiss friends looked on as I decanted the stout into the IPA glass, either in horror or wonder.