“A pint of Trad, please.”
At The Greyhound, a sleepy village pub nestled deep in the Kentish countryside, 40 miles south of London, the bartender seldom gets asked for much else. Casting my eye across the wooden bar, I also settle on a pint of Larkins Brewery’s 3.5% Traditional Ale, or "Trad," as it's best known. The beer is brewed on a farm less than three miles down the road.
The first sip is all tawny, earth-like aroma. The condition is perfect—bright, clean, and with a slight tingle on the tongue.
“They know when it doesn’t taste right. They drink enough of it,” the pub’s owner, Rich, tells me, gesturing at his loyal clientele. He then points out the window, toward the hills. “You could practically roll it down from the brewery and into the cellar."
In an age of constant evolution, innovation, and change, there's something strangely comforting about sinking pint after pint of reliable best bitter. I glance down at my glass, and realize, much to my disappointment, it's already empty.
“Another pint of Trad, please.”
