The first time I drank Slovenian craft beer was at Pivopija in Serbia. It was Humanfish Brewery’s S.I.P.A. The S.I.P.A stood for Slovenian India Pale Ale, since, in addition to American hops, it was brewed with Slovenia’s own Styrian Golden hops. Five years ago, Slovenia was the only Ex-Yugoslav country which could boast of growing its own hops. This beer, and Combat Wombat, Humanfish’s Session IPA, were popular in Serbia. But after about a year, their imports stopped.
What had happened to them?
The past week I had drunk at all the craft beer bars in Ljubljana. But on a rainy Sunday I visited Humanfish Brewery, my first Slovenian brewery. The brewery’s curious name comes from a curious subterranean salamander, the olm (Proteus Anguinus), which is indigenous to the underground rivers of the Dinaric Alps in Slovenia. Or possibly it refers to anyone, like a fish, who drinks too much of the brewery’s beer. Either way, the trip was quite curious indeed.
Humanfish Brewery: Ljubljana To Vrhnika And (Almost) Back
Ljubljana’s city bus takes about 40 minutes due southwest to reach the village of Vrhnika, where Humanfish Brewery is. The town is the bus’s final destination, and, from my view, it looked like the end of the road. The overcast sky and grey drizzle only added to the desolation.
Humanfish Brewery and Taproom was just a 10-minutes’ walk down the main street. Yet while walking down the main thoroughfare, past many abandoned buildings, I hardly saw a soul. I supposed rural Slovenia had not caught up to Ljubljana in terms of development. Although coming from a small town myself, I could say the same for rural America.
Humanfish Brewery is in a former dairy factory. When I arrived, a band was setting up at a stage in front of the brewery’s garage entrance. I grabbed a table under a large tree and hoped the drizzle wouldn’t become rain, both for my sake and the band’s. The bartender, a rock’n’roll-looking girl, explained what was on tap and in bottles, and I ordered the S.I.P.A on tap. I asked her about the band.
“They’re a local hard rock band, something like metal alternative, just some young kids. I think it’s their first time performing. And unfortunately, with this worser weather, probably their only time.”
The S.I.P.A was fine: earthy, caramelly and much like an English IPA. So, OK. But my second beer on tap, the Combat Wombat, with American and spicy Australian Galaxy hops, was more to my liking. Sadly, as I started sipping the beer, I saw the band packing up their gear in their van. Damn the rain.
I turned to the table next to me and spoke to the two guys sitting there. I told them what a pity it was that we wouldn’t be enjoying live rock music. They processed my English for a moment, (“You aren’t from Slovenia?”), told me sorry, then invited me to sit with them. Since their table was closer to the tree’s trunk and more protected from the rain, I accepted.
Occasionally, Matuz and Aljosa came to Humanfish to try their beers. Matuz had some kind of backend tech work with Facebook. Aljosa, although he struggled with English, spoke more with me since he was a professional brewer. However, his brewery, Mali Grad Pivovarna, was from Kamink, and only sold in Ljubljana at Makalonca, a boat restaurant sitting in the river right by the Three Bridges, a popular spot with tourists. I considered if I would have time to visit them on my last day.
We ordering another round of beers, and fell into chatting. Suddenly, a man dressed in a gaudy, eye-searing shirt, covered in images of animals, approached our table. His accented voice blared as loud as his shirt.
“I heard there was an American here?”
Now I knew why I was drinking a beer named Combat Wombat with Galaxy hops. Humanfish Brewery’s owner and head brewer was from Australia. He asked us what we would drink next. I asked for the oddly named Cull Of The Unicorns. He cautioned that we might not like it, since it was a chili stout, and the spicy pepper was “not for everyone.” Just to be safe, the three of us ordered one bottle and sampled from it.
Cull Of The Unicorns = Chili Stout Not For Everyone
I like the dark humor artwork on the bottle. But the beer certainly wasn’t for us. The burn of the chili pepper was overpowering, and the roasty chocolate body wasn’t strong enough to balance the heat. We hacked, coughed, and choked through our samples. The owner looked amused.
The drizzle had become a steady rain. I wasn’t ready to walk back to the bus stop, then wait an hour for the next bus to Ljubljana. Yet, just as my trip a month ago on Krk Island in Croatia, I got taken for another wild ride. Matuz and Aljosa told me I didn’t have to stand in the rain in Vrhnika, because I was getting in their car.
“We are drinking, so can’t drive you in the center because of the police there. But we will get other drink closer, then take you on bus station where you can go direct to center.”
On The Outskirts Of The Little Big Town
An outer highway ring encircles all of Ljubljana. We drove from Vrhnika, merged onto the outer loop, then headed to the eastern side of the city. Just off an exit, we pulled up to a bar with a large terrace and the unusual name (for a Slavic country) of Sombrero. Outside there was a homemade kid’s playground. Inside it was decorated with random Mexican knick-knacks: cattle skulls, cactuses, photos of Zapatista rebels, colorful Day of The Dead garlands. But the menu was all Slovenian drinks. There were no margaritas nor burritos nor even tequila. No manches, wey.
“Matuz he work here before. He will bring some pizza from the nearby. It’s a different pizza, ok?”
I wondered what this “different” pizza would be. While Matuz left to get it, Aljosa showed me the menu, “They have IPAs.” Although we were on the outskirts of the city, at an isolated highway bar, there was still some craft beer on the menu. I ordered a Hoptop, which was a solid IPA considering the limited selection. Aljosa and I talked about Mali Grad Pivovarna and homebrewing such-and-such. Meanhwhile, the sky continued to mist and threaten rain.
Matuz looked excited when he entered with a large pizza box, “Have you tried this: kebab pizza?”
Nope. Sure enough, the pizza was covered in the thinly shredded meat I normally see being shaved from metal stakes at Turkish doner shops. Creamy tzatziki sauce and chopped tomatoes complemented the meat. As strange as it looked, it was delicious. And I was hungry as hell, having only had toast for breakfast, followed by beers.
I told Matuz and Aljosa that tomorrow, Monday, was my last day in Ljubljana. After that, I would return to Croatia, and head to Zadar for some seaside relaxation. Matuz said that I had to join him and some friends for beers by the Ljubljanica River, since “it’s your last day.” I agreed to go, wondering if I would ever get any rest in Ljubljana.
Just a hundred meters from the restaurant, they left me at a lonely bus station in front of a muddy brown field. The rain picked up as I waited. I started shivering from the cold. After a long time, a bus drove by the station, yet I had to shout to get the driver’s attention. The darkness of this part of Ljubljana, and the rain streaking against the window, made the 30-minute ride feel like a lifetime. When I reached the main station, the rain had abated, but a cold mist still hung in the air. I walked along the foggy river through the center. I was tipsy from the beers, tired, cold and ready to sleep after the long day.
Ljubljana is a small city; chance happens too much to be just chance.
The Last Night At Metalkova
At a restaurant by the Three Bridges, I saw the Pakistani girl sitting at a table outside. She was having dinner, alone. When she saw me, she invited me to sit with her. I gladly obliged. There was no reason to ask why she hadn’t answered me on Saturday at Ze V Redu Primoz. She looked just as cheerful as when we first had met.
Pakistan was exotic and intrigued me, so was in a mood to flatter. I raved about her dark hair which went on for miles and her beautiful smile that never stopped. Perhaps I was trying too hard, yet she giggled at almost everything I said.
“We’ve already had some good beers. Have you tried American bourbon?”
“It’s not the same as whiskey, yeah? So, no I haven’t yet.”
The restaurant had quite an extensive whiskey and bourbon list. There were several American bourbons available, and I chose one I thought she would enjoy, an aged wheat Buffalo Trace. The waiter brought us two glasses; we toasted to our good luck at running into each again. For a moment “The Most Boring City in Europe,” Ljubljana, was exciting. Bad weather be damned. I didn’t feel tired anymore.
“I have two more days before the Eid fasting. You remember I like smoking. You too, yes?”
After dinner, we walked to Metalkova. Since last Wednesday, at the Happy Ol’ McWeasel concert, I had been there every night. Every time there had been loads of people partying, either in the clubs or outside on one of the curious art installations. But tonight, on Sunday, it was empty. We went to one of the art sculptures – one which resembled a giant spider transforming into a table – and climbed on top of it. Pakistan pulled out weed and papers and began rolling an expert joint. She took a long drag, then passed it to me. Gingerly, I inhaled. Coughed. I’ve never been a smoker.
The second drag we shared with a kiss.
She told me that she had a boyfriend in Slovenia. I asked her why she hadn’t told me that before.
“Well, it’s more that he’s not here…now. Not now in Ljubljana… More maybe we’re dating…”
I thought of the Ginger Girl from Zagreb. I mentioned her to Pakistan. “You could say we’re dating, and I hope to see her again in Croatia,” I wheezed out. Do I really? Pakistan didn’t look like she was concerned about another girl anyway. Neither of us were making much sense. How strong is this weed?
Again, I kissed her. She told me no, gave me a dazed look, giggled, then she seemed to forget what she was saying about that boyfriend or date or whatever he was. Whether it was her own desire, or the weed clearing our heads, I never bothered to ask. Her warm hands were all over me, and the cool metal sculpture was beneath me.
That Is Not Expected In Slovenia
And it continued. We kissed; she would say no, look, laugh. But she followed me as I walked her through the city. After some wandering, we were in front of my door. “You know this is my place – say no before I take you in,” I teased. She sat down at the small table in front of my apartment entrance, gave me a sly look, rolled another joint, and handed it to me.
“I need water. I’m dry.”
I didn’t ask what that meant. We stepped inside, and I went to the sink to fill a glass with water. She sat on the bed and casually removed her shirt while saying, “You know I can’t do any of this during fast.”
This apartment is tiny.
As I cleaned the apartment the next morning, I kept finding strands of her dark hair: on my clothes, on the floor, in the folds of my bed. She had left without spending the night. But she left with confidence. She had to start fasting.
I spent the last evening in Slovenia with Matuz and his friends at a park by the Ljbuljanica River. He brought a massive speaker. We blasted old Yugoslav rock’n’roll from it. The loud speaker scared anyone who was near us, so the riverside was ours. One of his friends was Bosnian. We chatted of the previous day in half-Serbian and half-English.
“Pakistan? Well, that is not expected in Slovenia.”
“Yes, and it will never happen again.”
For a guide to craft beer bars in Ljubljana click: here
