Guinness already has the pubs in its pocket — the Irish stout is the UK’s most popular pint — but now the brewing giant is looking to grab grasp of the home market too. Canned Guinness is the company’s Achilles heel; it tends to be said that the beer needs to be pulled to the pump, needs to rest on a bar top, and needs the cheer of a pub to help it slip down. But, on the technical end, that it needs nitrogen for its creamy, dense head. And so the company has come up with Nitrosurge, a device that can be attached to the top of a can, and, deployed correctly, will let drinkers enjoy the same kind of pint indoors as they might out. And so, we gave it a go; here’s what we thought.
David’s take
A public apology to kick things off because, well, it’s probably necessary. Those keenly watching the video above might get the impression the new Guinness Nitrosurge — not yet part of the Marvel Universe, though it sounds like it — is a chaotic, useless thing. In all likelihood, it’s probably Josh Barrie who is entirely at fault, though I too will shoulder a slender slice of the blame. It turns out, neither of us can read. You’d think that might be a roadblock to a career in journalism but, well, here we are.
Nitrosurge is Diageo’s latest whimsy: a pipe-shaped piece of rechargeable marketing that professes to help fans of the Black Stuff pour a pint in their sitting room that might favourably be compared to what’s metered out in the boozer.
The technology is vague — something to do with being ultrasonic — but the hype is substantial. And, Guinness wrote to me: “As someone with exceptional taste, we thought it was only right that you get to be one of the first to try Nitrosurge.” I tried not to mind that it’s already for sale on Amazon at £36 a pop, and Tesco for less.
The strange thing about the whole thing is how capricious it is. Pints are often spontaneous; they are the giving in at the end of a long day. And while plans to go to the pub are one thing, remembering to charge the Nitrosurge — it takes a USB C — for a drink at home is something else entirely. When work has been playing hell, is there much fun in tilting the glass at a precise angle? Or waiting a minute or so between the first two thirds and the rest? Is this ritual or are these just exacting demands? Who has time? It’s a beer. Granted, there is pleasure in crafting a cocktail at home, the hiss and spit of the ice, the rub of a garnish against glass. But there is something to that, whereas a Guinness is rarely seductive. It is too unwieldy to be.
You’re understanding now that the Nitrosurge seemed a bit of a pain to get going. There were paper towels and clearing up before Josh and I had our path corrected. The producer came wearily in, looked at the instructions for the pour, and cocked her head. We’d been doing it all wrong. So we tried again. And this time it was better — but not much; the surge is less nitro, more micro. It comes in fits and starts, never really getting going. Better than a can? Well, the bubbles did their dance in the glass, swirling and whirling like a man calling for rain. But soon the dance stopped, and the beer was still. The head was creamier than usual, but it burped bubbles like a bog. We moved on.
Fanatics will perhaps find it works; maybe it’ll do them well. For the rest of us, even after correction, it isn’t the real deal. Canned Guinness is canned Guinness, and it doesn’t matter how you sell it. Good pints travel lines. A good Guinness cannot be domesticated. The pub will out.
Josh’s take
My understanding is that Guinness’ new Nitrosurge is supposed to allow for a smooth, flowing pour at home. It is a nourishing proposition: Guinness is now the UK’s favourite beer; sales soared by almost 30 per cent last year. It is not lost on me that a better way to enjoy the drink at home makes sense.
Everybody knows that Guinness from a can has never been anywhere close to the real deal. A pint from a thin long tin is like having a bath without any bubbles or fragrant salts: enjoyable, but a feeling there’s something missing is inescapable, and quite upsetting.
I am thankful to Guinness for sending me a gadget that would otherwise cost me £25 from Tesco. I don’t want to spend £25 on a gadget, mostly because so much modern technology annoys me. The modern world feels like an assault. Why must we connect to everything? I do not wish to connect.
The Nitrosurge requires charging. Imagine charging up a device before having a pint? That’s what’s happening here. My laptop, phone, and headphones are enough with which to contend. Guinness, to me, is supposed to be simple. Here is a glass, inside the glass is liquid, and I pour the liquid into my mouth, calmly, and then feel content. Perhaps I will have another, possibly a third after that, and then I might have some chips. Chips, to their credit, do not require a USB port or my email address.
Anyway, as you might observe in the video in which my editor David Ellis and I appear, I struggled to come to terms with the Nitrosurge. I was able to attach the nozzle — or Guinness beak, as I have come to call it — easily but the can, I was later informed, must be held horizontally, so that the beak is vertical. No, I didn’t read the instructions. This is because I don’t intend to complicate life further. Instructions are always boring and Guinness should not be boring.
We managed to deploy the Nitrosurge eventually. Did it work? I suppose so. Instead of Guinness slipping out of a can uneventfully, forming something of a head but something less appetising than that which is created on draught at the pub, there comes a dark, swirling, brooding storm in the glass, where one of the finest drinks ever conceived leaps into action. Guinness, as it is delivered, should resemble a nightmare. A fine pour is transfixing and worth the wait. I enjoy the ceremony while it rests.
The Nitrosurge works — it improves a can immeasurably, anyway — but it is not just about the technology. Guinness is not just a drink, but a moment. I want to hear the flick of the tap; I want that exhausting silence with the bartender because I’m tired; I want good, clean lines, the perfect temperature, a 45-degree angle, a dome of gentle foam and the much-paraded schtick. I want to drink my Guinness with people who also love Guinness, outside in the carefree hubbub of Soho, smoking cigarettes. None of this can be achieved in the home and trying to replicate it feels like avoidable and unnecessary effort.
