The only Brewers' Guild left in Europe |
My wife says to me, “I want
to go to Brussels for the weekend and drink a lot of beer.” I deserve no special sympathy. I know the same thing has happened to you.
“You probably want a first
class hotel, too,” I say.
She simply nods, knowing that
at this point I have the reasoning power of a trapped mouse. The suitcase sits
on the bed, open and empty, a gaping mousetrap.
We pile our meager belongings
in the trunk of her convertible and head down the autobahn, across the rolling
hills of Germany, green valleys of Luxembourg, and a small slice of France, to
reach Brussels, a fine old city of ancient open markets, cobblestone streets,
and a host of restaurants and beer palaces.
Towering building line the squares, dating from the time when
architecture meant solid, hewn stone, instead of slender threads of steel and
sheets of glass. Too many words for
you? Want me to shorten it? Ok.
Brussels is old.
We pull into the hotel
parking lot and I find that parking will cost 35 Euros, or about forty-eight
bucks a night. Cheap Tickets is mute on
this point. There is also a nightly
‘city tax’ of nine bucks a night.
But, the hotel, Radisson blu,
is right astride the old city, perfect for walking to everything you want to
see, do, eat, and drink.
Our first stop is A La Mort
Subite, a café I wrote of earlier. (http://stroudallover.blogspot.de/2013/01/la-mort-subite-maybe-best-beer-bistro.html) Hasn’t aged a day since 1900. We
step through the narrow, etched glass door and into a time machine. The place
is crammed. The waiter, in black
trousers, a white shirt and black vest, with a white, waist apron, brings me a
Faro and my wife a Kriek. For the
uninitiated, these are both types of Belgian beer, of which there are some 400
varieties. In this case, both are on tap
and both carry the La Mort Subite name.
Both are also of the traditional Lambic variety, meaning top fermented
and therefore not fizzy. Smooth. Tasty.
Kriek carries a definite
cherry nose and cherry flavor, although there is little to no sweetness. Sour cherries are added in the barrel on the
second fermentation. Round finish. My wife wastes no time downing it.
My Faro has a tinge of
sweetness, with soft caramel and bright citrus notes. Sour finish, but somehow more satisfying for
it.
A Brussels beer parlor is all
drama. In an hour you’d have material
for a short story, in an evening, a novel.
We linger, watching the
panorama unfold in the high ceiling, softly muted room. A couple struggle with their baby. Whoops, the other couple with them also has a
child. A table down, an elderly woman
lightly butters her bread, then adds a slather of soft cheese. She bites into this as delicately as a hungry
croc crushing the bones of an antelope. Along with the bread, she tooths a bit
of radish and a nibble of raw, green onion.
In moments, a season’s worth of radishes and green onions disappear,
along with two heavy slices of bread, a cup of butter, and a solid belt of
cheese. All washed down with a half pint
of light colored beer. This old girl is
not shy about what she wants. Wonder
what she was like in her healthy, hormonal 20s?
Across the way, a man tries
to move two chairs to an already heavily crowded table. The waiter objects. The man stands his ground, ignoring all, but
his companions at the crowded table.
Clearly he is blocking the narrow opening past the table into the
kitchen. The waiter shrugs, his hands at
shoulder level, palms up. Finally the
man wedges the chairs into suitable positions.
Crisis averted.
We pay our bill and struggle
to find a path down the lenghty aisle to the door. Outside, the cool air is a welcome relief.
My wife pulls out a map,
dotted with famous beer joints, none of which is newer than the early 20th
Century. The map is a great relief, as I have no freaking clue. Plus, my wife has a sense of direction that
could have led Columbus straight to India.
Next in line is Le Cirio,
originally an Italian deli. Francesco
Cirio’s photo is still on the wall. We
order more beer. Surprised? For me it’s a Watney’s Scotch Ale. When I see English beer on the menu, I gotta
giv’er a go. Luscious whiskey-vanilla
nose. First sip is just a tad sweet, as
if a willing wench kissed the rim of the glass.
I don’t tell my wife this. “Not
bad,” I say, licking the rim. Full
bodied brew. Easy finish.
My spouse orders a Maes
pils. I generally don’t have a thirst
for pils. This one is no exception.
Bland nose. Bare wheat taste. Rough finish.
Her nose turns up, but just barely.
Ladies do not complain, because they always get what they want
anyway. This time is no exception. She reaches for my beaker of Watney’s. I try to look pleased. Same smile you’d give if a weightlifter crawled under the table and gave me the old squeeze-ho. I do not get my Watney’s back.
If anyone sees me grimace,
they don’t show it. The couple crammed
into the dinner plate sized table beside ours must be married. They’re not saying much. She could be pretty. He could be an accountant who’s worked at the
same job in the same office for thirty years.
He would be happier at home, with a glass of warm milk. Not her.
I feel someone looking at me. I
turn just a quarter turn. She smiles shyly.
On the other side of us is a
table for four. Two ancient, unhappy men
and two comparable women trying not to be.
I speak little French, but one man is saying how much better this place
used to be. Sure, like he can remember
anything earlier than breakfast.
Just as in many Brussels
restaurants, in Le Cirio all the waiters are men. They all wear the same black
and white ensembles I mentioned.
Le Cirio does not hold the
crowd that populated A La Mort Subite, but it’s still far from empty.
Once again, we fight our way
to the rain swept streets, but hover near the door and my wife pulls out her
map. I feel sure the best is yet to
come.
End of Part I, but do not
fear. More Brussels beer adventures in
Part II.
Bill, this cracks me up...for some reason I can see you saying all that very seriously...meanwhile your Bud Paul is sucking down Coors Lite and posting the empties on my page....you guys are something else
ReplyDeleteI try my best to entertain! Glad you enjoyed my humble effort.
ReplyDeleteOne day I'll be able to return to the maine and drink their suds and eat their bread and ride their undergrounds. Bill, your writing is pushing me to really want to get it done. Thank you for the words and pics.
ReplyDeleteLove this post!
ReplyDeleteCheers,
Judy
Thanks, Judy! Also thanks to the others who commented, Pedro and Buzz!
Delete