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is warm. It is quite popular.” Half expecting some type of wheat beer with lemon, I pressed for details and found myself with an almost green-colored beer with a strangely citruslike aroma and flavor. “It is artichoke liqueur with light lager,” someone offered in explanation with a “wait-and-see-whether-he’ll-drink-it” smile. With one half-squinted eye, I paused a moment, then replied cautiously, “You mean like artichoke heart liqueur and beer?” Yes, and so I sniffed, swirled and sipped. Now both my eyes squinted at the sweet, citrus character and warmth of alcohol. I managed to artfully choke down the rest of the graciously complimentary French beverage, but I must admit it’s not something you’ll find me paying dollars, francs or euros for in the future.

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MONASTIC BLEUE STRONG BELGIAN-STYLE ALE

In the spirit of Chimay Blue, one of the world’s most famous Trappist ales, I recreated a homebrewed recipe that approaches the richness of the experience. This recipe can be found in About the Recipes.

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After this unholy baptism I was not to be disappointed. That evening I had one of my very few “ultimate beer experiences.”

I enjoy an occasional good cigar. I had brought one of my favorites with me just in case I found myself with some time to relax. I’m very pleased to report that a Davidoff Corona begun at sunset with a Chimay Bleue (9 percent alcohol), followed with a Cassis Lambic Mort Subite, can only be described as out of this world. The mild nutty-coffee-cocoa aroma and flavor of my cigar. The charm of Cassis Lambic with its rich berry-balsam fir and fruitlike aromatics and the calming sensation of deep red bubbles accompanied with a superbly quenching balance of sweetness and acidity was dreamlike. The warm night air and breeze carried the smell of sea foam. The lingering effects of Chimay Bleue, with its malt and hops, had exquisitely concealed its alcohol—at first.

There are certain combinations of flavors and aromas that can evoke one’s spirit with regard to the best things in life. Unknowingly and quite naturally I drifted toward the beers whose essences are microbrewed. A spirit of beer filled the bar, my glass and the evening—all accomplished because of microbrewers somewhere else in the world. They were communicating with me.

That moonlit night in Martinique at Le Terminal began and ended with some memorable bests. My one and only regret was that I couldn’t speak French. A place like this certainly may have inspired me to learn to do so. There was much to talk about, but no one seemed to understand—but me.

The American Ark

WHILE WALKING down the grand and long corridors of the train station in Munich in 1997, I had a chance encounter with a member of the American Homebrewers Association. He recognized me, between his train connections. He was Belgian. We talked, and he was very supportive of the direction that American microbrewing has taken. He made a point of telling me, “You can find a greater and truer-to-tradition variety of Belgian beers in the United States than you can in Belgium. Belgians think they have all the tradition. But we are losing it. It is the Americans that are helping save what we Belgians are losing…but no one will listen to me. They won’t believe me when I tell them what is happening in the United States.”

A British real ale personality, judging at the Great American Beer Festival, similarly confided in me, “Good English mild ales are becoming less common in the U.K. I can find better English mild ales in the United States now than I can in the U.K.” I, myself, reflect on how the new American breweries have indeed revived the traditions of English porter and oatmeal stout. Some beer journalists of fame often note how some styles of beer were close to extinction before the new brewing revival in America saved them from the archival tombs.

Oktoberfest in Munich often heralds the lamentations from Americans and Germans alike: “They’re modeling their Oktoberfestbier after Coors Extra Gold” (adding that Extra Gold was a great beer, but certainly not an Oktoberfest