Microbrewed Adventures - Charles Papazian [81]
Chris Herteleer and his cellared “vintage” beers
There appeared in a fresh glass an 11.5 percent alcohol beer brewed 15 years earlier, in 1980. Chris confided that this was a beer he shares only with his best friends. It was a miraculously complex strong Belgian-style ale. We continued tasting other prototypes of his current beers. Finally, just when we thought we were finished (a big mistake—thinking one is ever finished tasting beer), a special corked dark beer brewed in 1980 appeared to climax the late afternoon. It was 12 percent alcohol, chocolaty, with a bit of fruity acidity, winey and very smooth indeed.
It was at that point I noticed two elderly women sitting on a sofa, their feet resting on a giant bellows. They were all smiles and at the end of their glass of a De Doulle Brouwers strong ale. They left quite peacefully, seeming to drift gracefully down the bright red, narrow spiral staircase.
There were once 3,223 breweries in the era of 1900s Belgium. Now there were fewer than 120. Mad brewers such as Chris may resurrect the strong and crazy brewing traditions of Belgium, if we let them. I was doing my part and will continue to do so. We soon left—why, I don’t quite remember, except it had something to do with dinner in Brugge. Oh, yes. Dinner, and of course more beer.
Intoxication by Ara and “Bunny Rabbit”
Brugge is quite a marvelous city, they tell me. We whisked through at such a fast pace and in such a delirious state of mind I don’t recall seeing it. We tasted beers at nook-and-cranny pubs and cafés along the way to wherever we were being led. At one of Jan’s favorite pubs, the de Garre, we enjoyed a beer (don’t ask me to remember it at this point). Listening to classical music, I was just beginning to get comfortable when I was alerted that it was time to go. Was I going crazy, or was it the maniac fermented in all of us?
Down this street, around that corner and soon we were at Raspoetin, a friendly antique restaurant offering food and more beer. Halfway through our meal it was time to go again—to another café. How could we possibly have another beer? No, I wasn’t really inebriated and was far from feeling drunk, but I had an intense feeling of saturation. My eyes were looking but not seeing. My ears were hearing but not listening. My mouth was drinking but not tasting. My hands were touching but not feeling. I had become a walking zombie in Brugge. As I walked, I could feel my eyes closing and my arms rising in front of me. I emitted low, rumbling belches. I imagined little children and mothers with babes in arms fleeing as I approached.
I came to some senses just as we approached ’t Brugs Beertje (the Special Beerhouse), serving more than 300 kinds of traditional and not-so-traditional Belgian beers. We had time to order a couple of more beers. This was Brugge; it all seemed to be foam at the top.
The pleasure of Belgian ale
Jan, needing to catch the last ferryboat back to the Netherlands, drove us the last hour to Leuven before departing. Thanking him for his superhuman hospitality, Grosvenor and I checked into our hotel. We looked at each other, then at our watches, and together we glanced out the window to the well-lit town square. We weren’t done yet. Not by a long shot. Walking down to the square, we sat down at an outdoor café. What did we do? It isn’t hard to imagine. Without thinking, we automatically ordered another beer. Strangely, I couldn’t even drink half of it.
Grosvenor left the next day, back to Ireland where he had been working. He admitted a certain degree of saturation.
But beer is my business, and I was working late. The next morning Steven Pauwels had planned another full day’s itinerary for me. Our first visit was to the Westmalle Trappist