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| 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 20thCentury. 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.
