My first beer was a Miller in March 1965. I was almost thirteen. The end of winter. My three friends and I bought the beers from Red Tate. The town drunk. I can't recall now ever seeing him drunk. We drank the beer behind Our Aunt of Jesus Catholic Church. Two bottles each. I got sick and spewed out the beer like a whale breaching the surface of the ocean. I caem home and went to bed. My mother asked what was wrong. She had her suspicions. I said nothing.
On the following Sunday the old Irish pastor dedicated his sermon to the evils of teenage drinking. His God saw all and knew all just like the nuns. His warning came too late for me. I had already vowed to never again drink beer.
That pledge was later adjusted to never drinking Miller beer. My teenage friends were Bud fans. For me something was off about a beer hauled by the Clydesdales and I only drink it when there is nothing else available like at MLB baseball games and barbecues in Iowa. I preferred Nargangansett, locally brewed in Cranston, RI, which slids down my throat as smoothly as the Saco River over the rocks of Crawford Notch.
American beer has rightfully acquired a bad reputation thanks to Budweiser and Oscar Wilde according to a Tottenham Spurs fan once said, “I find American beer a bit like having sex in a canoe. It's fucking close to water.”
Over my youth I drunk Olympia, Coors, Busch, Iron City, Narragansett, Carling, Labatt, Molson, Pabst, and hundreds of other brews, until American beer was wiped off the menu by Heineken.
Soon I extended my exploration to foreign shores to taste the beer in their native surroundings. I drank Corona in the Yucatan, slugged down Karlsberg in Denmark, swilled 1664 in France, quaffed Tiger in Malaysia, soothed my thirst with Bintang in Indonesia, and savored Leo in Thailand along with beers from every country on my circumnavigations of the globe.
I even created a special holiday for beer.
Beermas sounded good to my ears.
I celebrated it almost daily with pleasure.
I returned from overseas three years ago. My favorite bar was five blocks from my apartment. The lovely Chinese bartender served cold Stella-Artois in a glass. The clientele became my friends. I had downed several thousands of the beer at Frank’s Lounge on Fulton Street from August 2009 to September 2011, when I left the USA for Luxembourg to became the writer in residence at the British Embassey and told my fellow drinkers at Frank’s that I would return a better man, because my next destination bordered Belgium and nothing goes down better than the Trappist beers of that country.
Leffe, Duvel and Stella Artois are good supping beers, but they pale in comparison to the Achel, Dubbel, Chimay, Orval, and dark Rochefort. None of those brews are under 7% alcohol.
That autumn I trained west to Belgium, Charleroi to be exact. A crapped out coal town. My good friend from Florida Vonelli lived on the outskirts in a grand manse on the verge of collapse within earshot of the R3 autoroute, whose eternal traffic hushed through the trees like a rush of a river. We enjoyed each other's coumpany and had since I first arrived in Paris in 1982. One sunny morning and there aren't many of those in Belgium that time of year, Vonelli announced it was time to visit the Aulne Monastery on the nearby Sambre River."
"It's a walking distance away."
It was not yet noon, but beer drinking was a sacrment in Belgium and we tramped out of Montigny-le-Tilleul on a wooded path to the river locks and drank a beer at La Guinguette. Just one. An Abbe d'Aulne blonde. Luscious.
The ruins of Aulne abbey overlooked the river. French revolutionay troops had sacked the Cistacian monastery in 1794. Not a single monk inhabited the property. As an atheist I was proud of their work, but not that they had destroyed the 50,000 books in the library.
After wandering through the tumbled stones we retreated back to La Guinguette. We were the only diners, although two old women were supping on a dark beer. at least 7%. We ate a fine meal of , mussels, sole, and a crepe for dessert. Three courses cost $30. We drank three beers through the courses. I had never tasted better and we ordered a fourth to chase down the crepe.
"What I like about Belgium is seeing little old ladies drinking beer in the cafes at noon. It make me feel good." Vonelli has been living in Belgium for a number of good reasons. Beer was one of them.
"That's the only reason you live here?" The first sip of the fourth glass was as good as the fourth sip from the first beer.
"That and the beer."
There were other attractions to Belgium and one of them was Charleroi, the ugliest city in all of Europe. It also had good beer. Beer defines Belgium as much as frites with mayonnaise. In fact beer was so popular in Belgium that a low-alcohol version was served in schools up to the 1970s.
When I returned to Luxembourg I ordered a Duvel for lunch with Cod fried in olive oil.
It's 8.5 % alcohol.
I think I'll have another.
I have no heavy machinery to operate in the afternoon or tomorrow either.
Another Happy Beermas.
From me and my son Fenway.
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