Previously: 40 Years in Beer (Book III), Part 87: Travel 2001 with English John, Le Tour ― and a gutting personal loss.
As 2002 dawned, our nation was engaged in an elastically defined, evolving “war” on terrorism.
I hadn’t been in the air since the previous August, flying to Baltimore for two Orioles – Oakland Athletics games at Camden Yards, and too many beers everywhere else in town (particularly at the late, lamented Brewer’s Art).
However, in February a chance came to meet up with David Pierce and Rick Kennedy, who were on a Bluegrass Brewing Co. sales junket in Baltimore and Washington D.C., which included a tasting at the famed Brickskeller beer bar (1958 – 2010).
They’d driven the company van; I flew into BWI and tracked them down. Subsequently a day was devoted to visiting Victory Brewing Co. in Downingtown, Pennsylvania, which provided the opportunity to procure kegs for Gravity Head and conceal them in the BBC van for the ride home.
And the flights?
They seemed normal enough, even if shoe bomb paranoia was approaching record levels ― and I have large, very noticeable feet. Fortunately my pale skin color passed muster. Had the warring Bushies known about my atheism, who knows? But I managed to restrict my public comments to quasi-Biblical utterances, all of them invented.
Euro #20 (2002): In May, a defector-driven tableau of recovering ex-communism
The minibus tour through East-Central Europe was originally scheduled for October, 2001. Alas, the terrorist attacks had a dampening effect on potential attendance. Mind you, nothing actually prevented us from going forward in October.
It’s just that economies of scale tend to fail with only three people to a bus. I endeavored mightily to lift morale, pointing out that according to the immutable law of averages, skies could never be safer than the period immediately following unfortunate atrocities.
Crickets loudly chirping proved only that I don’t always win arguments. Thus, we decided to try again in the spring of 2002. The previous year’s itinerary merely needed light tweaking, and fortunately, most penalties for ticketing changes were suspended as the planet rescheduled itself.
All along, the best airfares were from JFK to Budapest via MALEV, the Hungarian national carrier, which suggested I contact an agency in Los Angeles called Budapest Travel (located on Sunset Boulevard, no less) to orchestrate air and ground connections. I dialed the number given and found myself speaking with Jenő Áts (1936 – 2021).
There was a physical address, but I’ve always imagined Budapest Travel situated inside Jenő’s briefcase.
Nothing prepared me for this classy, charming, exuberant and tireless force of nature. He’d been a champion Hungarian swimmer, participating in the 100-meter butterfly event at the 1956 Melbourne Olympics; as those Olympics got underway, the ill-fated Hungarian uprising already had flared, destined to be quickly and bloodily crushed by Soviet-led East Bloc forces.
Consequently Jenő joined dozens of fellow Hungarian athletes and team staffers in defecting, finding his way from Australia to Montreal. Eventually he spearheaded the creation of Canada’s water polo program, coaching Canada’s inaugural water polo team at the 1972 Munich Olympics.
Later Jenő moved to Los Angeles and opened a restaurant and bar; as recently as 2013, then residing in Las Vegas, he competed in swimming at the World Senior Games (Men 75 – 79 age group) and won the gold medal in the 50 meter butterfly.
By any yardstick, Jenő Áts was a legend ― and in multiple countries, no less.
My basic itinerary for 2002 was augmented by his sage suggestions, big and small. A minibus was booked, a driver engaged, and hotel rooms reserved. The result was a dream itinerary, an utterly hellacious two-week overview of fascinating places that included a little something for everyone, while mostly avoiding backbreaking commutes.
Resolved: As of this writing, it is 2026. If anyone reading wants to drive the rental car, we can split expenses and venture a reprise of Euro #20, because I’m ready to do it again tomorrow, although truthfully, I’d rather take a month or six weeks and meander through these locales to my heart’s content.
I love it there.
—
EURO #20 ITINERARY
Flights into Budapest and back to Louisville, via Cincinnati and New York City. We saw the devastated World Trade Center site from the air.
- Budapest to the wine town of Eger and the Tokaj wine region (UNESCO historic cultural landscape) in Hungary.
- Košice, Levoča and Spišský hrad (Spiš Castle) (UNESCO Associated Cultural Monuments) to Tatranska Lomnica in the High Tatra mountains (UNESCO landscape), with adventurous dining at Reštaurácia Stará Mama in Slovakia.
- Krakow (UNESCO listed), excursions to Zakopane, Auschwitz and Żywiec (brewery tour), an afternoon in Nowa Huta* and a historical meal similar to the Pod Aniolami restaurant (I can’t find the exact name), all in Poland.
- Olomouc (UNESCO World Heritage site) and Mikulov in Moravia, Czech Republic.
- Vienna (Brauhaus Nussdorf) in Austria.
- Budapest, with a requisite motorway picnic in route, then a Parliament tour, Dreher brewery tour, visit to Memento Park and festive evening (with live folk music) at Megyeri Csárda, a 300-year-old Hungarian tavern and roadhouse.
—
Jenő’s fee to accompany us as guide, troubleshooter and majordomo was very fair. There was no need to overcharge; as we soon would learn, this man’s networking Rolodex burned white hot.
After customs and passport control in Budapest Ferihegy International Airport (since renamed for Hungarian-born composer Franz Liszt), we boarded the minibus and were driven straight to Eger, famous “red wine town” and home of Egri Bikaver.
Košice was next, although not before a lengthy midday wine cellar stop near Tokaj in the town of Rakamaz (if memory serves).
The Tokaj wine region enjoys renown in East-Central Europe equal to better publicized areas in France and Italy, producing white wine at table strength and also globally renowned sweet and strong dessert wines.
Prior to descending the wine cellar’s massive stone steps, we accompanied Jenő to an official “welcome” meeting with the mayor of the municipality, to be presented with special bottles of Tokaj and a symbolic key to the city. Here we learned that Jenő’s “side hustles” were extensive and suitably Byzantine.
Our group trip brought him to Hungary on our dime; the wine cellar (and a few other sites) paid him a commission; and the mayor’s ceremonial meeting also was billable as piece work for a U.S. government economic development grant program administered by the State Department, for which Jenő was an occasional courier of sorts.
Far from being dismayed by any of this, I was busy taking notes. In the realm of multi-tasking, Jenő was a one-man master class.
The Tokaj wine cellar was owned by personal friends (relatives?) of Jenő’s, and the subterranean tour was followed by a lengthy sampling session, presumably to be accompanied by lunch, except that apart from light snacks, the food never really materialized.
Given Tokaj wine’s added alcoholic strength, and the ready availability of the cellar’s excellent pálinka (fruit brandy), climbing the cellar’s steps back to ground level proved hazardous.
Setting off for Košice, we were completely obliterated.
Recalling the intensity of border crossings during the communist era, even those involving fraternal allies in the Bloc, I was mildly concerned as Slovakia neared on a brilliant spring day. The guard quarters were smallish but spic and span; flies circled lazily in the afternoon warmth. The bus’s doors parted so Jenő could negotiate pleasantries.
Just then my clearly inebriated pal Tim lurched unsteadily past our tour guide, pushing his way straight for the front door of the border police office, stumbling inside and flopping atop a handy wooden table. Whether mistaking it for a chair, or subconsciously demanding to be searched for contraband, Tim immediately fell asleep.**
I’ll never forget Jenő’s worried cries: “Timmy! Timmy!”
Happily an international incident was avoided. Drolly accustomed to errant behavior by unsuspecting Tokaj wine cellar imbibers, the border officers barely raised their eyebrows; surely they smelled the alcohol. Within minutes, with Tim now safely bound, gagged and strapped into his seat, we made it to Košice, where I taught English in ‘1991-’92.
40 Years in Beer, Part Thirty Five: Košice comes into view and the Zlatý Bažant flows
My stay in Košice convinced me that both city and region (East Slovakia) are hidden European gems, and 2002 only reinforced this viewpoint.
The city’s urban transformation had proceeded apace in my absence, and there was even a brewpub, Golem, which opened right before we arrived; it remains in operation in 2026, which is impressive longevity.
In route to the High Tatras, which straddle the Slovak-Polish border, we stopped in Levoča and visited Spišský hrad (Spiš Castle), two of several sites in the area that comprise a well-preserved medieval military, political and religious “ensemble,” according to UNESCO.
40 Years in Beer, Part Thirty Seven: Andy Warhol, the Tatras, Magic Johnson and wonderful Mamut
As usual, beer magically materialized for Joe.
Vysoké Tatry comprises several gateway settlements to the Tatras. Group member Rick, always an apostle of diligent advance research, pinpointed an eatery called Reštaurácia Stará Mama (basically, “Grandma’s Restaurant”) as a potential source of traditional Slovak country cooking. We hurried there.
Rick had discovered that Stará Mama offered a beguiling entrée: býčie gule (also known as býčie žľazy), or bull’s testicles (mountain oysters in the informal global vernacular). They’re a regional delicacy, prepared by peeling, slicing, breading in flour, egg, and breadcrumbs, and deep-frying.
Rick had been touting this meal ever since we landed in Budapest, but with the opportunity literally at hand, he strangely demurred.
Happily, several of us followed through. I’ve maintained consistently throughout many years and beers that if you’re a meat eater, then “parts is parts,” and one consumes all the parts to preclude waste.
After dinner, we discovered a lawn party underway near the hotel. It was a relaxing way to digest those proteins.
Our Polish stay centered on the north side of the Tatras in Kraków. City sightseeing was undertaken individually, with excursions to outlying areas. One of these day trips was a difficult but necessary visit to the Auschwitz concentration camp memorial.
Another, less somber outing took us to Zakopane, an alpine town.
A tour of the Żywiec (Zhih-vietz) brewery was a tour centerpiece. Żywiec was an offbeat bucket list item for me, dating back to the early 1980s when I became fascinated with communist Poland’s two most popular beers, Żywiec and Okocim (ah-KOH-tsim).
In their standard golden lager form, these two beers were exported to America’s huge Polish community via a company named for its founder, Stanley Stawski. There is no better story in the annals of importers.
Born in Poland in 1924, Stawski survived the 1939 invasion of his country by the Germans. In 1944, he took part in the Warsaw Uprising as a member of the underground Home Army. Captured and sent to a prisoner-of-war camp, Stawski headed to Italy after his camp was liberated, and joined the 2nd Polish Corps. Two years after the war ended, the British sent his unit to England and when the British demobilized his unit in 1951, Stawski left for the United States. He had $20 in his pocket.
My evening job at the long defunct Scoreboard Liquors in New Albany began in 1982, and to reprise these humble yet crucial beginnings, I was allowed to fill one of the reach-in cooler doors with imported beers.
Whenever possible, I’d purchase a case or two of Żywiec, Okocim or Krakus (also from Żywiec). These beers came in rough, elemental cardboard cases, with throwback bottle labels that couldn’t be characterized as “vintage” in their appearance because they were still in everyday use in communist Poland.
In 1987 there came a purely serendipitous opportunity to taste standard Żywiec lager on draft while in Warsaw.
Rounding a street corner, I heard the low hum of male voices — and more importantly, the clink-clink of glasses as they were collected to be washed.
It was a pub of some sort in a building shaded by street trees, filled with men dressed mostly in work clothing, although a few wore nondescript brown suits. Amid billowing cigarette smoke, they were throwing back golden-colored Żywiecs in gorgeous fat mugs.
I was thirstier than intimidated, and went straight to a serving counter. No English was spoken, but a transaction was negotiated with a wad of złoty — once, and then a second time.
When I rose to leave a man approached, asking in good English where I was from. We chatted for a few minutes, then he came to an obviously pre-rehearsed set piece: (paraphrased) “Your Mr. Reagan’s landslide in 1984 would have been even larger if Poles were allowed to vote.”
Fifteen fairly tumultuous years later, our minibus parked in Zakopane for a few hours of exploration. There was time for a quick Żywiec lager at the Hotel Litwor’s beer garden before our drive to the brewery, a 45-minute trip that took almost three hours, given the slowness of traffic on the back roads.
We went straight to the brewery and dove into Polish brewing history. Żywiec was founded in 1856, when Poland was part of the Austrian empire. The Habsburg imperial family owned the brewery until it was nationalized by the Communists following WWII; a quarter-century ago, Heineken gobbled it up.
Obviously Żywiec produces a stable of top-selling golden lagers, but the reason for our pilgrimage was to learn about its version of Porter, which became available to us in New Albany in the late 1990s and has drifted in and out of distribution hereabouts ever since.
The Beer Judge Certification Program description for Baltic Porter indicates that top-fermented English-style Porters and strong Stouts may well have been the original impetus for dark beers brewed in places like Poland, Estonia and Finland, but German lager brewing techniques supplanted ale-making habits long ago.
My theory always has been that brewers kept the same basic recipe for Porter but switched to lager yeast and cool fermentation.
Alcohol contents crept up, and these days some examples of Baltic Porter seem closer to Doppelbock, while others lean toward Imperial Stouts. Irrespective, they’re among my favorite styles of beer.
An entire crate of Porter in bottles was consumed at the brewery after the tour, and we saw it here and there in Krakow (also bottled), but in truth it was a low priority for Żywiec at the time. However, and to me quite happily, the global craft beer revolution has made Żywiec Porter and brands like it valuable again.
Having returned to Budapest for three final days following beers in Olomouc, Mikulov and Vienna, a second brewery tour awaited.
Dreher (Kőbánya) Brewery (Dreher Sörgyárak) in Budapest is owned by Asahi Breweries. Its main products are the Dreher Gold, Arany Ászok and Kőbányai Világos pilsener-style lagers but it also brews Dreher Bak (a double bock), a full-bodied dark beer.
The brewery’s history dates to Anton Dreher. If there existed a Mt. Rushmore of Central European lager brewing, Anton would be prominently featured on it.
At the time of our visit, Dreher was transitioning from ownership by South African Breweries to SABMiller, reflecting (a) the manner by which former communist breweries were quickly devoured by global brewing conglomerates during the period following the fall of the Berlin Wall, and (b) the manner by which those same brewing conglomerates have been devouring themselves ever since.
I was there to drink Bak, an excellent example of the genre, and a brand I’d have loved to carry at the Public House. Alas, Hungarian beers simply didn’t (and don’t) ring bells in America; I spent quality time during the post-tour taproom sampling chatting with eager young export department reps, but there wasn’t much anyone here or there could do to “Get Bak” to the States.
There are also too few Hungarian restaurants in America, and not nearly enough Goulash Soup (Gulyás; beef), Paprika Chicken (Paprikás Csirke), Segedínský Goulash (Székelykáposzta; a pork and sauerkraut stew) or Stuffed Cabbage (töltött káposzta), and sour cherry soup (meggyesleves), to name just five Hungarian dishes I adore.
At least we’d have a final opportunity to graze a few of them. Jenő’s plan for the group’s departing reception called for an evening at Megyeri Csárda, a 300-year-old Hungarian tavern and roadhouse located on the old road by the Danube, leading north toward the town of Vác.
Csárda is a word taken to imply a traditional Hungarian setting: rustic and folkish décor, food, drink and music.
It was an exceptional night, and the forthcoming photos tell the story. Since our outing, Megyeri Csárda fell on hard times and recently closed. But it’s a protected historical property, and currently the restaurant is being resurrected by a young chef named Viktor Moldován.
“This csárda has traditions, customs, stories, and signature dishes—you just need some research to uncover the secrets behind it. We need to go back to the time when it all began: see how they served, what hospitality looked like, and what traditions we can still use today. There is centuries’ worth of experience in the history of this csárda, and it would be a shame to let it disappear. For this, we need food historians and researchers whose help could make this into a fantastic place.”
Atmospheric? You bet.
While we were in Budapest, Jenő announced that he’d arranged a tour of Hungary’s famous Parliament building on the Danube, to be conducted by a sitting member of the National Assembly. After a quarter-century seeing this man in the photo, but not knowing his name, I decided to investigate.
He is Sándor Arnóth (left; 1960 – 2011), a member of Fidesz, he also served as mayor of the town of Püspökladány. His wife Judit stands next to him in the photo. Tragically, Arnóth was killed in an automobile crash.
The Parliament visit amazed me. We were ushered inside like we owned the joint, based entirely on Jenő’s word that we were law-abiding tourists. Also while in Budapest, Southern Indiana native and longtime resident Kristin Faurest conducted an early evening urban orientation walk with commentary and a drink here and there.
Does anyone out there have photos? I don’t.
Back at the hotel the night before our return, several of us uncorked bottles of Polish mead (fermented honey), which are differentiated by the ratio or honey to water. They’re amazing libations, but it’s a story I cannot tell, for no other reason than I remember almost nothing.
In fact, I remained drunk next morning at the airport. This made for an extremely uncomfortable flight home. Overall I’d have preferred a lengthier sabbatical, maybe reposing on the shore of Lake Balaton.
But three cheers to Jenő for making it all possible. What a life!
—
Euro #21 (2002): Miraculously, we arrive unscathed at glorious Belgian and German beer shrines
The September tour in 2002 was planned around the Belgian city of Poperinge and its triennial harvest festival. It was the last of four Euro beer trips in 2001 and 2002, albeit the first to be planned owing to festival’s fixed running date every third year.
Actually I’ve never known what to call this festival in honor of the “magic cone.” My habitual shorthand is “hop” fest, even though a solitary hop cone in a vacuum isn’t of much use. Hops fest is better.
In 2026, the fest returns, and Poperinge’s tourism office is promoting it as the “Beer & Hop Festival.” Given that the 2020 celebration fell victim to pandemic restrictions, it’s now seven fests ago that I prepared a second group visit to Poperinge. It’s always a rewarding, fun and periodically reverential weekend.
Compared to 1999, my group in 2002 was pint-sized. The “interested” list never recovered from 9-11, and these many years later it’s easy to forget how long it took for casual travelers to feel comfortable flying again. However, despite reduced numbers, this group was among my most “beer-knowledgeable,” pound for pound.
Once again I worked with the Vanlerberghe transportation firm. Unfortunately, owner Patrick’s choice of driver (I’ll call him “Didier”) struggled to cope with job requirements from the moment he picked us up at the Brussels airport, bound directly for an opening Altbier/Kölsch sampling sequence in Düsseldorf and Cologne.
Didier was older, thin to the point of malnourishment; he was pleasant, but jumpy and nervous, with a shell-shocked demeanor reminiscent of deputy sheriff Barney Fife’s.
It felt third-string. Had Patrick brought up a has-been from Double-A to make a spot start during the stretch drive, in hopes of one final hurrah? If so, the gamble tanked, and Didier gave up six runs in the opening frame, leaving the bases loaded for his relievers.
On the open road, Didier was borderline serviceable. However, he seemed overmatched directionally (remember, this was the era prior to GPS standardization), and almost immediately the sarcasm commenced.
- Q: What is Didier’s foremost driving skill?
- A: Backing up and turning around, because he’s always lost.
By the trip’s second day, it was clear that Didier needed help finding his way. I moved to the front seat, to the driver’s right, and opened an old-school paper road map purchased during a motorway truck stop bathroom break, navigating our route as best I could as a foreigner impeded by language barriers.
We somehow made it to the Hansa Hotel in Dusseldorf and enjoyed an afternoon of Altbier roaming. The following day called for a brief 50-minute drive to Cologne to tour the Reissdorf brewery; this is the point when I began calling plays, because Didier expanded this brief hop into a two-hour, fifteen minute crawl, causing us to be late for our scheduled lunchtime gig.
All the while, my own map clearly showed that Didier remained determined to follow his preconceived route to an entirely different brewery on the opposite side of Cologne. Eventually he consulted a passing delivery driver, then asked directions of a policeman, and finally delivered us to the address I’d been pointing to all along.
The Reissdorf people were groovy, though.
After the tour’s conclusion, a 20-liter gravity-feed keg of Kölsch was tapped, and we were served a sort of charcuterie board featuring Mettbrotchen (“Mett”; also known as “Hackepeter”): open-face raw minced pork (with onion) sandwiches. Heads duly exploded, but I reassured everyone that Mett was subject to strict culinary regulations in Germany.
I’ll always appreciate being served Mettbrotchen, because it meant that Reissdorf wasn’t pandering to American visitors and their insanely picky dining demands. I was proud of my savvy crew, who drained the keg and cleared all trays.
On the third day, Didier barely managed a circuitous route from Dusseldorf to Bastogne. In fairness, I’m unsure why I scheduled such a long travel day. We ran late, and I’m fairly certain Didier’s driving time restrictions were trashed.
- Eltz Castle (in German, Burg Eltz), a medieval castle perched on a hilltop near the Mosel River between Koblenz and Trier. Years before, while planning my first trip to Europe, the German teacher at Floyd Central High School (where I subbed) recommended visiting this castle. I never had the chance previously, and then she died far too young; when the summit was at last attained in 2002, I thought about her.
- Schnaps-Museum in Enkirch/Mosel, a micro-distillery in the Mosel Valley. After May’s Tokaj wine cellar tutorial, I should have known that scheduling lunch for a micro-distillery was dicey given the bibulous disposition of this group. Sampling began before the pre-arranged food came out. But the brandies were lovely. The Mosel valley’s grapes and fruit were rendered into dry, complex libations; German law prohibits the production of “schnapps” in the American sense of adding flavorings to grain neutral spirits.
- Luxembourg City, just a brief afternoon layover, perhaps owing to Didier’s mandated rest time. I hadn’t been to Luxembourg since 1985. Several of us went foraging for beer near the bus’s parking place at the train station, and found quite little besides Portuguese and Spanish shops, testifying to Luxembourg’s immigrant community. No problem; Mahou and Sagres made do.
- Bastogne, our hotel base for Ardennes explorations (Battle of the Bulge museum, Chouffe brewery). We arrived after dark, but foraged successfully.
Fittingly, next day in the Ardennes (they’re definitely mountains), Didier peaked.
In route to the Fantôme and Chouffe breweries, the motor coach was traveling on a backwoods connecting road. Amid a metallic cacophony of grinding noises disturbingly similar to coffee grinding, there was an eerie pause, then a dead halt.
I looked over to Didier, who looked back at me quizzically, with eyes as big as cue balls as he waved the gear-shifting stick aloft in his hand, detached from the transmission.
To this day I can’t tell you why the motorcoach wasn’t rolling backwards, or how Didier managed to rummage around and reattached the shifter. His crisis demeanor was an improvement, though. We again arrived late to our appointments, albeit in one piece, although my fraying nerves now snapped completely.
Didier was a bit much, even for a patient man like me. The following morning I called Patrick, and it was a fruitful conversation. He conceded that he had failed to provide Didier with the print-out of the route, and promised a replacement driver would be dispatched to Tournai, the next stop.
Sharing this piece of good news with my people, I learned they’d already concocted a replacement plan.
As always, we’d packed a 750 ml bottle of bourbon as a going-away gift for the driver at the end of the journey. The conspirators now proposed to drink the bourbon themselves, then stash the empty bottle under Didier’s seat. I’d call the boss, he’d come to investigate, and it would appear that his driver was trashed.
Truthfully, Didier might have indulged in his own direct binge; after all, his driving was impaired even while sober. But I didn’t want to be punitive; it’s bad karma. We needed someone else, and got a male and female driver, who traded off duty the rest of the way.
During the 1980s, new school breweries began to blossom in “old” Belgium; Wallonia outpaced Flanders in this respect. Fantôme (1988) and Chouffe (1982) are prime examples, located less than 20 miles apart.
The Fantôme stop was relatively brief, long enough to experience the quirkiness for which founder Dany Prignon’s ales are justly renowned, but the imperative was to reach Chouffe. Chris Bauweraerts, then the co-owner of La Chouffe with his brother-in-law (in 2006 they sold the brewery to Moorgat, owner of Duvel) hospitably agreed to meet us and conduct a tour even though the brewery was closed to visitors that day.
La Chouffe is unquestionably one of the most enduring of signature ales from this period, emblematic of its vicinity in French-speaking Wallonia. A “chouffe” is a gnome, borrowed from Ardennes folklore.
At first sip La Chouffe is reminiscent of a Tripel (like St. Bernardus Tripel or Tripel Karmeliet), although coriander is used as spicing (as with Belgian-style Witbier).
The Chouffe ale yeast performs with panache at very warm fermentation temperatures, yielding a pronounced fruitiness, in contrast to the clean and dry character of strong Golden Ales that look like it (think Duvel). We carried La Chouffe at the Public House from the moment it became available in the mid-1990s, shipped in those big, beautiful 750 ml bottles.
By sheer happenstance, the date of our visit to Chouffe was September 11 2002, only a year after the 9-11 attacks. We entered the brewery building, and after opening pleasantries, Chris asked for a moment of silence in memory of 9-11, followed by an amazing impromptu story.
It seems that Chris and his wife had honeymooned in New York City, celebrating with a meal at Windows on the World in the North Tower. For their 20th anniversary in 2001 (it fell on Sept. 20th, I believe), they booked a return to NYC for another meal at the same restaurant, and actually had made reservations there ― just a few days after both restaurant and tower tragically ceased to exist.
Their trip was postponed. His tribute was extremely moving, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.
Chris loaded me up with promotional items to be taken home for use at the Public House, then asked if we’d be interested in visiting his “local” pub in nearby Houffalize, where he lived. I rode with him, and the bus followed us.
After a few rounds of La Chouffe, it was now afternoon, and we really should have headed back to Bastogne, except that a new plan spontaneously developed. We’d have an early dinner at Chris’s “local” restaurant, a four-block walk uphill via a street too narrow for the bus.
The eatery was rustic, tiny and first-rate. We took up almost every seat. Soon platters of various roasted animals were circulating, and Chris picked up the tab for at least two rounds of beer – but we paid for his meal. I seem to recall Scotch whisky for dessert.
For all my criticism of Didier, he was a good sport about the schedule disruption. I recall arriving back in Bastogne on a foggy evening, finding a bar open late, and being overcome with emotion (and alcohol). Chris’s generosity with his time on such an auspicious anniversary offered rare immersion into his personal world, something possible with a group of 14 travelers that isn’t with 40.
On days like this one, everything I’ve ever set about to achieve as a traveler, as well as a citizen of the universe, comes together as one. It explains my ongoing loyalty to certain beer brands like La Chouffe, and my love for Belgium.
Chris sold the brewery, yes, but with advancing age I’ve come to appreciate how rare it is to exit the maze with dignity intact (and a payout in-bank).
Moortgat itself is family-owned, and seems to have been a good steward for La Chouffe. I’ve not seen Chris since that incredible day in the Ardennes a quarter-century ago; may he live long and prosper.
Tournai came next, as ever ideally situated to be a base of beer and brewery exploration, which in this instance included the Saison DuPont brewery and the recently renovated Dubuisson (Bush/Scaldis) campus.
From the next base in Ieper (Ypres), high points included a visit to Rodenbach in Roeselare; snacks at t’Hommelhof in Watou, De Dolle, and Westvleteren ales at the Café de Vrede.
Oddly, I remember very little about the parade itself in Poperinge, apart from finding seats in front of the Hotel Palace.
In Ieper we engaged the tourist office to provide a learned elderly gentleman to accompany us for a WWI battlefield tour.
One aspect of the battlefield tour has endured with me. We stopped at a German war cemetery in Langemark; previously I’d viewed only the Allied cemeteries in the vicinity, which tend to be sprawling, face-the-heavens layouts ― dare I use the word “triumphant”?
By contrast, the atmosphere at Langemark was brooding, melancholy and closer to the center of the earth than any celestial firmament. We all felt it; not much grieving as somber, clenched and stewing.
Later I sought clarification, which led me to a more nuanced example of the genre: “The Grieving Parents,” statues by the German artist, socialist and pacifist Käthe Kollwitz, whose reaction to the horrific human cost of the war was highly personalized.
Kollwitz’s sculptures were in memory of son Peter, killed early in the war, and for all parents who lost children. Originally these sculptures were installed at the Roggevelde cemetery, ten miles from Langemark. After World War II, when scattered German cemetery sites in Belgium were consolidated, the installation was moved to the cemetery at Vladslo, near Diksmuide.
In 2005 we beercycled quite close to the cemetery, but I didn’t realize it. Too bad.
Kollwitz’s way of remembrance struck me as fitting, absent the heroic glorification mode. Then again, if political elites paid attention to mourning mothers and fathers, wars would have ended long ago.
—
Everyone involved assures me that we ended Euro #21 in lovely Brugge, at a hotel perched on a canal, gathering at ‘t Brugs Beertje for Daisy’s brilliant beer seminar, and hopping the bus straight to the airport in Brussels.
I do believe them.
Still, I remember absolutely nothing.
By this I mean zilch, nada, nichevo. Nothing.
My scant photos end at the German cemetery. The final two nights are unaccounted for, without receipts, coasters, or anything at all to spur my memory.
It makes little sense, and upon reflection, I’m chalking it up to sheer exhaustion.
From March of 2001 through September 2002, a period of 19 months, I made four European pilgrimages, each markedly different from the one before, comprising the English Midlands, Yorkshire and London by car; beercycling in Belgium and Bavaria with a wee nip of Vienna; a bus trip through former communist domains in East-Central Europe; and another bus ride through the Rhineland, Mosel Valley, Wallonia and Flanders.
These travels occurred against a backdrop of escalating personal tumult, alongside a professional regimen of constant pub growth and NABC’s ongoing brewery installation (it debuted in late fall of 2002). To repeat: how did I manage all this?
I must not have slept very often.
But I’ve slept fairly well ever since, so there’s that.
Taken together, these 19 months pointed to an ultimate destination. By year’s end in 2003, I’d been through a caterpillar-to-butterfly (or was it duckbilled platypus to vampire bat?) sort of transformation, with a new wife (Diana), a new house, and a new life. They remain joyfully constant, 23 years later.
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NOTES
* Tim differs with this brutally accurate account, but he’s not writing the history.
** Two great photos from our investigation of socialist planned steel mill towns in Nowa Huta, outside Krakow.
