The Amazing Before and After of the Amazing Japanese Pancake. Amazing!

So, the Missus and I just had some culinary adventures in the port of Amsterdam, a name I can't write without singing loudly to myself in cartoonish imitation of Jacques Brel or David Bowie. Surely everyone does that?

Highlights for us included plenty of falafel and beer. We're simple, hobbit-like folk who think with our bellies. I'm told we went to a concert and even a museum between meals.

The best feeding of the weekend was at the aptly named Japanese Pancake World. The specialty there is okonomiyaki; but you'll find "Japanese pancake" much easier to say I think. The literal translation is "grill what you like." To the Japanese this is ancient street food, often eaten at festivals. To us it's just damn tasty.

And now I imagine that somewhere in Japan there is a gourmet corn dog restaurant. Doesn't matter.

Mine was Hiroshima style. What's in there, anyway? A bit of batter, loads of cabbage, some corn, thin slices of pork... and a bunch of other things. Some little curly fish flakes. Noodles. Seaweed. Other odds and ends. This tall pile of stuff is cooked at medium heat on a griddle, slowly, squishing it down as some of the juices cook out. Finally it's turned upside-down (or right side up, if you prefer) and slathered with Worcestershire sauce and mayonnaise. You are encouraged to slather more and generously. I slathered like a slathering fool and was not disappointed. Every bite was a sweet-and-savory burst of yum.

The only thing this place was missing was some decent beer. Luckily one of Holland's best is a 10-minute walk away. The Arendsnest is atmospheric and very Dutch, showing great taste with its list of local beers. Pictured here is the Pek & Veren, a smoked stout from the Molen brewery.

I wanted more flavor from this one. You know, more contemplative sip-ability, considering its 8% strength. Instead it was dangerously smooth and quaffable. The smoke was almost too subtle.

It was awful purty though.

Beer Hunting in Paris: Not for the Faint of Heart.

It's a well-kept secret that France makes some damn fine beers. Wine gets all the attention. But particularly in the North near the Belgian border, farmhouse traditions and gastronomic culture collide to make several tasty amber liquids.

A short primer: Many of the best French beers are known as biére de garde. That means beer for keeping, and it's a close relative of the Belgian saison ales. Back in the day, farmers (read: land owners) in this region used to make loads and loads of this stuff to fuel their workers (read: peasants) in the warmer months. Problem was, it was tough to brew in the warmer months because of infection and other issues. So they brewed in the winter. The beer was built to last.

My point is, France has a solid beer-making tradition. And wouldn't you think it would easy to find good examples of this tradition in Paris, the very capital of France?

Well, don't think that. You'd be wrong.

Not only is good biére de garde tough to find in Paris, but you'll pay a high price if you come across it. This is a city where, in the center, even a watery Kronenbourg will run you €7 in a typical café. Expect to pay a couple euros more for decent craft beer.

A smarter man would just drink wine in Paris. It's cheaper you know, and it'll be good.

But I am not a smarter man. I am a beer man.

So it came to pass that we paid dearly to try a few interesting French beers in Paris. One of them, pictured here, is Gwiniz Du from the Brasserie de Bretagne. That region is known for its buckwheat crêpes, and this dark and bready number is made from the same grain. There were no crêpes within reach at that moment, but I reckon it would have made a tasty pairing. This was at the cozy Sous Bock, a rugby-themed pub near the Louvre boasting more than 150 beers.

By my count, this pub had more than twice as many Belgian beers (85) as French ones (36). That was a common theme; in fact, a couple of the specialist cafés we tried had virtually no French craft beer. Just lots of Belgians.

More irony: The three best French beers I think I've ever tasted--two from Thiriez and the excellent Bavaisienne from Theillier--were at the Delirium Café in Brussels.

So it goes in the strange world of craft beer exports.

I Wouldn't Drink That if I Were You.

Recently we visited the WWII Museum and Memorial in Bastogne. And just now a Bart quote from a very old Simpsons episode popped into my head: "There are no good wars, with the following exceptions: The American Revolution, World War II, and the Star Wars trilogy."

Anyway, the museum and its audio tour were interesting. The coolest stuff for me was all the random objects from the war era. Many of them were presumably from the pockets and collections of soldiers. I'll be honest, the weapons were a bit boring for me. I was a lot more interested in the comic books and chewing gum.

And the beer.

So here's a photo of a beer from WWII. Note the clear bottle; I think it's safe to say that this little guy is long past his drink-by date. A little trivia on Fort Pitt Brewing, in case you care: It was a Pittsburgh brewery open from 1906 to 1957. It's named for the British military fort around which Pittsburgh was built.

Incidentally, the British built one of the early North American breweries at Fort Pitt in 1765. Not long before the American Revolution. Another of Bart's good wars!

See how beer brings everything full circle?

OK, One More Thing About Lisbon, You Drunks.

I like to think I'm a dude who appreciates the finer things, and too often I don't mind paying for them. Real flavor and character are far more important to me than alcohol, which frankly gets in my way.

Aww, but I'm a sucker for cheap novelty booze!

In Lisbon, the cheap novelty booze of choice is ginjinha. It's a brandy made with fermented sour cherries. OK, a little googling will tell you they're not really sour cherries, but in fact a suspiciously cherry-like berry called ginja. Nonsense, I say. This is a Prunus of subgenus Cerasus if I've ever seen one. Ahem.

Anyway. In the center of Lisbon you're bound to walk past a hole in the wall called A Ginjinha. It's not much bigger than a walk-in closet. There, for a measly euro (approximately US$87.52 at today's exchange rate), you can get a plastic cup of this tart and syrupy sweet concoction. Interesting stuff, and an easy pick-me-up if your dogs are tired from touristing.

One more thing: Guidebooks will warn you not to eat the liquor-soaked cherries in the bottom of the cup, lest you get sick or hallucinate. More lies! I took that bullet for you with no ill effects. Chomp away and live to tell the tale.

All That and a Bag of Chips.

Late report from Open Brewing Day: We hit all three of our priorities at Drie Fonteinen, Dubuisson and the castle at Géants. The last one was probably the most fun, as a medieval atmosphere invaded the courtyard amid perfect weather. Minstrels and jesters ran around and bemused a sizable chunk of Ath and Irchonwelz beer lovers. Outside the castle a sporting dude in knight's getup allowed a gang of young whippersnappers to beat the hell out of him with rubber swords. There was an archery range, which to me seemed less than brilliant alongside copious amounts of Belgian beer. And there was much revelry.

Most exciting for me: the redemption of Saison Voisin. Ah, saisons... I could go on and on and on about them, but not today. For now I'll tell you about this one: The Voisin is generally a touch maltier and darker than other beers calling themselves saisons. It's also been a touch sweeter without much bitterness. On tap, fresh at the brewery, it was another thing altogether. The hops got all serious on me. That plus moderate dryness made for a very refreshing beer on a damn fine spring afternoon. Could be that the recipe has changed a bit since merging with Ellezelloise, whose beers lean on the dry and bitter side. I hope so. Or it could be that I've got no idea what I'm talking about. Also very possible.

In Beersel, we got a sneak preview of Armand's new tasting café at Drie Fonteinen. Sadly there was no glimpse of the café's beer list yet. It should open for real sometime this month, in theory. That's a must-visit if you enjoy real lambic and plan to be in Belgium this summer. Tell Armand that Joe sent you. If you're lucky, he might pretend that he remembers who the hell you're talking about.

The Dubuisson brewery just outside of Pipaix is also worth a visit, especially if you have a taste for the strong and sweet. The weather wasn't quite right for barley wines; I prefer winter and a snifter before bedtime. But the tour was a hoot anyway. The animated film starring the Dubuisson troll is much funnier if your French is as weak as mine. The gym-sized, high-tech bottling machine was truly impressive. Best of all, the beer tent at the end sold bags of chips for 2 euros.

Now, I'm used to be gouged by snack prices in Brussels pubs. So I assumed I was plunking down coins for a tiny snack pack. But behold! It was one of those giant, extra-large bags from the grocery store. They don't skimp on the chips in Pipaix, no sir. They do it right. And every few feet around the tent, there was a poster warning you to use a "Bob," or designated driver.

This is true wisdom when your beer is 12 percent booze.

Belgian Brewers are Famous Liars.

So, Sunday is Open Brewing Day in Belgium. Twenty-eight breweries will open their doors to you and other rabble.

It's not exactly a representative cross-section of Belgian beer-makers. They are mostly medium- to large-sized breweries, and mostly Flemish. Of course there are exceptions to both. Have a look at the list and see what grabs your fancy. Here are three that are on my radar:

3 Fonteinen: Lambicmeister Armand Debelder has been busy putting together a new lambic-tasting café that will be attached to the brewery and shop. At this café, amateurs and connoisseurs will be able to sample his usual beers plus a range of special (and possibly expensive) editions. Some have been waiting in his cellar for years just for the opportunity to slide across my palate, I'm sure of it. His plan was to have the café ready to open, at least temporarily for Sunday. There is some suspense (in my mind, anyway) about whether it will be ready. Even if it's not, I recommend a full-on meal in brother Guido's restaurant. Wash it down with a pitcher of kriekenlambic. I promise you won't regret it.

Dubuisson: As the Belgian Beer Board reported over on its forum, the brewery known for the mighty Bush barley wine should have something special available. The Christmas version of Bush as been aging for seven months in a French burgundy barrel. Apparently there will be several barrels more using the Bush amber. This is a strong and sweet but complex brew in its original form, and it will be very interesting to see what the wood does to it. I'm a drinker, not a brewer, so I don't really see how it can go wrong. So it's worth a visit to Pipaix on Sunday to find out.

Légendes: Two of the better Hainaut craft breweries, Géants and Ellezelloise, recently merged to become Brasserie des Légendes. The union marries witches to giants, but by all appearances we are still talking about two separate breweries with a shared name. The Géants part of the brewing goes on in Irchonwelz and Sunday gives you a chance to see a working brewery inside a rehabbed old castle. In the past the brewery has been open only on summer Sunday afternoons, but last summer I believe they were closed for renovation. The other brewery, in Ellezelles, makes a few of my favorite beers with its Saison 2000, Saisis blanche and Hercule Stout. That's not on the list for Sunday, but in fact the Ellezelloise tasting room is open to the public most days of the week.

Regarding the headline: I kid. But when visiting any brewery you're advised to be polite and proclaim your love for all its beers. Nod your head, smile, and accept any sort of nonsense the brewers tell you. Just take it all with a healthy grain of salt.

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, But I Like Them Too.

The clouds part, the sun peeks out. Temperatures rise, a little. Flowers bloom and moods lift. Most importantly: beer cravings undergo a seismic shift. Out with the winter warmers, the sippers, the savorers. In with the quaffers and refreshers. The mouth waters for witbiers, saisons and lambics. And ales go from brown to blonde, sweet to hoppy.

Today I went with a bud to the Abbey of Sint-Sixtus to rescue him some Westvleteren 12. Holy grail of beers, and all that. But I was happy to find the blonde for sale in the cafe's shop. This is in the heart of West Flanders hop country, and this is one of Belgium's hoppier blondes. It offers some yeasty citrus notes and no bullshit spicing. It's even thirst-quenching at 5.8% alcohol, though its rarity makes sessionability dubious.

It's sort of like this: Every guy in town wants to date her two big sisters. But I've got my eye on the little wallflower.

And We Got No Principals.

When I read about something called the Port and Douro Wine Institute in Portugal, I imagined classrooms full of barrels and bottles and students sniffing glasses. Port School! Fortified Wine University. Imagine the shenanigans. Watch out for that hard-ass dean.

But there were no teachers when I got to the institute's Lisbon headquarters, only a grumpy waiter who spoke no English. I speak no Portuguese, so I attempted a Spanish that's been completely ruined by my French. Oh well. He might have been the world's foremost expert on vintage single-harvest, I'll never know. At least the thickish menu was partly in English. It told little stories about the different kinds of port. I won't pretend to school you myself; look it up.

I tried to leave the beer palate at home and discover this stuff with a fresh tongue. And I failed. Ports, I should have known, are challenging if you want to taste a few kinds and learn about them. Often the oldest, most esteemed (read: expensive) vintages seem to be the most cloyingly sweet. Immediately tasty, but then what? How anyone teases the complexity out of those is still beyond me. I'm sure stinky cheese helps, but that's smells like cheating. Someday I hope to sort it out.

Meanwhile, my favorite was pretty workaday. Cockburn's Extra Dry. White and cheap. Just to show how little I knew about port, I didn't realize it came in white. The waiter saw I was a neophyte and pointed to it. They give the dry stuff to the newbies and save the sweet ones for the experts? Bizarro World for a beer lover.

Anyway, I recommend a visit if you go to Lisbon -- especially if you already know something about port. Glasses start around 1.50 euro and go up from there. Nice plush chairs and a fireplace. Shame about the Michael Bolton on the stereo. Have a tasting with 10-, 30- and 40-year-old tawny from the same maker if you like.

Expect a good buzz, but not an education.

Don't Mock the Snow.

Our first mistake: telling our guests it never snows here. As the four of us tooled around the Ardennes, flurries and sleet made intermittent appearances. We laughed it off and kept trying beers. Well, they tried beers. I was driving, until we got settled into Achouffe that evening. Then I think we hit every pub in the village... all three of them. Their quasi-Alpine, ski-lodge feel was a good fit for the weather, which we still managed to ignore. Also appropriate: the dark, malty and warming McChouffe. Getting that last bit of winter out of our systems. Or so we thought.

Back to the brewery for dinner. I went with the regional menu: Ardennes ham, fresh trout and apple pie. But the real treat for me was the Chouffe Houblon on draft. This is an extra-hoppy tripel, 9 percent strong, that Achouffe makes it for my fellow American beer nerds and our lupulin-hooked palates. Too bad it's nearly impossible to find in Belgium. Having it kegged at the source meant a fresher hop flavor. Some spicy Thai food and a summer day would have made a better match for this beer.

I had three glasses of the stuff, trying to will away the blizzard. No luck.

We left the restaurant to find six inches on the ground. We alternately drove and pushed the car up and around a mile-long hill to our B&B. It was touch and go there for a bit. We courteously pulled aside a fallen pine tree for local drivers too scared to try the brakes. And we woke up the next morning, backs sore, to a foot of snow. In late March.

Somehow, we knew, this was Al Gore's fault.

Beery Wishes and Salty Fishes.

The missus and I recently went to Lisbon. Some harrowing, in-the-trenches research confirms what a few minutes of googling might tell you: There is virtually no such thing as Portuguese craft beer.

In recent years, impressive microbrews have come from Italy and Spain. But Portugal? Not yet. Two giant beer makers, UNICER and Centralcer, apparently control 99 percent of the market. It might even be 100 percent. Surprise! Most of what they make is bland lager.

Think I'm exaggerating those numbers? Unfortunately not. This 2000 news release puts the total at 98 percent. Since that time, UNICER has taken over brewing for Cervejeira Lusitana, a pub chain in Lisbon. The big boys have a choke-hold.

Even so, Lusitana is a relative bright spot for Portuguese beer. So is the República da Cerveja, another faux-brewpub in Lisbon supplied by UNICER. I'll put it this way: Don't travel to Lisbon for the beer. But if you do travel to Lisbon, these places are worth visiting. Why? Two reasons: First, their lager recipes are a notch above what you'll find elsewhere in the country. Second, the food is two notches above the tourist traps noted in the usual guidebooks.

The salty local cuisine really brings out the strengths of these light, refreshing beers, which are nice for the warm-weather climate. The highlight for me was Lusitana's bottom-fermented wheat paired with bacalhau, a traditional dish of cod and potatoes. This lightly sweet and lemony guzzler was just the answer for that warm, hearty bowl of salty creaminess.

I hope to sell an article with more details and suggestions. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, please consider opening a real brewpub in central Lisbon. You'll cash in, believe me. Just imagine all the magic you could do with used port barrels...