Popularity.

What's this guy about, anyway? Would this fly in the States? How do the Belgians call it kitsch and get away with it?

I suppose we could open the whole Zwarte Piet debate. Or maybe not.

I was struggling with how to describe this fellow. Minstrel statue in the stars and stripes? I don't know.

The fact is that this gentleman, for better or worse, happens to be standing in one of the most characterful and character-full little cafés in Brussels, the Laboureur.

Oh look, there's a character now. I'm not sure if she's waving hello or saying, "Do not take that fucking picture. They will think we are racist." Never noticed her until weeks later.

This is not the old Laboureur that used to be near Gare du Midi until about six or seven years ago. (Remember that one?) This is the one that has been on the corner of Rue de Flandre and Rue Léon Lepage for much longer. How long? My theory is that when Saint Géry came to set up a chapel on the Senne in 580, the Belgae already had the Laboureur set up. It was hardly more than a few logs and a cookfire, plus a jug of proto-lambic.  Over the fire they were frying parsley and hand-breaded shrimp croquettes. It was enough that the Belgae couldn't be bothered with chasing off the Christians. In fact on the wall there is a black-and-white photo of Saint Géry with the tribesmen, crowded out in front of the bar. They're all drinking Stella.

Sadly there is no proto-lambic these days, but there is a hardy list of 35 modern beers. Stouterik is there, Papegaei, Orval, Rochefort 8, Hoppus. To pick a few of the interesting ones.

There is an old numbered charity box on the wall. It looks like the place you'd insert your hotel key, and then never get it back again. Out front the neon is cool art deco, and the street artist Invader has left his little creature there.

You might call this a café populaire in French, but that doesn't mean it's popular. Even though it is. It means it's a bar for the common folk, the salt of the earth types. You might have guessed that by the name. These days the common folk around Rue de Flandre are not as common as they used to be. There are bright streaks of posh mingling with the workers and hobos. But they're all welcome here.

The Laboureur is inclusive, you see.

Highlight #12: Best of the Browns.

Q: What's better than a shiny, modern, specialist beer café with hundreds of great bottles and taps from which to choose?

A: An utterly brown one, with a small handful of great beers.

I'd like you to meet the Brumaire. This is a real neighborhood brown café in Saint-Gilles, a corner bar that looks like so many others, with Stella Artois signage and smoky regulars sitting out front, holding court. Once inside you have the requisite gaming machine and little bags of potato chips or sausage bites. Inexplicably for such a small place, there are stage lights and a disco ball.

I counted 37 beers on the wall-mounted list, made from those slats and little plastic letters like you used to see in hospitals and elementary schools. To my shame, I took no photo of this. But among the usuals were Jambe de Bois, Witkap Stimulo, Hommelbier, and a few Trappists than included Orval, Rochefort 10, Westmalle Tripel, and Chimays blue and white, the latter being on draft.

Plus Saison Dupont.

Translations are imperfect, but maybe this is like an American hole-in-the-wall dive that happens to have Sierra Nevada on draft, or a British "community pub" that happens to have well-kept Taylor's Landlord. A jewel.

So there I was in the middle of a long foot-trek from central Brussels to Moeder Lambic St-Gilles -- which is just a couple of blocks away -- drinking a Saison Dupont in one of the brownest cafés in Brussels, which automatically puts it in the running for brownest worldwide. Nibbling on those awful, wonderful little sausage bites. Trying to figure out where they boogie when the disco ball goes into effect.

So for me, that's a highlight. More to come. Here's an explanation if you're wondering what I'm up to.

Brussels, Mussels and September.

I often wish I were back in Brussels. Here from my bed in Escazú, I have pleasant dreams about visiting old cafés, drinking lambic, and scribbling notes. My subconscious is researching another guidebook, even if I'm not (yet). No doubt the wife and tots prefer it that way.

Right now, though... I mean, if you had to pick one time of year... hey, mussels are in season. So are beer festivals. This is the time of year that Bruxellensis happens, in that parallel universe where Bruxellensis is a regular occurrence. (Hey, maybe next year.) And the Belgian Beer Weekend kicks off this Friday on the Grand Place. I don't love all of the breweries that tend to participate, but... it's not like I go thirsty, is it? And you can't really beat the Grand Place for a beer-fest backdrop.

Just up the hill from the Grand Place party is Bier Circus, of course. This morning I got their newsletter. Mussels are on. Cooked in Girardin lambic, in Witbier and watercress, or in Rochefort and stone-ground mustard.

Back to the Grand Place for a peek at the list: Lots of clutter there, but I could do with a St. Bernardus 8, a Witkap Stimulo, or a Saison Dupont. Or several. For something different, a Cascade-hopped Armand from De Dool. Then a Hercule Stout to punctuate the evening.

For now I have some hoarded lambics and a few bottles of Saison Dupont smuggled from the States. Tonight, before bedtime, I may have to open a bottle, bending my thoughts toward shellfish and tiny snifters of 10-centiliter servings.

Further Expansion of the Delirium Imperium.

Just got an invitation to the grand opening of the Delirium Monasterium... Just when you thought Brussels' most popular beer bar couldn't possibly grow any bigger.

The address says Impasse de la Fidélité 1, the same as Delirium's main alleyway location, watched and watered by Jeanneke Pis herself. So this is not the colonization of another street corner, like the Little Delirium over on Pita Street. Instead, like the Taphouse and Hoppy Loft, it appears to be another arm of the central Delirium complex. If it were a tumor it might be diagnosed as malignant, but the cancer analogy is unfair since the whole place will presumably go non-smoking, along with the rest of Belgium, on July 1.

Hang on, what's the gimmick? Taps? Hops? Tequila? No, this time it's monks and vodka. And Fabergé eggs. It will offer 100 Trappist and abbey-style beers, including 10 on tap. There will also be 400 vodkas.

Why vodkas? Now, you might be thinking, "because the profit margin on liquor is much higher than on beer, especially in Belgium where cocktails and overpriced and specialty beers are arguably underpriced." You cynical bastards! No, the real reason is that "in Eastern Europe, as beer in other countries, Vodka enjoyed a long Monastic tradition. ... Amongst others, discover a 50 years old vodkas and fabergé eggs [sic]."

For the life of me, I can't figure the connection between Fabergé eggs and monks. I guess that would be the vodka-Russia connection. Meanwhile I can't get excited about a place for drinking abbey and Trappist beers, which are widely available in Belgium and abroad (Westvleteren won't be there, by the way). But I'm sure the kids will love it, and much better to train them on Westmalle than that Floris fruit nonsense.

Want to go to the grand opening? It's at 7 p.m. on May 12. Drop me a line and I'll send you the invite. The usual rule applies: Everyone must claim to be Tim Webb.

*"I'm Tim." "No, I'm Tim." "Impostors!"

Thanksgiving Pairings: It Ain't Rocket Science.

Listen: Saison Dupont and/or Westmalle Dubbel with your turkey and trimmings. Some sort of big malty stout for your pumpkin pie. Then a fat Rochefort 10 from a snifter for the football game.

But we're off to the Caribbean for a few days. I think it'll be seafood rondon and Guinness Foreign Extra for me.

Don't forget to give thanks to somebody for something.

Hey. Thanks for reading.

Eggnog Hedonism, Beer Optional.

My theory is that pasteurized, relatively low-fat, store-bought eggnog has turned a whole generation against the stuff. Here's one way to make the real thing, plus a couple of useful variations for your holiday imbibery. This is for all you decadent foodies out there who prize flavor over arteries.

Separate four eggs. Beat a 1/2 cup of sugar into the yolks until smooth. Stir in 1-1/2 cups of milk. Whip 1 cup of cream until frothy then add to mixture. Beat egg whites and then fold into the rest. Add healthy shakes of nutmeg and cinnamon. Now you've got nog that tastes as naughty as it sounds.

Next: Let's make Beernog, which is the whole reason we made nog in the first place. Full credit goes to Randy Mosher's book Tasting Beer, which has some odd holiday ale concoctions near the back. With luck you already own this book or will be opening it on Friday morning. If not, you can buy it here.

Pick out a nice, strong ale. Mosher suggests Anchor Christmas. Many Belgian holiday beers would do nicely. We've used Rochefort 10 to tasty effect, but our favorite so far has been Hercule Stout — the coffeeish roasty taste adds a certain something. Other strong or imperial stouts are bound to fare well. I've also been thinking a Schneider Aventinus or other malty weizenbock/doppelbock beers would succeed. All are worth trying: with that nog base, it's nearly impossible to make something bad. I'd avoid hop bombs, but even those might turn out all right.

Pour about 1/3 glass of beer. Add a 1/2 shot of whiskey, rum, schnapps, eau de vie, or whatever hooch suits your fancy. Top off with the nog. Stirring is optional, and you can watch as the layers sort themselves out anyway. Sip. Savor. Enjoy. Best done next to a roaring fire.

An interesting effect of the beer, besides that warmth that spreads from your belly to your face: it actually lightens the thick, eggy, creamy nog. More proof that beer is good for you.

You don't drink alcohol, or are hungover perhaps? Here's another option I've been pondering: coffee. Based on the stout success I think 1/3 glass of strong, chilled coffee would be gorgeous with some nog. Maybe for a healthy breakfast on Boxing Day.

Is This The Best Train Beer Ever?

Forgive my typical American habit for superlatives. I am who I am. But listen: a Christmas Magnum of Rochefort 8 shared among friends, in the time-honored post-fest tradition of grabbing one for the road, after a superb afternoon in Essen.

Can you top it?

Around Antwerp in a Couple of Beers.

The coziness and reassurance of a well-worn, well-warmed pub in October. Being American, I know about bars. And the Belgians can call this a café or whatever they want. But this is a pub.

I'm hiding in the loft at the Paters Vaetje, just across the road from central Antwerp's Cathedral. The "Monk's Casket" has been a familiar friend of traveling beer lovers for years, but this is my first time. Crowds, companions and the nearby Kulminator thwarted my previous attempts. But this time I am early, and alone, and thirsty. And in no particular hurry.

So from my upper-floor table I'm looking down on the punters glued to the bar. They get to choose from any of 102 beers here, so naturally they opt for pils and bollekes. I go for 37.5 cl of Drie Fonteinen Oude Gueuze at €4, which is a steal. The music has been mellow — Neil Young, Simon and Garfunkel, Bob Dylan — avoiding the overplayed standards. Less mellow is the barmaid. And now I understand the punters a little better. Sorry boys, but the view is better from up here.

Later I head for the Oud Arsenaal. The chalkboard beer list is impressively obscure, but I settle for a three-year-old Rochefort 10. It would be easier to enjoy if there were about 50 percent less smoke and 90 percent fewer people. One small room is all this place has, and there are more people standing than sitting. I reckon the seats, all 16 or so of them, were gone at opening time.

Hard to get comfortable. Hard to have a chat. Hard to think. Easy enough to drink.

Yep. This is a bar.

A Peek Behind Girardin's Curtain, Thanks to Chuck.

Chuck Cook might be the most determined dude in the beer-writing biz. Despite only getting to Belgium twice or thrice a year—his trip itineraries are insane; how does he find the time to stop and drink?—he's managed over the years to get behind the walls of places like Rochefort and Westvleteren.

But his latest coup, I think, is more impressive. Earlier this year Chuck was the first beer writer allowed into the secretive Girardin lambic brewery since Michael Jackson in 1993.

To read about his visit you need to go buy or subscribe to the latest issue of the Ale Street News. Do this now. Besides Chuck's regular column in there you get other goodies like Lew Bryson's truth-laden "Steaming Pile" (this month: "Pumpkin Beers Mostly Suck"). It's a fun paper to read.

A sneak preview: According to Chuck, Girardin grows all its own wheat for its lambic beers. (Lambic recipes are typically about 30 percent unmalted wheat, with the rest usually pale malt.) It also grows barley and sells it unmalted to buy malt. So, basically, most other places calling themselves "farmhouse breweries" can crawl on over and lick Girardin's big rubber boots.

Also: Those beautiful, shining brewing coppers, which anyone can see through the window from the road, are not used for lambics. Instead they're used for the brewery's Ulricher Pils. The lambic kit is tucked away deeper inside the brewery, away from prying eyes.

There's a lot more in the article, and more stories and photos from his visit in the pipeline. But he worked hard for them, so now you've got to do your part and pay up. That's just how it works. Subscribe to Ale Street here.

The photo is mine from a visit in January. Not a forbidden tour, just a stop to buy lambic. Read here about how and when to go and get your own jug of some of Pajottenland's finest.

Rochefort and Spice and Not Being Nice.

It's not every day that you hear from the Beer Drinker of the Year. Nor that he accidentally brings to your attention an oversight on your part.

The 2009 BOTY Cody Christman – who has his own BOTY e-mail address, by the way, how cool is that? – left a comment somewhere down below regarding Rochefort and coriander. This was related to an article – "Heavenly Brews of Belgium" – co-written with friend Roy Stevenson and published in the most recent issue of Zymurgy. This is an article I haven't yet seen in published form.

In the piece we divulge the no-so-well-kept secret that Rochefort adds a touch of coriander to its beers. Did you know that, by the way? I didn't, not for sure. Not until I read Stan Heironymous' fun and well-researched book, Brew Like a Monk. Maybe you can see where this is going.

Cody asked how we knew for sure that Rochefort uses coriander. The simple version of my answer was, "Because Stan said so." In fact I thought we attributed it to him in the article. But if we had, Cody wouldn't be asking, right? Right. There's the oversight. I take full blame for not ensuring that the attribution was in there and remained there.

For the record, here's the relevant excerpt, from page 66:

"[Brewer Gumer] Santos downplays the use of coriander. 'It is a small amount, but people outside of Belgium think (Belgian brewers) use a lot of spices,' he said. 'Most of what they think are spices comes from the yeast.'"

Sorry, Stan. Thank you, Cody. And you're welcome, in advance, to those who take my advice and buy Brew like a Monk. It's an absolute must-read for anyone inspired by Trappist ales.

P.S. Anyone taking this information as license to throw a bunch of coriander into your homebrewed Rochefort clone would do better to save it for soup. Instead, I recommend whispering the word "coriander" over your brew kettle while bowing in the direction of Belgium.

I'm Not a Doctor, But I Do Drink Beer.

I'm recovering from one virus while watching another, more powerful one take root.

Back from a busy trip to Missouri. Wedding preparations and celebrations. Working hard, playing hard, and trying to ignore a combined fit of seasonal allergies and acute viral rhinopharyngitis. The much-delayed and re-routed flight home (why even bother having an airport in Chicago, if it never works?) didn't help matters any. However, the well-traveled bottle of homemade smoked porter I had last night helped quite a bit. Well, it was leaking a little. Had to drink, didn't I?

These trips get beerier and beerier as we sow the seeds of serious suds throughout our family. My dad looked on while my brother and I brewed, working on plans for a small home brewing installation in the shop he's building. Mom is nearly finished with her world beer tour. My sister and her husband are hooked on Cantillon. My mother-in-law is now addicted to Rochefort. My father-in-law brewed 30 gallons of zesty lager, all-grain and all by his lonesome, to serve guests at his daughter's wedding events.* All of the above were habitual drinkers of either Miller Lite or Bud Lite not long ago.

Full flavor is viral because it speaks of a full life. We all want that. Much like the common cold, there's little chance of finding a cure anytime soon.

*Pictured above in the capable hands of pals Vickie and Meredith. Gorgeous, no? And the girls ain't bad looking neither.

Session #23: Sympathy for the Duivel

In '09 I'm going to miss the nooks and crannies – the little places, off the beaten path in far-flung quarters, that I wouldn't have found if I hadn't been working on the book over the past year. Oh sure, there are a few favorites to which I'll go back. Maybe more than a few. But much of the thrill of discovery will be gone. By now I've figured out a handful of favorite haunts among thousands of Brussels cafés. Mostly I'll be sticking to those.

During the project I was also bound to this city more than I'd like. I've been neglecting the rest of Belgium. I've only been to four Trappist breweries – can you imagine it? – so Chimay and Rochefort still beckon. I've only been to the great Heeren van Liedekercke twice, shamefully. I've yet to see Bierloods. I haven't yet gone cycling around to lambic cafés in Pajottenland.

I know. You feel sorry for me, don't you? Especially those of you who never get to visit Belgium. Well, I'm touched, but save your tears. Because those are among the things I'm most looking forward to in 2009.

However. Those pale in comparison with the big thing. There's something that will impact these plans more than I'd like to admit. We're expecting a little Thirsty Whippersnapper come July. So I guess that's the thing to which I'm most looking forward.

The Chouffe Houblon at Delirium was the Nail in my Coffin.

Led an epic pub crawl/tasting last night: La Fleur en Papier Doré, La Porte Noire, Poechenellekelder, a new place I'm keeping secret for the moment, Delices et Caprices, Au Bons Vieux Temps, and a big finish at Delirium.

My head hurts.

No no, I don't want your sympathy.

I'll take this moment to highly recommend Delices et Caprices for your next visit to Brussels. A great beer shop that focuses on quality over quantity. Pierre took great care of us with a mini-tasting that included a spicy chili beer from Millevertus, a big holiday bottle of Rochefort 8 the Great, and some tasty cheese and pâté.

Tomorrow morning the Woman and I are off to Germany. There will be a few days in Munich in there. For the museums, of course. Might not hear from me for a week or so. But you never know.

Ouch. Stop that racket.