Belgian beer: An expert's guide

So this is what passes for fun in benighted Brussels

Saturday night and I had a thirst on. It had been an exhausting day following Hannah around the shops. She was looking for a pair of suede boots. She found two pairs she liked but one cannot simply buy a pair of boots. It needs consideration and perspective - like analysing the impact of the French Revolution. My energy reserves were flagging, so we struck a deal. I'd go with her to the large department store on Rue Neuve if I could get a beer afterwards.

I kept my side of the bargain but getting the beer was easier said than done. We tried two bars. The first was called the Drug Opera... seriously. We waited 15 minutes but got no service. I left stroppily. It was a warm evening so suggested we try Charles V on the Grand Place and people watch. This time we waited 20 minutes for service, and others who'd arrived before us were still waiting. Finally, a surly waitress from another area came over to explain how her colleague (and our rightful waitress) had locked herself away in the toilet for 15 minutes - it was quite a mystery. She graciously agreed to take our order and pass it on to her colleague once she emerged. But it sounded like a case of diarrhoea to me so I made my excuses and left.

Eventually I got a beer in a bar called Poechenellekelder, opposite the Mannekin Pis. It's an old puppet theatre and the bar is crawling with creepy characters hanging from ceiling strings or -more uncannily - occupying empty chairs. Jovial puppets like Death or a blood-stained executioner.

The man behind the bar seemed to guess my requirement the moment I hove into view. Scarcely had my elbows touched the wood before he was leaping to and fro, bringing down a new bottle with each leap. A Belgian, apparently, does not consider he has had a beer unless he's been offered at least 700 different choices, and I'm not saying mind you, that he isn't right. The man behind the bar told us the thing was called a Gueuze; and if ever I marry and have a son, Gueuze Rayner is the name that will go down in the register in memory of the day his father's life was saved at the Poechenellekelder.

A beer with a fun troll theme. What will they think of next?

Gueze is pronounced Gurze... although the Flemish might say Goo-zah, but just ignore them. Gueuze is a lambic beer - which you might remember was the beer Hannah confused with Lembit Opik. Unlike most beers - which use carefully cultivated strains of yeast, lambic beers use wild yeasts from the Senne valley. It's a much more spontaneous brewing process. The beer has a sour, lemony tang and is typically very dry. It's a different kettle of fish to the sweeter, hops-heavy real ales I'm used to. Some people say it tastes like a cider, others say it tastes like a farmyard. Both are probably accurate.

Mmmmm, taste the farmyard

Gueuze is also known as Brussel's Champagne because of the secondary fermentation that occurs in the bottle. Gueuze blends two lambic beers (one young and one old). The younger lambic is not fully fermented so sugars (or cherries in the case of Kriek) are added. This gives the beer a satisfying carbonation, and is the reason it is often served in Champagne bottles, cork and all. There's a theory about the etymology of Gueuze claiming the word is derived from 'geyser' because it gushes forth from the barrel. Accept this theory without question and laugh at those who tell you it comes from Geuzenstraat in Brussels, the site of an early lambic brewery.

My Mort Subite Gueuze served in its own wicker basket 

Kwak - it's all fun and games until you get a pint of cold beer in your lap

A Belgian also doesn't consider a beer worth drinking unless it's attached to some unique and esoteric ritual. No two beer glasses are ever the same, and great care is taken to serve the correct beer in the correct glass (unless of course you're drinking the watery Jupiler lager, which can be drunk from any old cup). My Gueuze was called Mort Subite (sudden death) named after the famous Brussels bar. It came in its own wicker basket, propped up by Champagne corks. The most spectacular ritual is reserved for Pauwel Kwak, which comes in a bulbed test tube-like glass served in a giant wooden frame. However, sagacious bar staff always warn punters to keep a firm grip of the glass at all times. I guess they've mopped up too many puddles of beer and broken glass to even get any sport from wet pant tourists.

Another curious thing I've noticed, it's socially acceptable to drink in Belgium at all hours of the day. Whereas an Englishman would go to church, enjoy a night at the opera or do volunteer work reading stories to blind children and the like, his Belgian counterpart simply goes to the pub. I suppose it's on account of the extensive beer list on the menus, it brings out the collector's mentality. Like Pokemon, you've got to try them all. Well, I pride myself on an open-mind and an ability to infiltrate local culture. There's nearly 300 beers on the menu at the Poechenellekelder alone, so it's going to be a busy month.

I'll have a pint of Carling please

Seriously, don't wait for me - this might take some time

 In other news, the builder who was rendering our outside wall fell off his ladder on Friday. It was quite a racket and I saw the whole thing unfold - he fell 12 feet straight onto his bum. I was first on the scene, I poked him with a stick and he groaned. Fair play, he put on a brave face and assured me he was fine... but he didn't do any more work that day. Instead he went home, leaving all his bags of plaster and the fallen ladder lying across our decking. He didn't turn up for work today (Monday) and I'm worried sick. It's nearly November and plaster won't set firm in bad weather.

Move along, nothing to see here... And there goes any chance of my garden being finished by the Spring