Westvletern Brewery, Seven Years Apart
Beer Tasting in Belgium
2004
Half lost, riding in our rented Peugeot 306, I studied the paper map spread over my lap. “Belgium,” it read, printed at the top left; and crammed among the network of roads across the map proper, a designation for the town: “Poperinge.”
The narrow road David followed was meandering in a distressingly un-signposted way. I peered at the gentle fields and green verges, hunting for some indication of the St Sixtus Abbey or the brewery of Westvletern.
Finally we discovered a wooden sign propped beside the road. Its directions were confusing. I double-checked the guidebook: drive to the brewery, not the abbey. Monks and vows of silence, etcetera.
A shrine was on the right, hidden in a small wood. We stopped and wandered through, hoping for inspiration; or at least someone who could give us directions so we didn’t end up at the abbey. Instead we found a stone grotto, dusted with leaves and the breath of trees. Sculptures were set in niches, and inside was Christ on the cross behind rows of candles.
I drifted among the tableau in silence, absorbing the beauty and the preternatural serenity. Rows of green benches were set within the circle of trees. A handful of people sat at them in apparent prayer or petition. Their piety unsettled me. I did not want to appear disrespectful. A large digital SLR was slung over my shoulder, but as much as I wanted to take a picture nothing in the world could have induced me to lift that camera.
Eventually we departed, inspiration of a different sort obtained. And wrapped in a kind of otherworldly fog we found the brewery and the drive-through window as the guidebook indicated. Out popped a monk’s head, like some Trappist version of McDonalds. A simple exchange of far too little money, and we drove off with our crate of Westvletern 12.
2011
On the iPad’s screen, the blue dot moved steadily along its route.
“Turn right up here,” I said to David, leaning to look into the back seat of our rented Peugeot 307. Behind me Oliver was looking out the window at frosted fields and the darkened gloom of November in northern Belgium.
Even without GPS, the way was well signposted. There would be no stopping to amble about shrines on this trip. Not with a precocious fifteen month old and the taste of snow in the air.
We had been in Europe for three months: the first one in the Ardennes — southern Belgium; and the second two in Dordogne — south-west France. We were tired now. It had been a long few days driving up from southern France and we still had three and a half hours to go before we arrived in Amsterdam for our flight the next day.
Not the best time for a detour. Particularly one involving a brewery with some of the world’s strongest — and best — beer. But, one has to do what one has to do.
We pulled into the signposted parking area. Enormous and empty. In seven years it seemed Westvletern Brewery had turned into a complex. A wide courtyard led through beds of shrubbery to a glass and brick building, new and remarkably modern. We walked up, the air frosting with each breath. On the cobblestones, my shoe caught ice. I snagged Oliver, who was somehow eluding the ice and darting in a mad zig-zags between us and the greenery.
It was hard to believe, I thought, scooping the bundle of pent energy into my arms, that we were going to taste the fabled beer again. I thought of our last visit and how — in our ignorance — we had taken the acquisition of an entire crate of Westvletern 12 for granted. How seven years ago I had merely tolerated beer. I wondered if we would be able to buy any bottles from the gift shop, if we’d be able to bring some back to the States for my Dad, if any would survive the air pressure. Westvletern was known around the world now, demand was so great that even in this off-season we had been unable to claim one of the few allocations to get a crate from the drive-through.
The double entrance doors were glass. Behind them, warm air billowed; and to the left was the gift shop, stocked with more bottles than we could buy. We wandered, thinking fond thoughts of Belgium, and found seats in the cafe and my nose began to thaw. A waiter came. Feeling rather giddy, we ordered lunch. And two Westvletern 12s.
As I write, the sound of rhythmic bubbling permeates the bedroom. It is coming from the wardrobe where a glass carboy is nestled in blankets. A long tube protrudes from the bung at the top, expelling yeasty gasses into a milk jug filled with watered down sulfuric acid.
It’s our sixth batch of beer. 5.5 gallons. Darker than Valrhona chocolate, darker than a French Syrah. Its name is scrawled on my notes in the blue brewing binder: Westy 12 clone.
Recipe and tasting notes, coming soon.
Apologies for the undoubtable errors, I didn’t have any notes from these trips so these recollections are prone to the biases of memory.
Cover image credit: http://beerobsessed.com/blog/?tag=westvleteren
