Travel. Run. Eat. Drink beer. Repeat.

Just hold on for a second and tell me when you last reminisced about beer? How many unforgettable glasses you had? Those ones, which surfaces immediately, with no need to look up in the crooks & nooks of your memory closet? Those glasses and bottles which spark nostalgia or bare meaningfulness to you?

These days we do everything on the go: drink, eat, talk, engage with people. In a never-ending whirl of fast life, we don’t pay attention to what we consume, be it food, drink or information. We are gradually losing the sheer joy of reveling in the moment. Have you contemplated your recent beer or have you just checked it in Untappd, and ordered another?

Here I ask you to slow down, and let me share little gems I keep dearly as milestones on this bewildering beer road of mine. Those which I don’t need to call out - they are always close to mind and heart. Those brightest recollections of past; powerful and luminous as a supernova because of place, circumstances or being an eye-opening experience.

Early May in Prague is flooded with tourists, as they spill off the banks, literally and figuratively. I still have no idea who’s genius idea it was to go for a honeymoon trip to Prague (I was not even a beer drinker as much) in one of the busiest periods of the year, but we went nonetheless. That was the first, and the last tour of ours bought through an agency. Old cranky bus, huge noisy group, boring guide, crowded sightseeing spots. So we bought a map, and waved them goodbye, just to meet on the way back home. And that was an adventure to take, a magnificent medieval city to explore. Shady cobbled streets, framed by neat houses, terracotta tiled roofs, clanking of old trams, luscious parks in bloom, rolling waters of Vltava under the Karluv bridge, towers & spires, Gothic cathedrals, and a snug traditional pivnice - where waiters count your beers putting strokes on paper coasters. And inside one of these ‘lost in time and space’ taverns – I won’t be able to remember the name or address for all the world – I was brought a glass of Master Tmavý. A glass of a revelation. A revelation of “So, beer can taste like this?!”. That glass has opened a Pandora’s box, and it still hasn’t been shut.

Gauthierz Brasserie is a snug little place, on the canal facing Concertgebouw, in Bruges. And this evening, every surface is flooded with golden glow. The air is shimmering, thin as gossamer, a bit chilly, but still soaked by the light and warmth of day. A waitress brings me a glass (I already know this country’s custom of serving each beer in it’s own glass), and a bottle of beer I’ve chosen because of the beautiful name. She pours half a glass, and leaves me one on one with the Grand Cru. The aroma is slightly disturbing, and intriguing, unlike anything I’ve drank before. Its whiffs remind me of wild strawberries from Grandma’s garden, and homemade cherry vinegar. I sip cautiously, putting the glass down, unsure if I like it, pondering if I should continue to drink.. This unimaginable blend of sour, sweet and woody astringency unwinds on my tongue, and captivates me. And while I’m still a bit hesitant, the flavour opens up, and I give in. I finish this bottle, and order one more. This experience shatters my understanding of beer, deconstructing “typical” flavours and aromas. I’m almost crying over the glass, thinking a beer like this will never find an audience in my country, and would never be imported.

Thank God I was wrong. But ever since my life, and the lives of people whom I’ve introduced to Flemish sours, has never been the same.

You can ride a bicycle one of two styles: boring and adventurous. Of course, we always opt for the latter. So instead of leisurely riding along Duna, we decided to take a detour to a local brewery in a nearby village. But, as it sometimes happens, the road on the map turned out to be an upward path through the meadow of knee-high grass tangling your legs. Breathless, we carried the bikes, and dreamed of beer. Crossing a meadow, a grove, another meadow, sweating under the baking sun, and swearing to the tune of birds, we at last found something akin to a road - and after a few meters, stumbled upon a gate. Just so you know, a brewery in a Hungarian village is not a brew pub, it’s a dwelling. The owner here, brews on the ground floor, and lives with his family upstairs. There was a table, and a few benches in the courtyard, but something told us those were not for guests. Even though we didn’t speak Hungarian, and the owner didn’t speak English, our apparent exhaustion, and universal language of beer, needed no translation. We both got two glasses of fresh cold beer (named Keserű Méz – Bitter Honey, which was one of the first beers of new wave Hungarian small brewers) straight from the tank. We drank it happily, sitting on a long rustic bench, enjoying the weather, and the view. What bliss! We had to ride the non-existing road through a field (another one though) again, but that’s a different story for another time.

Beer connects people.

To this date, our small bottle-sharing club has tried a few thousand beers already. Having traveled Europe far and wide, I’ve gotten my hands and receptors on local stuff, and various imports, so more or less, I can imagine what awaits me in every single glass. So I’m nonchalantly looking at the last bottle of ten we share this one night. In the dim light, this unpretentious black bottle with no label - just a collar with brewery, beer name, year and alcohol content - doesn’t promise much. 13,8% ABV. Well, we brace ourselves - beers of such magnitude tend to be too much in your face, unbalanced, and aggressive. It pours like dark molasses; like oil - thick & viscous - and the aroma makes you dizzy. If smell could sound, this would be deafening - it knocks you down like an avalanche. I could spend all night just contently sniffing the glass. And here comes the taste. Receptors soon forget the language they use to convey signals of what’s happening to the brain properly. After the avalanche of aroma, comes a tsunami/earthquake/tectonic shift of flavour. For the first time in my life, I imagine the taste as a band unrolling on my tongue. It unwraps in my mouth nonstop, and changes every few seconds. Here’s toffee, here’s toasted coconut, overridden by soft woodiness, and oh here goes salted caramel, but where is it coming from?! I’m overloaded trying to process all of this, stunned and simply enjoying. I'm reminded that there are so many more things to explore in the world of beer.

PS. I promise myself to visit the brewery, which I’ll accomplish in a year.

It’s a heck of a day - full of hushed conversations, whizzling of a drill, and barely hidden excitement. We have no idea where are we heading with this barrel aging project, but today is the day of truth. Today we’ll get a glimpse of the future through a tiny hole in each oak belly, and will get to know either if it hides a miracle, or holds bitter disappointment. One of the barrels bares the provisional title, “Farmhouse Ale”. The beer inside doesn’t have a name yet, but does have character; untamed and stubborn. It doesn't pour obediently, but spurts the first drops to the floor. And when I tuck my nose into the glass, marked by the fingerprints of my team, receiving my first sniff, a thought - only one - thumps wildly in my head, like the heart of a small bird… “We’ve done it!”. Yes, the golden liquid has a royal flush; all the aromas of hay, meadow grass, and flowers, with hints of horse-blanket, and a bit of barn aroma. A flavour to be proud of. A beer, which would be talked about by saying, “If I hadn’t opened the bottle myself, I would have thought it’s Belgian”. I step behind shiny tanks to hide tears of joy while our yeast whisperer drills another hole in the unknown turf of a barrel. 

Hay Day is the final decided name, and we are bottling it that next week.