There’s a beer called Westvleteren 12, often considered the best in the world. At around €40 a case, roughly ₹3,000, it’s not exactly the most expensive beer. But it is the most elusive, which puts it right on top of the ‘most-wanted’ list.
Westvleteren 12 is one of 11 official Trappist beers in the world today, but what makes it the most sought-after is the fact that it’s available only at the monastery in Belgium.
When in 2005, ratebeer.com ranked Westvleteren 12 (10.2%) the best in the world, the monks of Saint Sixtus Abbey in Vleteren suddenly found their quiet lives invaded by beer nuts. They should have been overjoyed, but Trappist monks don’t do business for profit. As the Father Abbott said succinctly: “We only brew beer to be able to afford being monks.”
So they wouldn’t sell it openly. And you can’t just drive up and hope to get happy either. You have to call the abbey, register your name and car, get an appointment, and on the date you’ll get exactly 24 bottles. Worse, you can’t return for 60 days. The monks actively discourage reselling but, of course, some homework can get you a bottle in the grey market. For a price.
So what’s the next best thing you do when in Belgium? You drink St. Bernardus, which is almost Trappist and far easier to procure. But before I tell you why it even comes close to Westvleteren, you should know that Trappist beers get that label only if they are brewed inside an abbey; if a monk oversees production, and if all profits go towards charity or abbey restoration.
Hops with history
Now, let’s flashback a bit. In 1789, during the French Revolution, the monks of one Mont des Cats Abbey fled to a village in Belgium. There, they set up a cheese factory and a brewery because that’s what Benedictine monks do — Ora et Labora (Pray and Work). In 1945, the monks returned to France but left the brewery behind with a private merchant who, luckily enough, landed a 30-year licence from some neighbouring monks who wanted to focus on prayer. The licence was to brew Westvleteren.
It was only in 1997, when the International Trappist Association was founded with its strict rules, that the monks took back Westvleteren. But they allowed the brewery to continue using the same formula — albeit with different water and yeast. And that’s how St. Bernardus (10%) beer was born.
So,the brew is really Westvleteren’s twin, as close as you’ll get to the real McCoy. In fact, in 2014, it came fourth to Westvleteren’s sixth, in world rankings.
At Het Einde Der Beschaving, an old-fashioned pub in central Ghent, I took a reverential sip of the mock monk. It had a sweet touch with a first undertone of caramel, but then a lingering complexity opened up — dark chocolate, some coffee and hints of banana. Dark gold in colour, it was a warm, sophisticated draft belied by the Friar Tuck-ish character on the bottle’s label.
The pub’s name translates into The End of Civilisation, but as far as beer goes, Belgium claims it is just the beginning. And after the mind-boggling variety I had just consumed, I was happy to believe that.
Serious brews
For a laidback people, they take their beer very, very seriously. Almost as seriously as the French take their wine and bread. And just as the French swear by the flour of a particular mill and sniff if you don’t use levain for fermentation, Belgian beer swears by the yeast. Yeast is the exclusive property of a brewery, never shared, and becomes the fingerprint of a beer. There are, in fact, yeast banks to guard against accidental losses.
Try Geuze Boon (7%) or ‘Brussels Champagne’ to discover exactly how yeast works. A lambic beer that uses wild yeast and is re-fermented after bottling, Geuze is a whole new animal — neither ale nor lager but close to a very dry wine, clear and sour. Pour it really carefully, leaving a little at the bottom, which is where the yeast is. Swirl and pour this into the glass and voila! the beer will turn cloudy and the taste, instantly more full-bodied.
Let me end, though, with what turned out to be quite my favourite beer and my favourite yeast, Keizer Karel Ommegang (8%). Made of three hops, it still has a bit of the original yeast used in the 1500s. We poured out the straw-blond beer carefully without disturbing the yeast. It was metallic, somewhat bitter. Then we added the yeast and, wham, it turned into a complex, sweet, smooth creature, with citrus notes and rich, feminine grace. No wonder the Belgians say they drink their beer like wine.
The writer was in Belgium at the invitation of Tourism Flanders
