Belgian beer
Not a Belgian monk in sight, but their beer is heavenly writes Peter de Graaf
Godliness and beer — for Belgium’s Trappist monks it’s a winning combination. Around the Western world religious orders struggle to raise enough money to maintain their monasteries. Most struggle even to be noticed. Not so in Belgium, where every Trappist monastery pays for its upkeep and people queue to get in. These monks could drive Lamborghinis if they didn’t give their profits to charity.
The reason for this success will resonate with any regular Bar/fly reader — Belgium’s Trappist monks make some of the world’s finest beer. Some experts argue a Trappist brew called Westvleteren 12 is the best in the world. So when I asked a Dutch cousin to show me his favourite brew, he took me — where else? — to the nearest Trappist monastery.
Achelse Kluis is set in forest in the very north of Belgium, 100m from the Dutch border. It’s the smallest of Belgium’s Trappist breweries but there is nothing small about the taste of its six beers.
Its 5 per cent beers, Achel Blond and Achel Bruin (brown), are available only on tap at the monastery. Four others, all top-fermented and with a mind-fogging alcohol content of 8 or 9.5 per cent, are sold in the monastery and occasionally in Belgian supermarkets.
If, like cousin Eric and I, you’re coming from the Netherlands, the scenic two-hour bicycle ride from Eindhoven to Achelse Kluis is a superb way to work up a thirst.
When we arrived the monastery car park was crammed with bikes and the courtyard packed with lycra-clad cyclists babbling in Dutch, Flemish and German. Most were grey-haired, all were glowing with good health — and possibly also with beer.
Unlike other Belgian drinking establishments, Achelse Kluis has just two beers on tap, no table service — you have to queue inside at a functional stainless steel counter — and a 5pm closing time.
Eric ordered a Blond and I went for the fuller, darker Bruin, both served in bowl-shaped stemmed glasses. Cycling makes you hungry so we also ordered a “potje kaas”, a pot of monkmade cheese cubes served with a splash of mustard.
Between mouthfuls Eric told me he visited Achelse Kluis every few months, mostly for the beer but also for a taste of the Belgian way of life.
“It’s not like Holland. The atmosphere, the people are different. The Dutch are loud and rowdy, they’re very direct. The Belgians are more reserved. The food is better, too, and of course the beer. “It’s probably the best in the world.” In all the times he’d visited, however, he had never seen the monks who make the beer, although he had been sorely tempted to scale the wall for a peek. Emboldened by a few drinks, I set off to explore the monastery and found a small museum, a busy offlicence and a vast souvenir shop peddling religious paraphernalia. What I really wanted to see was the monks working their magic in the brewery but my way was barred by wroughtiron gates and high brick walls. It turns out that life in the Trappist order — or, to give its full name, the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance — is based on quiet contemplation, prayer and manual work, not showing tourists around or answering inane questions.
I asked the lady behind the bar if she could let me in to the brewery to see the monks at work.
“Pffft! Even we can’t get inside,” she said, then pointed to a glass wall with a view of a row of lagering tanks.
In the distance I could just make out a hooded figure clad in a long brown habit shuffling among the tanks and pipes. One of the world’s great beer makers was at work.