The Best Beer in the World

Beer isn't wine. Beside the obvious difference in ingredients, the mindset is different. People accept that wine is an agricultural product, influenced by the season. It's fine for a wine to be different every time. Great vintages become legend. Even though beer is just as much a result of a farmer's toil, the brewer is expected to streamline a process, find a level of consistency year after year to compensate for a bad crop. As a result, beer doesn't generate bottles that spark wonder. Rarity in beer is rare, most often the result of a self-created scarcity. Yet, there still exists one beer that does inspire. One beer that perks up the ears of most beer nerds. And I needed to try it.

Belgium is well known for its beer and among the most celebrated are the those of the Trappists. These are beer brewed by actual monks or at least brewed at a monastery. There are very specific rules on how to be labelled a Trappist beer, few of which actually have much influence on the quality of beer itself. (The other two rules besides being brewed by monks on a monastery is that the brewing is secondary to the the observance of God and is merely meant to be a fund-raiser for the operation of the monastery. All profit is thus donated to charity.) With the explosion of craft breweries, many of which were inspired by the Belgian traditions, Trappist beer has become big business and some of these breweries have ceased to be modest outfits, relatively. Some beer affectionatos even refuse to recognize Chimay or Westmalle as artesian products any more.

However, there is one Trappist monastery that has resisted the urge to upscale, distribute, ride the craft wave, and those are the monks of the Sint Sixtus Monastery, producers of Westvleteren. They only produce what is needed to support the abbey, around 5,000 hectolitres.

The procedure of obtaining their famous beers is a legend equal to the beer itself, either that or a joke. First, you must call their hotline, which is only open during certain hours. Given the beer's demand, it's not uncommon to sit on hold or meet busy signals for hours. Once you get through, you are allowed to order—and by order, I mean you basically reserve— maximum two cases of 24 at 2.50euro a bottle. The beer then must be physically picked up at the monastery, which lies in the middle of a field in the far reaches of Western Flanders, a stone's throw from the French border. This pick up can only be done during a short set time. One important condition of purchase is that you have to swear, quite literally before God, that you won't resell the beer.

A lot of people in the world have tried this beer, but very few of these have made it to the monastery, which shows how well the honor system is working out. It's not uncommon for people to call in, using a handful of fake aliases, then cart off with a van load, which gets sold off for upward of $50 a bottle. Considering that the monks control their prices and any profit they might make would be donated to charity, this is a serious moral affront.

But that's the allure of this beer. It's consistently voted among the best beers in the world (and sometimes, called THE best.), so opportunistic vendors and likewise buyers are both willing to spit on the good faith of these holy men who merely want to create something divine in the glass. They have “fought” back though. As of the summer 2019, they've put their reservations system online so that they can better control who gets divvied out their beer. You still have to pick it up at the brewery.

I'd had my own run in with the beer a few years ago. The sale of alcohol in Norway is strictly controlled by a government institution that has been self-dubbed “the wine monopoly”. Once or twice a year, they have a special beer release where they compile a selection of rare or limited edition beers from around the world and release them at certain stores around the country. On the the morning of one such release, I was casually browsing the list over a cup of coffee and dropped it to my table as if I'd found Kaiser Sose. Right on the page was Westvleteren 12. I ran out the door without changing out of my pyjamas, jumped on my wife's bike, and booked it to town. I frantically searched the beer cases that they'd haphazardly scattered on the floor of the store, looking for that iconic cap (the bottles themselves have no label). I found a clerk, basically grabbed his shirt and demanded to know where it was.

He removed my hands as if it was a normal occurrence to be assaulted by beer-obsessed customers and said in Norwegian, “you'd really like some that.”

I nodded.

“We sold out in 10 minutes. People were waiting outside since dawn.”

I was flabbergasted. Were there so many people in this small city who paid enough attention to these obscure beer releases, scoured the lists, and even knew enough to know the treasure that was this beer, that they'd sell out so quick?

As luck would have it, one of those people would become friends with me. Sure, he got some of the 12, but he wasn't willing to open those. He was only kind enough to share the 8. It was at a party hosted by my sommelier friends (yes, imagine the parties where there are no fewer than three wine sommeliers and myself, a beer sommelier, swirling and sniffing and sipping and soliloquying.) It was a fantastic beer and it only made me wonder what the 12 would be like. I knew that some day, I'd have to make the journey to Belgium.

Now, I'm not saying I wanted to go to Belgium for a single beer. There was a whole list. I'd been trying to convince my wife that Belgium was a great vacation spot for years.

“They eat french fries with mussles and mayonaise!” My wife doesn't eat mussels.

“Look at the medieval charms of Bruges!” My wife thought it looked like any number European cities.

“So much happened there. Waterloo. World War 1. That Wonder Woman movie.” She ignored me.

She knew the truth. A vacation to Belgium would be her driving me around from brewery to monastery, while I drank every new beer I found. So, I'm not proud of it (nor do I regret it), but since my summer job ended at the end of August, but my wife's placement went on until September, I took a solo vacation to Belgium. Before you get uppity about abandoning my wife to gallivant around and drink beer, just know that she'd taken a girls' trip earlier that year to Paris, leaving me to take care of the dog alone.

Sint Sixtus is located not far from the site of many horrible scenes of death: Ypres and Dunkirk are two of the most famous. So, it's a bit weird to see how peaceful, and simply mundane of an area it is, not so very different from where grew up myself. Yet, for beer lovers, it's hardly boring. It's the primary hop growing region of the country and Westvleteren is only one of many world class beer producers in a 20 mile radius. One could easily have a nice Beligian holiday only by travelling by train, but my desire to explore this area necessitated a car.

I did not pre order the beer by phone, mainly because I was flying on to Hungary and I didn't have space for 24 beers. Unlike many, I wished to respect the monks' request to not resell it. There is one other channel to get the beer. The monks own a small cafe across from the monastery where they serve the beer. There is no guarantee that they'll have the beer. Many have made the journey only to drive away disappointed. I was willing to take this risk.

I arrived in Popperinge, met by rain. It was far to early to start sipping 10% ABV beer, so I made a visit the fantastic hop museum, a must visit for anyone even remotely interested in hop harvesting. The gift shop had a great selection of the local beers, but the crown jewel was not there. (Naturally, this is quite subjective as they had St. Bernardus Abt another top quadrupel, St. Bernadus Wit, which I consider the top example of the style, Hommelbier, which when fresh is the best hoppy beer in Belgium, among others). The prices were shocking. Some classic beers were there for less than 2 euro when they usually fetch close to five. Of course I had to buy a nice selection. When in Popperinge...

The monastery was only 2km from my BnB, and even with the help of GPS, I still got lost, made a few wrong, but lovely turns through roads no wider than the car. It took a good 20 minutes to get there. I'd even driven by not realizing I'd arrived. It was a modest place, hardly a home for one of the world's most beautiful beers. Now granted, this view was from the outside. It wouldn't surprise me if they kept the charm of the place insularly. Still, I reached my destination. It was time to find the beer.

I marched in to the cafe, found the gift shop and demanded (politely) some of the good stuff. He pointed to a wall of cases behind him, the logo on the boxes surprisingly modern looking. He asked with no trace of emotion or weight how many cases I'd like to have. I almost fell over. Behind him was the Mount Everest of beer experiences (Apologies to anyone who's actually climbed Mt. Everest. I merely rented a car to get here.) and there was no discernible limit to how much I could purchase. Yet, all I wanted was a single bottle to bring home and share with my friends.

(Now it's time for a short side note, a confession if you will. Two days earlier while walking around central Brussels, I found a small pop-up beer store with some wooden cases of Westvleteren in the window. I popped in and found a few bottles being sold for 16euro each. I talked to the clerk about Belgian beer for a glorious 20 minutes. We discussed the beer and whether it was advisable to buy an insurance bottle in the off-chance that the cafe was sold out. Being a vendor, he said yes. I had an internal debate about the morals of buying one. Heck, even the Norwegian government, among the most benevolent governments in the world, resold it. In the end, I was weak and bought one, which I instantly regretted. I only mention this out of the chronology because I simultaneously believe in honesty and building tension in stories.)

But the cafe only sold the beer in units of 6 (or to drink in the cafe, which was not advisable at 10% with a car). I'd already been collecting a selection of special beers to add for my cellar and bringing these with me would take up my full allotment. Yet, was there really anything wrong with have too much of the world's best beer?

I bought a six pack and and sat outside with a glass of their single/blonde while staring at the cornfield. That meant I was just one bottle away from completing the full trio. (The blonde was lovely btw. I didn't take notes, but from my memory, it was not the best I've tried, but was very good and refreshing with some nice toasty pilsner malt, a noticeable hop bite, and a touch of fruitiness from the yeast. I sat outside alone on a wet chair sipping away at this great beer as the rain cleared up, then took my glass inside, grabbed a whole box of my bucket list beer and drove back to the BnB.

Given all this context, one would expect that I'd rush out, crack open a bottle and tick that box, but I was hungry. “Coincidentally”, my accommodation was just across the street from a great beer cafe (I guess this is Belgium, so even in a settlement of 100 people, this is probably expected.) The waiter was also a beer sommelier, so he poured me samples of random curiosities and did his best to geek out with me despite having to serve a busy restaurant. After I finished my stew with a bright, spritzy IPA, which was not an intuitive pairing, but worked, I walked back, ready for THE BEER.

It had begun to rain, so my plan of sitting in the complete silence of the garden, sipping under the stars got literally rained upon. I found myself in a Sideways moment (I'll let the reference sit here. If you haven't seen the film, I'll do my best not to drop any 15 year old spoilers), sitting on a bed inside. These were less than ideal circumstances, but the proprietor seemed to have the proper glass for each of the 20 local beers she sold (and Westvleteren 12 was on the list for 2,50 euro, though she was sold out).

I don't completely remember what the beer tasted like. I have my notes handy and at the bottom of all the specific descriptors, it says “very tasty”. Yet, writing this a year later, I can still close my eyes and see the sun sparkling off the rain sprinkled grass or the long shadows of the creeping hop vines on their wire supports. I remember that feeling of anticipation as I rounded each serpentine curve, wondering if I'd catch sight of the place that has been brewing such a beautiful beer for the last 80 years. And maybe that's the ultimate goal of the monks at Sint Sixtus with their anachronistic, strict rules of sale. These monks wake up in the same quaint compound every day in a field out in a flat expanse of the Flanders countryside, where these moments take an extra significance. If you want to truly try this beer, you have to come here and stand on the soil from which it sprung, stand before the image of Jesus himself and promise that this beer is only for those who make the pilgrimage. Otherwise, you're just ticking boxes and if that's all you want, then fine, cast away $50 for some brown barley water, but you're better off using that as a down payment on a Belgium trip. Because at that moment, sitting on a bed in a BnB in rural Flanders, it was the best beer in the world.