Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined it possible, but here I am, drinking a beer with Michael Jackson.
Yes, the Michael Jackson.
Not the late pop singer, of course, but the world’s foremost expert on Belgian beer.
[Author’s Note: Jackson died in 2007, 4 years after I wrote this piece.]
Michael Jackson was well-known in the beer world as a pioneer in studying and writing about beer, long before the craft beer era. He wrote 16 books, translated into 21 languages, the most famous being The Great Beers of Belgium, first published in 1991. He received honors in Italy, France, Germany, the United Kingdom, Finland, the United States, and Belgium, where he has been honored by the Royal Family and the Belgian Confederation of Brewers.
In case you are not aware, beer is big in Belgium. This small country is a hotbed of beer brewing with over 200 breweries, which produce around 800 different beers in 50 to 60 styles. Since the 12th century brewers throughout Belgium have created beers that run the gamut from the more “usual” types of beer to many that are sweet, spicy, sour, nutty, fruity, chocolaty, wine-like, strong, or flowery. Where else but Belgium can you taste a peach or raspberry beer or some that contain 12% alcohol? You might say that the high regard given to fine wines in many countries is bestowed upon beers in Belgium. And to add to each beer’s individuality, each is served in its own unique glass, with the brand imprinted on it and shaped to accentuate the beer’s characteristics. Some are shaped like brandy snifters, some are flutes, and others are wineglass-shaped. (When presented at the table, the server scrupulously turns the beer logo on the glass to face the drinker.) You never see anyone drinking a beer from the bottle – except perhaps at a trendy bar for twenty-somethings, featuring the latest craze from the U.S., like Corona or Coors Light.
In Belgium, beer and religion are often intertwined – Belgium has a saint of Brewing, Saint Arnold of Soissons. Belgian brewers pay homage to St. Arnold each year in a worship service in Brussels, culminated by a processional to the Grand Place, in which the brewers are robed as the Chevalerie du Fourquet – the Knights of the Mashing Fork. A number of beers are brewed by monasteries and religious orders. In fact, there are five Trappist monasteries in Belgium that have commercial breweries, run by monks, and protected by a Belgian official designation as “Trappist” breweries. Others associated with religious orders are called “abbey” breweries. In addition to the dozens of beers named after saints and religious orders, there are some named from the darker side of religion, such as the brands Satan, Lucifer, Judas, and Duvel (Devil). Some have otherwise interesting names like Deliriens Tremens and Mort Subite(Sudden Death).
Summary: Belgians take their beer very seriously. This is more so in terms of quality than quantity – They rank fifth in per capita consumption, behind Germany, Ireland, Denmark and Austria.
Another feature of this beer-saturated culture are the numerous annual beer festivals held across the country. A typical festival features booths by many of the breweries, where their regular brews and the occasional new offering are showcased. Some festivals are open-air events and others are held inside, but all have tables spread around the area, where crowds of patrons gather to sample beers and chat with others. As the festival progresses, the crowd expands (in number and girth), and the mood becomes, shall we say, more convivial, as the sampling continues. Ruddy-cheeked brewery representatives mill around, singing, drinking and greeting people. Mostly middle- aged men, they parade around in a variety of costumes and robes, some resembling university professors at a graduation ceremony, if professors at graduation were to carry around gigantic goblets or bottles of beer.
There are sometimes small brass bands that wander around playing. Many sound as if their musicians started their musical careers only recently. They stop in front of selected booths to play a few spirited numbers, after which the musicians quaff a beer from that brewery. My presumption is that these are “beer bribes” that the breweries are happy to provide in exchange for the attention it brings in their direction. The bands move around frequently to maximize their exposure (and alcohol intake).
But back to Michael Jackson…
Cheryl and I have driven to the Wallonian city of Tournai for the night to experience their annual beer festival. It is June, a cool and rainy Friday night opening at the festival, with only a smattering of patrons milling around the high-ceilinged community hall on the town square. Quite frankly, I am disappointed and a little underwhelmed with the turnout and the energy level in the place. While standing at a book table perusing a copy of the book Michael Jackson’s Great Beers of Belgium, I glance across the large room and see a distinctive-looking gentleman, dressed in rumpled sport coat, baggy khakis, beer motif tie and sporting a frizzy head of hair. My eyes move back and forth several times from the back cover photo to this man before I realize that it is indeed the author in the flesh!
Remarkably, this celebrity of sorts is standing alone in a corner, and I cannot resist walking over to introduce myself. We strike up a conversation, and he is polite and personable. (Probably thinking to himself, “Oh, no – another beer festival groupie.”) But then he asks where I am grew up, and I mention Plano, Texas, and he says, “Oh, yes, Plano. Let’s see, several years ago, I was on an island in Scotland on a tour of whisky distilleries but was simultaneously the guest on a call-in radio show in Dallas (by mobile phone), and a caller asked where in the area he could find [a certain obscure Belgian beer]. I told him he could definitely find it at [obscure Plano, Texas beer store].” I am really impressed by his photographic memory and flattered that he knows of my hometown 5000 miles away.
After a few minutes, he says, “Well, it’s time for me to go to work – Join me if you’d like.” “Work”, I figure out, is to do research for the next edition of his Belgian Beer Bible. So he consults a little spiral-bound notebook, scans the brewers’ booths, finds his target and heads off in that direction. What the heck, I think, and follow him across the room.
We walk up to the selected booth, where the brewer, a man of around fifty, introduces himself and places two small glasses of his beer on the counter in front of us. I gulp mine, stifling a belch, which should have immediately blown my cover as a beer connoisseur. By contrast, Mr. Jackson takes tiny sips, swirling, slurping, smacking and smelling and generally savoring that little six ounces of unique Belgian beer. He pauses to ask questions on the type of hops, fermentation specifics, and grain mixtures, jotting notes in his little notebook. The brewer watches nervously for any signs of approval or disapproval, scanning Mr. Jackson’s face and discreetly trying to see what he is writing in that little notebook. After all, a favorable mention in his book could mean greatly increased sales and notoriety for a local or regional brewery.
The brewer turns away and returns with two more small glasses of a second variety of beer. (He has three or four in his repertoire.) He places them before us, eyes darting between the two of us, and it now dawns on me that he thinks I am with Michael Jackson (assistant, agent, partner, fashion coach — whatever). And for the life of me, I can think of no compelling reason to disabuse him of the notion. So I go through an instant persona shift. I begin to sip slowly, hold my glass up to the light, nodding thoughtfully with furrowed brow. This continues at another booth, until some festival dignitaries come to whisk the celebrity away to a dinner and press conference. So, left standing before the brewer, I smile, nod, give a hearty thumbs up and stride off authoritatively.
I decide that I’ve had my peak experience for the night, so I wander off to locate my longsuffering spouse, who is happily reading a book at a table in the corner, sipping a cherry beer, and we head down the street to our hotel.
My chance meeting with Michael Jackson was a memorable serendipitous experience. In spite of my brush with Belgian beer fame, though, I’m not really motivated to become more of an expert on the subject. Like art, I know what I like, and that’s enough for me. Over my first four years here I’ve sampled perhaps 70 different Belgian beers, some great and some mediocre. That leaves around 730 to go. I would write some more, but I’ve got work to do!