It doesn’t get much better than German beer

German beer is so good that even non-beer drinkers can be tempted. That was confirmed by WhatsApp photos sent to us from my daughter, who was spending a few days with a friend in Munich.

After the first one dropped, we thought: Must be cider, because Erin doesn’t drink beer. The next one looked a lot like beer, and the restaurant, next to a river in the Bavarian countryside, where the beverage was being enjoyed, was the perfect venue for it.

Who goes to Munich in summer and does not enjoy the beer?

Radeberger.

I thought about that and my first encounter with real German beer, which was in Windhoek, Namibia. I wasn’t on holiday there – it was where I was to spend five years working.

It didn’t take long to make acquaintance with Windhoek Lager, or its equally enchanting siblings, Windhoek Special and Windhoek Export, not to mention Windhoek Draught, which came in two-litre plastic bottles and, once opened, had to be consumed immediately (of course!).

The brewery in Windhoek produced and sold special, “Euro”- sized 500ml glass beer mugs which were often lined up in fridges or freezers in restaurants … a beer in a desert environment must be shockingly cold.

On the other end of the scale, British beer (and I was loathe to call it that in the beginning) is often enjoyed at not much more than room temperature … and reminds you of drinking your bath water. On my first trip to the UK, I ordered lager – and often Australian XXXX – when in pubs.

XXXX Gold.

Despite my Irish heritage, I had never tried Guinness until I did so when my wife’s cousin recommended I try it. It was in Wales and the conversation went something like this: Look you. I’ve bought you six of them and you’ve got to drink them all because, boyo, that’s the only way you get “the taste”.

His theory was that if you stop before finishing all six in one session, all you would be left with would be a vague wondering about why you bothered with the bitter heavy brew.

I persevered (left one or two, though) and, to this today, I do like the odd Guinness. One of the best places to enjoy a pint of the stuff, with its milky froth “head”, is at the restaurant at the top of the Guinness Brewery in Dublin, looking out through windows emblazoned with words from James Joyce.

I’ve been to America on four occasions – to Washington, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles. And when I did drink beer, as I recall, it was Heineken. The Yanks don’t do good beer.

Guinness. Picture: iStock

The Italians, surprisingly – because they are renowned more for wine – also do good beer. One of my all-time favourite beers was a Peroni, enjoyed on an early summer evening at a restaurant on the island of Capri.

It tasted like heaven. Maybe it was, or maybe I was thirsty after a long hike around the island in sweltering heat … or maybe I was overwhelmed by La Dolce Vita.

In Paris on New Year’s Day in 1987, strolling down the Champs Elysees, my wife and I pulled in out of the cold to enjoy a “croque monsieur” (glorified cheese and ham toastie, basically) each, accompanied by two small (200ml) glasses of beer. And we paid the equivalent of R60 for the privilege.

Schillergarten restaurant.

Remember, back then, petrol was 37 cents per litre, so we spent what amounted to the cost of 162 litres of petrol (which will cost you about R2 500 today).

Favourite beer and place? Without doubt it would have to be Dresden, at the Schillergarten restaurant – named after poet, philosopher and playwright Friedrich Schiller.

Enjoying a schnitzel with a large flagon of draught Radeberger beer, watching the paddlesteamers wafting by, is about as close as I’ve come on my travels to “It doesn’t get much better than this …”

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