One Is None

If you've followed this blog for the past two weeks (and I'm very pleased to say there are more and more of 'you' each day), you probably know by now that I like to indulge myself with a beer from time to time.

Yesterday evening was one of those times. Along with me mates Da Boy Tommy, Bens Tiller and Ece, I went to this bar in Ghent called De Dulle Griet - 'The Angry Lady', for those of you who don't understand Dutch.

Before I go on, I must give you some background on the pubcrawl habits myself and me mates foster (pun not intended). About each week, we get together to have a brew, and we choose the locations to do so very carefully.

Very rarely you'll find us in some trendy lounge bar, sipping away at a Mojito as Kruder & Dorfmeister or Yonderboi tunes play in the background - NO: we're those guys you'll find singing along to 'Ein Knallrotes Gummiboot' in a dingy bar, run by an old lady with fewer teeth in her mouth than she has customers. More often than not, you'll see us initiating a 'farandoleke' and maybe even an 'avalanche'.

I dunno, there's something disarmingly honest about those run-down places where you'll find only the 'lowest' (at least by popular standards) denominator of the population: people who've had their share of life's struggles and frequent the bar to escape the drag of daily life.

The most interesting people you'll ever meet are not to be found at da club where everyone is mostly staring at each other instead of talking and 'looking cool' is the main occupation. No: they're right there, at that pub around the corner where you see the same people sitting behind the counter as you pass by, day in, day out.

Take the 'Monopole' near the station in Ghent. Now that's a réal old people's bar, with an interior that probably hasn't changed since the 60's: glass-in-lead windows, brownish mirrors against the wall, old, wooden tables with plastic covers, all lit by the brightest and coldest TL-light.

We've been going there for a couple of months now, and during that time we got to know it's most colorful punter: Fons Sijmons, ex-bassplayer in one of the best Flemish poprock bands ever (The Scabs). Fons is by far the most legendary figure the Belgian rock'n'roll scene has ever seen. And he's got a bevy of nicknames to prove it: 'Rampenfons' (it's funnier in Dutch), 'Disaster-Inducing Fons' and so on.

Apparently, Fons once achieved the remarkable feat of preparing a bath for one of his fellow bandmates or one of the roadies of the Scabs crew, which resulted in a flooding of the hotel lobby where he stayed.

Nowadays, The Scabs still play, but Fons isn't there anymore. Drug issues and legal problems got the better of him and he spends most of his days at the Monopole. (His daughter 'Reena Riot' incidentally, does a real good job as a singer-songwriter. If only her dad would follow her lead and crawl back onto the stage.)

Long story short: those kind of slouchy bars are our favourites, as the elevators of the people, who frequent them, don't go all the way to the top anymore; the conversations to be had there are honest and real; there's lots of space to hang out or sit; plus most of the time they've got those old jukeboxes which warrant great background music.

I must say, however, that De Dulle Griet in Ghent, though very old (it's got its name from a big-a$$ cannon which was built in the 15th century; the inn came shortly after), is not a slouchy establishment. It's beautifully decorated with old artefacts (flags, tin cups, standards, gramophones, paintings) and the service is splendid.

The main reason to go to De Dulle Griet - if you really need one - is because they've got a very special kind of beer: the Max. The Max ain't special because of its taste (it's a typical Belgian brew), but because of the way it's presented.

A Max comes in a 1,2 liter glass of about 30 cm in height. While the beer goes out for a mere €9,40, the glass itself costs around 90 euro. Because De Dulle Griet has had problems with tourists running off with their Max glasses, they now oblige people to relinquish one shoe when they order the beer. The shoe then gets hoisted to the ceiling in a metal basket.

What can I say, it's a special experience, drinking this Max beer. The fun begins even before you put the glass to your lips, because your shoe gets taken away from you.

So yesterday, that was a good start to our evening. We continued our pubcrawl - after first having made fun of some tap dancers, who were practicing in a showroom next to a bar - at café Jos. Next up was the Porter's House, where Bens and me kicked Da Boy Tommy's and Ece's a$$ in table soccer, and after that DBT (who's also known as 'MLP' - 'Monsieur Le Président') and yours truly had a final beer at the Cuba Libre before we hit the road.

And if you'll excuse me now, I'm off to the Charlie Rockets, out here in Bruges, to teach me ole mate (and birthday pal) Laurens a thing or two about pool.

Happy Trails!

DM