Despite all word to the contrary, somewhere in a remote and persistent corner of my brain I believed that just outside of Brussels one could still spend an afternoon in a rustic cafe sipping unfiltered, uncarbonated, gut-puckering lambic from a stoneware crock. I imagined an establishment with tile floors, ceramic tap towers and gunmetal fittings, and adorned with plenty of old brewerania posters and dusty bottles to remind patrons of an era fast coming to a close. I couldn't quite identify the flavor of this imaginary lambic, but I knew that it would be challenging even to a seasoned sour beer drinker. Months after arriving in Brussels even, I still found the idea only marginally plausible as I read through the beer section of every tour book I could get my hands on. These books recommended the usual run-of-the-mill cafes that are full of, what else, but other tourists seeking an authentic Belgian beer drinking experience and finding at least a reasonable fascimile. It's not that these places lack atmosphere, nor in the least an impressive beer menu and unique methods of presentation. No, these places have all the tools to satisfy even the avid beer adventurer. But in a land with so much tradition, so much resilience to the forces of modernization and commercialism, there had to exist still some vestigial remnants of an ale culture where nature was supreme, where the will of the microbes ruled over any necessity or expectation of consistency. Over a hundred years ago a beer with a wild tartness was highly coveted as a refreshing element in an otherwise murky drink. All through the British Isles and the beer belts of Northern Europe an ale with a balanced acidity washed through the gullets of just about every pub patron. Though refinement and predictability are not inherently bad things, one can't help but grieve for the loss of any cultural artifact that reminds one of another way to appreciate life.

So, it goes without saying that I was relieved to read about the timeless cafes of the Payottenland and the flat ancient lambic poured within. Though few are left, there are more than enough for a day of pH altering lambic quaffing. None of these places are easy to find even with specific directions, and amazingly, neither the region as a whole or the gems inside are referred to in any of the guides to Brussels. I suppose it is only for the die-hard beer tourist that books such as "The Guide to Cafes and Breweries of the Benelux" are written. And I suppose it is more than just a small coincidence that in a region within sight of a Brussels apartment block, where cafes pour the last of the worlds rarest and most romantic beers, one could find themselves sipping such a beverage in the company only of locals whose ancestors have been quietly making and appreciating it for many many centuries. Call it weird, call it unrefined, insipid, vile anything you want, I call it special, and something worth drinking before it passes from this earth.

I found myself there indeed thanks to the effortless navigation of a Belgian friend and his street-savvy wife. The first stop was in Beersel, the southernmost outpost of fermentaiety spontenaiety. Inside the Drie Fontainen, named for the excellent lambic and gueuze they produce, we were treated to our choice of faro, lambic, or kriek in liter-sized crocks with the establishment's moniker hand inscribed in the clay. We ordered a liter of lambic and a liter of faro (a sweetened version for those with less of a sour tooth), and it was wonderful stuff. Both Thierry and I completely enjoyed it while Angelia withstood the test, and Christine was polite enough to finish her glass. Christine mentioned that the Faro smelled like a urinal and I nodded approvingly, eliciting exactly the opposite reaction that one would expect from such a critique. Once our meal of some kind of wild poultry in a kriek sauce had been devoured, and the crocks poured dry (click here for pic), I asked the patron if I could purchase one of them and he told me that it would be impossible as these were all they had left. He said I could buy them from a small shop deep in the Ardennes, but that would be a bit of a detour for us.

The next cafe on the tour was just too much to digest. Fronting a farmhouse and hidden behind a century of encroaching urbanization, the "In de Oud Smis Van Mekingin" was something pulled from the very recesses of my imagination that had kept this dream alive for so many years. With the matron pouring the Moriau gueuze, her ancient parents presiding over affairs from a corner of the bar, and the family cat climbing on our lap, this was surely the last of a dieing breed. The hush within was so profound, that it was as though we had entered the front-room of somebody's house and asked for a beer. In effect, this is what we did, as this pub probably was at one time these peoples' living room. I had never heard of the Moriau gueuze before and I really enjoyed its citrusy effervescent character. Much like the gueze from de Troch. As we sat and discussed politics, the place began to fill with the local variety, and we eventually found ourselves the center of attention, though it was most likely because we were the only ones talking, and we weren't being very discreet about it. Oh well.

To finish the evening, we navigated the void north of Vlezenbeek (where Lindemans is fermented) to the small town of Schepdaal and the the classic old DeNeve Lambic brewery that is now defunct thanks to a buy-out by Interbrew. Lets all cheer at once...Thanks Interbrew! The destination here was De Rare Vos, or "The Wiley Fox", which is the only place in the world, so I hear, that sells draft Girardin Kriek. This is really, truly, an outstanding experience. More tart and less sweet than a Lindemans, but not has intensely dry as the bottled versions of many Krieks. This place only sells it because they are longtime friends of the Girardin blenders. I'm glad it isn't too far away. They also sold their own young lambic that tasted much like old brown ale. Once we were done we drove the 10 miles back home and reflected upon the day's unique pub experiences. If I had a car, I might be back there right now.