The newspaper, aimed at the half of Belgium that speaks French, was angered by the fact that I listed only two beers from its territory: Orval and Chimay Grande Réserve. Given the decline in the complexity of Chimay, I had a tough time deciding between it and Rochefort. Perhaps I should have sidelined both in favor of Saison Dupont. That is one of the many problems in compiling such lists.

If the newspaper is a daily, you will be put on the spot. You may even start a war. The reporter, behind his notebook, or at the other end of a telephone line, or perhaps on email, will want instant answers. He may be the only non-drinking journo on the paper. After a night on the town, your brain may not be working very well. Geographical balance is something I always consider, though it distorts the end result. No doubt people would complain about that, too.

The greater problem was the ranking given to the beers. The Belgian newspaper had placed them in order, like a league table, with Duvel (from the “Flemish-speaking North) at “Number One” and Orval way down. The newspaper argued that these positions be reversed.

The “positions” were based on a page layout in another newspaper. The Belgian paper had taken its story from The Independent, a national newspaper published in Britain. The Independent had photographed each beer in the bottle. Each had a separate text, displayed like an extended caption. The beers had then been arranged on the page in a way that highlighted the differences in the shapes of bottles and the colors of labels. I had not ranked them or scored them.

Even then, I was annoyed with myself when I saw The Independent and realised that I had not included Saison Dupont—or, for example, its neighbor, Bush Beer. In these situations, even in my books, I always miss something which, in retrospect, I would have included. This can be embarrassing. These are not tablets handed down by Moses, but word does get around.

The awarding of points or rankings is notoriously difficult, but the word “best” is superlatively troublesome. In some categories of beer, there may be an obvious best; in others, there isn’t. The Ten Best Belgians? In that case, as you might expect, I wanted also to demonstrate the diversity of styles. A further factor was that they all had to be available n Britain.

So, were these really the ten best? I am not sure it is possible to devise such a list. Why did I try? Because they offered me a whole page, in an influential national newspaper, to highlight beers that the consumer can find in the supermarket, and that are substantially more interesting than the usual drinks.

I could have told The Independent that, while some beers are better than others, none is “best.” They would not have changed the name of this series to accommodate me. To turn down the offer of a whole page in a national newspaper would have been to look a gift horse in the mouth. After years of fighting for coverage, I would hardly do that.

Treasured Memory Syndrome

After the difficulty of scoring and ranking comes the problem of treasured memories. My first tastes of Orval and Chimay, in the early-to-mid 1970s, were delightful shock.

The bitterness of Orval was even greater than that of the legendary British ale White Shield Worthington. I later learned about the semi-wild yeast Brettanomyces, and recognised its influence in the woody, hessian-like, horse-blanket dryness of Orval. Another semi-wild strain, or perhaps several, gave a clove-like spicy dryness to the White Shield of my youth.

In more recent years, none of these brews seemed quite as I remembered. Was I suffering from the “treasured memory syndrome?” This thought renders me cautious in revising my written opinions, though I will do so once I am convinced. No beer can remain exactly the same. Strains of barley and hops change over the years, as does equipment. Nor is a brewery obliged to do what writers desire but, if a great beer loses some of its character, that should be reported.

Younger writers have a lesser context, but fewer treasured memories. One aspirant who beat a path to my door some years ago was a student called Christian Debenedetti. I encouraged his interest, and he later very ably documented the changes in Orval. Though they were significant, and to be regretted, it is still a great beer.

Chimay’s beers are still complex brews, but markedly less so than they were. At first, I blamed this on adjustment to a new brewhouse, but years have now passed. Another writer friend, Jim Leff, raised some questions in an article and was dismissed by Chimay as having “misunderstood” a discussion with a brewer there. Jim recently drew my attention to the ingredient labelling on French bottles of Chimay:

“Made exclusively from natural products: water, malted barley, wheat starch, sugar, malt extract, hop extract, yeast.” None of this will kill you, or even corrupt your morals, but it does not evoke a monastery garden.

The Brewing Father

The last time I was at Chimay, I raised some of these points, and my comments were greeted with pained indignation. “We thought you were our friend” seemed to be the message. I am. Chimay was one of the first breweries I visited when I was researching the original edition of The World Guide to Beer in the mid 1970s.

The brewery was scarcely known outside Belgium. I was a highly experienced journalist, but it was only as a consumer that I reckoned to know my beers. There were no “beer writers.” My every naïve or stupid question was addressed with clarity and care by Father Theodore, the brewer.

I did not know then that this puckish monk had worked with the great brewing scientist Jean De Clerck in the shaping of the Chimay range. De Clerck must have been a wonderful tutor. Father Theodore had a brewing scientist’s knowledge of water, barley varieties, hops and yeast.

He demonstrated a quality which he identified 15 years later, in my ”Beer Hunter” TV films, as “Benedictine patience.” He was keen that I should understand brewing, especially its Belgian dimensions—not just the ways of Chimay. He complimented me on the tenacity of my questions, and later told me that my writing was causing Chimay to flood the world.

My memories of Father Theodore are aired in my book The Great Beers of Belgium. My favorite recollection was the day, soon after his retirement from the brewery, that he faxed me, saying he was bored. The Order is silent, but St. Benedict did not legislate for communication by fax. With holy thoughts to think, I don’t suppose monks are supposed to permit boredom. In the last two or three years, I lived in hope of a text message.

Earlier this year, Father Theodore slipped away to the Auberge in the Sky. I was on the road somewhere, and did not hear in time to publish an obituary. He was in his eighties, and his achievements were commensurate with his long life.

Read more of our favorite columns by Michael Jackson

There are also Trappist ales. Almost all arrive from distributors in cases of 12, and some brands, like Westmalle and Rochefort, the retailer has to order once a week to slake the demand of customers, balancing that against the freshness integral to the Trappists’ charm.

“We have 24 bottles, tops, of any of them in the shop at any time,” said Matt Barclay, who handles purchasing for Bierkraft. “We do have a reasonable amount of business for Chimay when tourists are in, but our hardcore neighborhood customers, they mostly drink Orval and Westmalle; and Rochefort’s always very popular.”

And this insatiability, even with some bottles retailing for over $10 a 12-ounce pop.

Trappist ales are some of the most difficult to find and highly priced in the U.S., though it’s not as simple as supply and demand. The journey from recipe to chalice starts on one end with humble monks in remote villages 3,500 miles away and ends only after different people, as well as history, have their says.

First, the monks.

They are of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, and it’s exactly what it sounds like: strict adherence to the rules of their sixth-century founder, St. Benedict, that revolve around the ethos of “prayer and work.”

Trappists meet formally for prayer at least eight times daily, and consume largely only what they make, including beer (to carry the appellation “Trappist,” beers have to be brewed within a monastery, though not necessarily by monks; all of the seven breweries that carry the appellation are run by laypeople, though controlled by monks). This aesthetic lifestyle leaves little room for chasing profits by, say, maximizing the production of their breweries.

So the Trappist breweries—Westvleteren, Westmalle, Achel, Chimay, Rochefort, Achel and Koenigshoven—have deliberately limited their production goals to what works for sustaining the monastic community and its efforts.

Still, some are more limited than others: Chimay is the largest at about 170,000 hectoliters produced annually, with Koningshoeven (commonly called La Trappe) second with around 145,000; and Westmalle third with 120,000 hectoliters. Orval is fourth at about 60,000 hectoliters annually, and then there’s a huge drop-off: Westvleteren produces about 4,750 and Achel 3,500.

Second, the importers and distributors.

Joe Lipa was present at the creation. Now the national sales manager for importer Merchant du Vin, he recalled that the firm’s relationship with Trappist ales—and with European craft beer in general—began in the mid-1970s the way a lot of American relationships with the stuff began then: through Michael Jackson.

The redoubtable British beer critic, who died in 2007, made introductions between the European breweries and the American importer that wanted to get to know them. “He didn’t get the contracts for us but he gave us the references for some of those breweries,” Lipa said.

Merchant du Vin now imports, among other top brands, Orval, Westmalle and Rochefort exclusively to the U.S. Its relationship with Orval, in fact, stretches back over 30 years; with Westmalle and Rochefort, about 10 years. Lipa declined to discuss the specific numbers of his clients, citing their privacy concerns. But another source told All About Beer Magazine that about 2 percent each of Westmalle, Rochefort, Achel and Orval’s production makes its way to the U.S. (yes, 2 percent). Robert Hodson, the sales and marketing manager at Union Beer Distributors, which covers 14 counties in and around New York City, said, for example, his firm might get 100 cases of Achel in an entire year—that’s 1,200 bottles for tens of millions of potential consumers.

For Chimay, the largest Trappist producer and most active exporter of the seven, that U.S. percentage, according to sources, might approach 35 percent in a given year. For La Trappe, much less but in the double-digits nonetheless. (The importers for both, and for Achel, did not respond to requests for comment.) Westvleteren exports zero, to here or anywhere, preferring to sell its three beers at one location only—across the street from the brewery.

Once imported, usually by ships that start from the Belgian port of Antwerp, distributors take over. It’s a thankless science—retailers, especially in larger markets, always ask for more Trappist beer than distributors can provide.

“We try to give it to accounts who have been pretty loyal to the category,” Hodson of Union Beer Distributors said. “To try and dictate where it’s going to go and when it’s going to go, inevitably, you’re going to leave an account out to dry. Probably a couple of accounts are going to say, ‘Why can’t I get any?’ So you try to spread it to as many accounts as possible, at the same time, trying to make sure that those accounts who are loyal to the category are given somewhat of a preferential treatment.”
To be clear: none of the Trappist breweries needs the American market. “We have to allocate from each brewery,” Lipa said of Merchant du Vin’s strategy for its three Trappists. “We don’t discriminate—we try to be in all 50 states, and that’s a challenge because we only have so much. Saying that, the consumer knows this; the retailer knows this; the distributor knows this; they’re all just thankful they can get Rochefort, Orval and Westmalle—because, you see, those breweries don’t need the United States market; none of them do.”

Third, the retailers.

So where does that leave retailers like Brooklyn’s Bierkraft? Waiting on distributors, who are waiting on importers, who are waiting on the monks. The only thing that a retailer can really do to get a leg up on the competition for Trappist beers is to treat them with the reverence their scarcity here demands—what Hodson at Union Beer calls “loyalty.”

“They’re the accounts that always carry the beer,” he said. “You don’t have to ask them if they know what beer you’re talking about. They’re savvy; they have a good consumer base of customers who are looking for a great selection of product. They understand how to keep the beer, how to treat the beer, how to store the beer.”

When they get the beer. For now, Chimay and La Trappe (Chimay in particular) will continue to be relatively ubiquitous in the U.S., especially in bigger urban markets and on either coast, while the other four available for export will remain rare and often fleeting presences on your local shelves. “We might have someone drive halfway across the state to buy everything we have,” said Kyle Hefley, a clerk at Sam’s Quik Shop, a Durham, N.C., food and drink emporium envied for its wide beer selection. He was referring to Rochefort 10, probably the store’s briskest Trappist seller.

As All About Beer Magazine learned earlier this year, Rochefort is in the midst of an expansion in its production. In typical Trappist fashion, though, it will be glacial—over 10 years—and will not up production by much more than 30 percent.

Get `em while—and when—you can.

Of course, we ate the mussels and frites and we tasted the chocolates and waffles. But you know the real reason for our trip. We, too, had watched Michael Jackson’s “Beer Hunter” video in which he visited Father Theobold at Chimay, one of the country’s largest Trappist breweries.

At the time, America’s craft brewing revival was still young, and the only Belgian-style ales we’d enjoyed were from a limited bottle selection at a local store. We knew the trip would be an adventure, but had no idea it would uncork, so to speak, an entire new world.

We think it’s worth a trip by itself, but even if you’re visiting London or Paris, extend the trip and take the train to Belgium. You won’t regret it. Trust us on this one.

Belgium—the Source

In Brussels, we got a fascinating peek into brewing history at the Brasserie Cantillon and their Gueuze Museum. Since 1900, the Van Roy-Cantillon family has carried on the tradition—and art—of wild yeast brewing.

Yes. You read that correctly—wild yeast, the homebrewer’s worst nightmare. At Cantillon, they literally open the louvers after they fill wide, shallow cooling tuns with wort. Then they let Mother Nature take over. The result is lambic, one of the world’s oldest beer styles, and the aged, blended or flavored variants on lambic.

The self-guided tour explains lambic as you walk through the working brewery. Then comes the sampling. We were served from traditional stone pitchers in the intimate tasting room. Gueuze (aged lambic) and kriek (lambic flavored with cherries) are only the beginning. We got lucky, and were offered some faro, a lambic sweetened with sugar or caramel. It was the most popular drink in Brussels a hundred years ago.

Not into touring? That’s O.K. too. There’s an abundance of beer bars to visit. Imagine looking at a menu of 350 or 400 beers, all brewed in Belgium. And every one of them is served in a glass specially designed to match the beer. It’s reading material for beer lovers, and tasting fit for the gods.

Luckily, the fine art of brewing Belgian-style beer has spread to this side of the Atlantic. Not long after our first visit, America’s craft brewing community began to fill the void. For that we can thank intrepid brewers who stepped up to the plate with new beers, and took on the daunting task of educating consumers about these novel styles. A tip of the hat as well to grass-roots groups that successfully challenged silly laws about bottle sizes and alcohol content, making distribution possible in even more states.

Belgium—the Inspiration

Whether or not you’ve made it to Belgium, visiting local Belgian-style breweries is a great experience. Join us at a few of our favorites…

Brewery Ommegang in upstate New York is just a few miles away from the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. Now owned by the Belgian company Duvel Moortgat, the 136-acre property was, fittingly enough, a hops farm in a previous life. A century ago, 80 percent of all hops grown in the United States were cultivated within 40 miles of there.

The brewery can be a little tricky to find among the winding county roads, but your effort will be rewarded. As you approach the door to the reception area, notice the wrought-iron strap hinge in the form of a hop plant. It was hand-forged by a fourth generation Dutch blacksmith who lives nearby. It’s just one example of the handiwork inside.

If you take the tour, you’ll be led through a rambling two-winged building that’s reminiscent of an old French farmhouse. A highlight of the tour is the open fermenters, where you’ll learn how the yeast is skimmed off the top and re-used to ensure consistency. Afterwards you’ll be offered samples of the exquisite beer along with some complimentary Belgian snack items including pretzels, mustards and malted milk eggs. Your admission ticket can be applied as a credit towards a purchase.

The brewery produces five year-round brews: Rare Vos, Ommegang, Hennepin, Three Philosophers and Witte, along with seasonal brews for special occasions. The most recent offering was their 10th anniversary ale, Chocolate Indulgence

In 2004, when a local brewer named Ron Jeffries set up his own shop, we couldn’t have been happier. Along with his wife and partner Laurie, Ron opened Jolly Pumpkin Artisan Ales in Dexter, MI, a quiet village outside Ann Arbor with plenty of charm.

Buzz about the beer is anything but quiet however. Jolly Pumpkin won a gold medal at the 2004 Great American Beer Festival—with Ron’s first batch, no less. Oro de Calabaza won in the Belgian- and French-style category and, in 2005 won a bronze.

The name says a lot about Ron and his brewery. “Jolly Pumpkin” is the fun part of the name. Everyone loves Halloween, Ron told us, and the smiling jack-o’-lantern that symbolizes it. And yes the name, like the beer, brings a smile to our faces. But the rest of the name, “Artisan Ales,” is the serious part. Even the bottle labels, which feature the fantastic, almost surreal, work of the illustrator Adam Forman, are part of the brewery’s artisanal bent.

Ron open-ferments and then barrel-ages his beer, bottle-conditioning it before it leaves the brewery. There is no taproom, but there is a retail area. The decor, as you might expect, is fun. Ron’s GABF medals hang from a monkey-themed tapestry, not far from the plastic palm tree decked out in Christmas lights and the stuffed parrot in an open cage.

In addition to Oro de Calabaza, there are three year-round beers: La Roja, Bam Bière and Blanca Calabaza, along with a long list of seasonals. Production for 2007 was less than 1000 barrels, but Jolly Pumpkin finds its way into most states—perhaps yours if you look carefully.

Belgium—the Name

At New Belgium Brewing in Fort Collins, CO, husband-and-wife team Jeff Lebesch and Kim Jordan have been front and center in the American craft brew industry. Twenty years ago Jeff bicycled around Belgium with Michael Jackson’s book in tow. Jeff enjoyed what he found there so much that after returning home, he homebrewed Belgian-style beer.

In 1991, Jeff’s basement operation went commercial, and New Belgium has grown steadily. The brewery moved to new and larger quarters in 1995. Today it’s one of the largest craft brew operations in the country. It’s an environmentally friendly operation to boot; the electricity, for instance, is generated by wind power. It’s a sight to see: an aesthetically pleasing building, modern brewing equipment and row after row of oaken barrels.

Look carefully, and you’ll see just how far they’ve come. Jeff’s original brewing equipment sits in one corner of the brewhouse, dwarfed by one of the Steinecker brew kettles. Those first galvanized steel containers look like toys in comparison.

There are seven beers plus seasonals in the lineup. Fat Tire, the largest seller, is named after Jeff’s epiphany trip and the mountain bike he rode in Belgium.

Do all their beers fit into what some purists say are true Belgian-style guidelines? No. But the spirit of fruits and spices, wild yeast strains and oak barrels are predominant in all of them. Don’t forget, this is New Belgium. It’s a subtle, yet important, point.

New Belgium Brewing will always be special for us because that’s where we had the privilege of meeting Michael Jackson. We tasted Chimay from several different years that evening, while listening to Michael impart his wisdom and tell fascinating stories. And yes, one of them was about Father Theobold.

A division in the ranks of the Trappist breweries in the late 1990s caused considerable damage to the good name of an iconic and singular family of beers. That split has now been healed and all lovers of traditional beer styles can raise a glass in benediction.

There are six Trappist breweries in Belgium, with a seventh (La Trappe) at the abbey of Koningshoeven, near Tilburg in the Netherlands. In 1997, the monks met to discuss how they could protect their brewing tradition against the tide of “abbey beers” made by commercial brewers.

Such brands as Leffe and Grimbergen (owned respectively by InBev and Scottish & Newcastle) are the best-known abbey beers, but there are many more. They often carry images of abbeys and other religious artifacts on their labels; that confuses drinkers, many of whom may think they are enjoying genuine monastic beers.

Brand Protection

At their meeting in 1997, the monks agreed to create the International Trappist Association (ITA), which would give an authorized logo declaring “Authentic Trappist Product” to beers and other products. Two years later, the logo was summarily withdrawn from the La Trappe beers when the Dutch brewing group, Bavaria, took a stake in the brewery at Koningshoeven and made commercial beers alongside the monks’ brews.

The loss of the logo was felt keenly by the monks and it caused enormous distress to those who love the Trappist tradition and want it to survive in a harsh commercial world. I was delighted to hear last year that the Trappist logo had been restored to La Trappe. In January, I traveled to the abbey to discover how the monks’ brewery had been allowed back into the Trappist brotherhood.

I met the new abbot, Dom Bernardus, aged just 37 and chosen as the abbot by his fellow monks. He explained that La Trappe had never been expelled from the ITA and he had continued to attend its executive meetings. It was only the logo that had been withdrawn.

He went on to say that in 1996 the monks at Koningshoeven had made the decision to seek a partnership with a local brewery, in order to help them develop sales. They could make beer but―understandably, given the reclusive nature of their calling―they were not skilled in distribution and marketing.

Bavaria is based in the same area of Dutch Brabant as Koningshoeven. It is a large company―it claims to be bigger than Grolsch and second only to Heineken in the Netherlands―but is family owned. It was the family ownership and Bavaria’s determination to stay in private hands (and not to sell shares on the stock market) that appealed to the monks.

Strict Arrangement

Dom Bernardus went to pains to stress that a new contract between the abbey and Bavaria stipulates that the relationship will be terminated if Bavaria goes public. Under the terms of the contract, the monks control the buildings and the brewing vessels. They help in labeling and packaging the beers, while Bavaria supplies brewery workers and is in charge of distribution.

Bernardus is one of two directors of the brewery, with a second director drawn from Bavaria. Only La Trappe beers are now brewed at the abbey.

The abbot said the meeting of the ITA at which La Trappe was returned its logo was a “very emotional one.” The organization had appointed three independent assessors to report to the ITA executive on the relationship between the monks and Bavaria. Their report satisfied the ITA and a damaging breach has been healed.

La Trappe beers are exported to the US, Britain, France, Spain, Italy and Greece. In the US, they are sold under the brand name of Koningshoeven (King’s Meadows), as American monks have registered La Trappe as their trademark.

The beers are Blond, Dubbel, Tripel, Quadrupel, White (wheat beer) and a winter Bock. They are rich, fruity and hoppy, made by warm fermentation. They also contain live yeast in the bottle to prompt continued fermentation and conditioning.

And once again the labels proclaim the authentic Trappist logo. That is an emotional event―not just for Dom Bernardus and his brothers, but also for all lovers of fine beer.