Tag Archives: German Bier

Wunderbar super-rare Bavarian bier actually available right down the road … internet proves, again, I’m retarded.


Here’s a deep-dark secret about me that only you and the rest of the English speaking world know. I named this blog, “Had a Few Beers” because I’d had a few beers.

Radical stuff.

I like beer and when I’ve had a few, sometimes the shit I think about during those moments seems funny or interesting to me and I want to share it.

Other times when I have a few beers I go straight for the porn, but that really limits the blogging topics doesn’t it?

Deutsch: aktuelle Markenlogo Bitburger

Mmmm good old predictable Bitburger, no surprises here! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But the thing is, when it comes to beer, I’m boring.  I have Plebian tastes. I’m like a person in a restaurant-sampling club that constantly wants to go to McDonald’s.

Restaurant Club member #1: Next week we should sample some Malaysian cuisine.

Restaurant club member #2: That sounds fun, but I’d really like to try that new Somali restaurant everyone’s talking about.

Me: You know the fries at McDonald’s are always fucking delicious. We should totally go there.

When it comes to beer I’m a creature of habit. I want that redundant experience. I want the same taste, I want the same flavor. I’m not looking for the next great summer wheat ale brewed in a virgin’s slipper high atop Mount Beeralvania.

No way, fuck that shit. I want my shitty, redundant, predictable beer experience thank you very much.

That said, much like wine (which I never drink), it doesn’t stop me from learning a bit about different beers or from wanting to understand the differences, the nuances, the complexities and varieties out there. I’m interested.

I know I’ll never be anything close to an expert, and who cares.

Which leads me to Germany and the multitude of different beers this part of Europe offers. They got everything from boring pilsners, to smoked beers to the strongest strongest beer in Germany. I’ll give them all a try.

We moved here in 2007. Almost immediately upon arrival I began to hear about something magical brewing in Bavaria. A beer that was only available in certain parts of the region. It was dark in color, yet somehow light in taste. It left you refreshed while somehow seeming to be thick. It cured cancer, blindness and, if applied directly to the genitals, could issue in an era of world peace.

It was good stuff, or so I’m told. I’m a lazy fucker when it comes to my taste in beer remember?

Winkler Bräu it's made from the tears of beautiful virgins or something ...

Winkler Bräu it’s made from the tears of beautiful virgins or something …

It’s called Winkler Bräu and among a certain set of Americans here in Germany, its a legend.

Soon, among almost any group of Americans I worked with, a business or pleasure trip to Bavaria automatically meant you were obligated to bring back Winkler Bräu. It was as if you were mandated from a higher-power. Should you make the 3.5-hour trip one way, it was your job to return everyone’s empty racks of Winkler Bräu and bring back full ones.  Failure to do such was an affront to all that was good and just in the world. 

I’ve literally stopped on the way home, tired after a long business trip, and Googled the nearest location that carried it. Sometimes I would end up driving miles out of my way to secure the many racks of beer I was expected – nay, mandated by God – to return with.

Bringing back Winkler Bräu is just that important. Forgetting a rack of 20 beers for a buddy can end friendships, wars have or should have been fought over it. You just don’t fuck around when it comes to bringing home the golden nectar.

Because my wife loves it too I picked up a case for her when I was there last week and when I heard a friend was going this week, I dutifully passed on the EUR 20 necessary to purchase another case.  Because apparently you just can’t have enough Winkler Bräu in stock.

And again I don’t even drink it, I just understand that people love it.

Turn to this week. One of my co-workers has something called the “internet.” I don’t really know what that is or what it does, but he seems to have a fine command of it.

During the exchange of euros with those fortunate enough to travel to the promised land in search of Winkler Bräu, he belts out the following:

“Hey, you know that they sell that shit right down the street right? Look right here on Google. You just punch in your address and it shows you where they sell it. They sell it right next to my house, why do you all drive four hours to get it?”

Not all European beer is equal, some have the ability to punch sobriety right in the face!


I had a super awesome Saturday. It was so awesome I’m still basking in its glory.

What made it so good? My wife spent the entire day on the couch, nearly comatose and completely chagrined, nursing a hangover of epic proportions which meant I was free to do whatever the fuck I wanted.

Not once during this glorious day were the phrases, “Can you do this?” or “I need your help with …,” or “Is that porn?” followed by an accusatory, “Are you drinking another beer?” uttered.

It was arguably, the greatest Saturday I’ve ever known.

Chimay beer -- it will get you drunk!

Chimay beer — it will get you drunk!

Now — the Olivers are no strangers to alcohol  and normally the missus can hold her booze – though she may shake the occasional stranger’s penis while doing it. But Friday was not normal.

This came to light when I got an  invite to a c0worker’s home Friday night for an impromptu barbecue.

“Of course I’ll be there to regale you with my heroic tales of shit,” I said. “And I’ll bring my bride, who, as you are aware, is quite a lady and super duper impressive.”

A quick message to Dagmar, and the plans were confirmed.

When she got off at 6:30 p.m. she met me at my favorite watering hole to follow me to my co-worker’s house.  After her one glass of wine and my 47 beers (46 of which I had to sneak-drink in the bathroom), we left for the barbecue.

Keep track with me — she had one glass of wine.

At the barbecue, like cavemen, we quickly fell into all of our “roles.” The men gathered around the grill and talked about killing stuff and the women gathered in the kitchen to discuss sewing patterns — the way God intended. (I like to pretend that when they weren’t cooking they stripped to their bras and panties and had tickle fights or practiced “making out” with each other.)

As we men stood around the grill, farting, swilling beer and scratching our balls, I noted Dagmar was carrying a fresh glass of wine when she walked out to see what we were up to.

That’s two. Two drinks. At this point we were nowhere near an event that would call for a blog post. She’d accepted a drink after arriving at a party and seemed perfectly normal and charming as she usually does.

Then, an hour or so passes, meat is introduced to fire, and Dagmar, I notice, has switched to beer. Not a red alert in my mind at all, a bit odd maybe, but still OK.

When the meat was cooked, we all moved inside and had an awesome meal. Fucking awesome, as in “I ate asparagus” fucking awesome. It had bacon on it, so by law, it had to be eaten, and bygod it was delicious.

During this time I was focused on my coworkers and the food, not my wife.

Then, after dinner, because I’m a filthy smoker, I excused myself to a nearby exit and hammered another nail in the coffin. Dagmar joined me.

And she was fucking TANKED. Tanked as in the Exxon Valdez-captain tanked.

“We have to go home now,” she slurred, crossing and uncrossing her eyes uncontrollably during the brief conversation.

As she stumbled back inside I assured her we’d leave as soon as possible.

Realizing the seriousness of the situation, I snuffed out the cigarette and went in to collect our things and my drunken wife. But she was no where to be found.

I looked in the living room, in the kitchen, back outside and then, as I moved toward the dining room, the host’s teenage son said with a barely contained giggle, “She’s in the bathroom.”

I should have known this. In our many years of marriage Dagmar has never passed out anywhere but a bathroom floor. I could, and should, write a book about the bathroom floors Dagmar’s passed out on. Movie theater bathroom floor? Check. Bar bathroom floor? Hell, that’s called Tuesday for her. Bathroom floors in various foreign countries? Sure! The only explanation she can give for this behavior is that they’re always nice and cool.

I collected the sprawled-out Dagmar from the bathroom, and with her barely conscious and teetering by my side, I explained to my coworkers that we were going to have to leave the party early.

It was barely 9 p.m. I was baffled. She only had about three drinks in about three hours.

Upon literally pouring her into the passenger seat of my car, she immediately starts to lower the seat back. During this process she, or her seat rather, encountered a small cardboard box that fucked up her mojo.

Fuck your car!

Fuck your car!

Before my eyes she turned into Rick James as impersonated by Dave Chappell.

“Fuck this shit,” she growled, smacking the box and spilling its contents everywhere.

There is rarely a day my wife gets into my car and doesn’t declare it a disaster area.

“This car is disgusting. When are you going to clean this pigsty,” is her usual mantra,  yet here she was making my basically clean car more of a disaster.

This was going to be a long ride. Good thing – like the card-carrying dork that I am – I had the podcast The History of the Byzantine Empire to keep me company. I assumed I could enjoy it because Dagmar would be passed out by the time I put the car into reverse.

But on this night, my choice of podcasts apparently didn’t sit well with my inebriated princess. Every two minutes, during the 15 minute ride home, the podcast would be rudely interrupted by unsolicited editorial comment from the gallery.

“Turn this goddamn boring shit off, I hate this shit, turn this shit off!”

She would then, before I could even react, fall back asleep.

Peace only came when we reached the house and my  wife went to her favorite place — the bathroom floor.

I grabbed a beer and then sent a text to the host and my other coworkers letting them know we were home safe and apologizing for my wife’s inexplicable, intoxication.

The replies from majority were normal, “No problem,” or “Hope she feels better.” But the reply from the host was classic.

“Guess we should have warned her that Chimay is 9 percent alcohol and very smooth. Thought she knew.”*

Well, she does now. She does now.

* Unbeknownst to me, she drank an entire bottle of it, refilling her glass unaware of the potency.  Still though, had it been simple Bitburger like in the mast of this blog, you wouldn’t be reading this.