Name: Biere de Miel
Brewery: Brasserie Dupont (Tourpes-Leuze, Belgium)
Style: Saison
ABV: 8%
Source:
Last Tuesday night (yes, I’ve stuffed up the order slightly because I had this before Raffe’s Saison), I went to the Belgian Beer Cafe.
This is how the ordering process went:
Me: I’ll have the Dupont Biere de Miel please.
Waiter: Sure, I’ll be right back with that.
Waiter returns 10 minutes later with a Saison Dupont .
Me: I’m really sorry, but that’s not what I ordered.
Waiter lingers with the beer waiting for me to take it anyway, eventually lets out an exasperated sigh and disappears with it. He returns five minutes later empty-handed.
Waiter: I’m sorry, we don’t have any Biere de Miel. Can I get you something else instead?
Me: Damn. OK, Lindeman’s Apple please.
Waiter disappears, and returns five minutes later empty-handed.
Waiter: I’m really sorry, but we don’t have any Lindeman’s Apple. I did find the Biere de Miel while I was looking though, would you like that instead?
Me: Yes! Thank you!
Waiter: Are you ready to order food now too?
Me: I was ready last Christmas. Can I have the metre-long sausage please?
Waiter: I’m terribly sorry, but we’re all out of that. Can I get you something else instead?
Me: Are you sure? Are you sure you won’t find some if you go back and look for something else?
(defeated) No, no, I jest. I’ll have the mussels.
Now, I’m not usually one to complain about bad restaurant service (having delivered my fair share of it myself) but I feel like this happens at the BBC nearly every time I go. And this time I’ve had it – I’m not going back! (At least not until my birthday when I’m eligible for a free meal.)
Oh and I nearly forgot – the Biere de Miel was amazing. It smelled like a field of fresh honeysuckle, candyfloss and musty yeast. In the mouth it was dry and slightly sour at the finish, but with a nice balance of sweetness. The mouthfeel was lovely – light but not at all watery, and quite spritzy.
It was so delicious that I nearly forgave the BBC all it’s faults, and didn’t bother to complain when I paid. But then as I left I saw at the front of the fridge, prominently displayed, stacks of the Lindeman’s Apple. And I couldn’t help but wonder: was that waiter just fucking with me all along?




