Gemütlichkeit in Beer Mecca

Kate and I hoisted our frothy steins and burped out a hardy “Prost!” (cheers) when celebrating the 196th anniversary of Crown Prince Ludwig’s wedding in Munich this past weekend.
Yes, it was Oktoberfest and it was wunderbar!


We were joined on the four-hour trek south with Chicagoans Peter and Shannon – who just “coincidentally” planned their trip to see family with the commencement of the biggest drinking event of the year. Serendipity, my ass!

We arrived at the vomit-carpeted fairgrounds, called the Theresienwiese, just after noon on Saturday, 16 Sept., the first day of the festival. Actually, because the tents had JUST opened and the first keg was only “officially” tapped at noon, there was no barf to be found, only loads of horseshit.

What we did find, however, were swarms of hops disciples, many clad in traditional beer-devotee outfits such as this unfortunate-looking bloke here.

After a good walk through this Disneyland for alcoholics (complete with those heave-inducing spinning teacups), we were able to wedge our way through to the tent portion of what’s billed as “the world's largest fair.” This was where the beer is kept.

Because of a recommendation from Peter, our undemocratically-elected beer Führer, we headed toward a smallish tent that served Augustiner Bräu – Munich's oldest brew, dating from 1328.

Actually, it wasn’t a bad recommendation. Apparently, there are only six allowed Oktoberfest brew tents – Spaten, Paulaner, Hacker-Pschorr, Hofbräuhaus, Löwenbräu (pronounced LER-ven-BROY), and Augustiner. And Augustiner is distinguished among those as having the best eats – more than just pretzels and sausage.

So, although it tried our patience, we were finally able to get four seats inside this fabled hall and partake in the ultimate display of overindulgence. We each gorged ourselves with a Maß (a one-liter stein of beer) as well as some robust Bavarian chow.

Luckily, we were sober enough afterward to totter to a nearby grassy hill and nap our cares away. Some call it passing out. I call it rejuvenating. Here’s me asleep – Kate was nice enough to decorate me with grass and rocks while I dreamt of the nice bosomy lady who served us pretzels (see pretzel girl, above).

On a side note, Oktoberfest sees more than six million inebriated visitors annually, only half of which are Japanese tourists. Actually, to be honest, there weren’t that many Japanese. In fact, I’d estimate about 75 percent of the people there were Germans, including this one – Marc Kratzer, a Nuremberger who we met while he was doing an internship in Chicago.

Marc is awesome. He is sometimes a bad influence and sometimes a crazy driver – but he’s always a good friend.

And a slob.










And a hick.







OK, so remember six million. Well, I mentioned that because I wanted to bring up that there is only available seating for 100,000 people. So, in case you’re bad at math, things can get tight.

Anyway – back to the story: Later that night, we heard that one of the most popular and hard-to-get-into tents – the Hippodrom – was hosting a gathering for one of the largest cigarette manufacturers in Europe – Davidoff. So, after a failed attempt at honesty, we veiled ourselves in the guise of being VIPs for the luxury brand and, amazingly, were believed by a gullible guard.

This tent, home of the Spaten-Franziskaner-Bräu, is a very trendy and posh tent, which has been known to attract the occasional celebrity. Unfortunately, being one of the smaller tents at the fest and hosting other illegitimates like ourselves, this place was packed tighter than Dolly Parton in a dirndl.

As you can tell, we didn’t quite keep our sobriety in check. But neither did anyone else. Especially not this guy. Oh…oops. That’s me.