It all started a couple of weeks ago, when unobtainably aspirational men’s mag GQ posted an article that tapped into the shitegeist of the latest renaissance of Guinness as the ‘it’ drink. The article attempted to explain how it came to be that Guinness had risen to become the drink of choice amongst hip Londoners, with their anxious sighthounds and their luminous disposable vapes. Was it a longing for permanence in a world of transitory brands? A fetishization of a salt-of-the -earth -honest -days -work -for- an -honest -days’ pay beverage, free from the cultural baggage of the bourgeoise craft ale  ? The answer is no and no.

I might postulate that the reason why Guinness has become the porter-per-favour is simply that it doesn’t cost £7 a pint, it tastes nice and is given a modicum of respect in its presentation and degustation. Critics of this Guinneiassance pointed to the brew-ha ha attached to the serving a good Guinness, using the right glass etc (as popularised by the spiritual brother of this account, shitlondonguinness) as pretentious posturing and a further stick to beat the Guinnesserati . Again, serving a decent pint should not be the exception, but the rule.

And there are those who know far more about all this than we do. Who are the archmeisters of all things brau? It is our dear friends, the frite-loving, cartoon n’ cycling enthusiasts, the Belgians. If we want to see what beer respect looks like, we don’t need to trudge across the city of London to the handful of pubs which bother to serve a decent pint.  To see how booze should be treated, I went on a fact-finding mission to the spiritual home of all things brau, Ghent, in Flanders, Northern Belgium-That’s Ghentertainment!

Stupid Sexy Flanders : 

I love Belgium for a few core reasons – on the Wikipedia page for “Belgian cuisine’’, the 2 most prominent entries are ” Beer ” followed by ”Chips”. Not exactly straying from your comfort zone as an Irishman. But in this case, beer making in Ireland is in its infancy boys! There are over 1000 varieties of beer, each with their own magical wonderful Hogwartian chalices and goblets bordering on the ridiculous. While in London the pouring of a drink in its correct glass is seen as a privilege and the height of urbane pernicketiness, here it is a non-negotiable sacrosanct God-given inalienable right. Beats a pint of wine from the tap at the Red Lion, Stansted Airport.

 Frites are similarly lionised, regulated by the good people of the Belgian Frite association in the same way Guinness quality assures its pubs. Frites (never French Fries) are usually served with mayo, although this being Belgium , you can also choose aïoli, joppiesaus, pepper sauce, sauce andalouse, samurai sauce, mammoet sauce, tartar sauce , gypsy sauce, sauce riche, bicky sauce, Brazilian sauce, sauce lapin , sauce rico or plain if you want .  First thing we do when we arrive in this Ghentish town – plate of frites, one Trappist beer in its dedicated drinking vessel. From a chipper?! Good start.

I always thought it mad that, for a drink loving country, we in Ireland never had this level of devotion, save for the reverence afforded to the faithful aul’ Black Stuff.  But Guinness is a relatively young buck compared to the dipsomaniac deacons of the Trappist Monasteries here in Flanders, some of which go back to the 10th century. Cafes have twenty page beer menus, divided into sub categories and genres – you’ve got your Trappist beers, Abbey beers, your withers, your blondes, your lambics , your Amber ales, your tripples, your dubels, your saisons and n’er a lager shandy to be seen . It’s worth adding that there is not a single ‘continental lager’ on offer, so asking for a Heineken is probably akin to requesting your finest McNuggets on a bed of spaghetti hoops in a Michelin star eatery. Tellingly though, Guinness is the only non-domestic option you can find. Game recognises game. Trappist beers, those made by the original Trapp stars, the monks, are a particular treat. To be considered a trappist beer, it must:

1. Be brewed within the monastery

2.Be of secondary importance to the adoration of God

3. Not be profit making

4. Be an absolutely fucking lethal dose of grade A jungle juice at 12% a pop.

See below for a sample of the delights that were sampled:

Ghent is the thinking man’s Bruges, all gothic and canally but without the tourist hordes or the smart-arse movie tie in. While Bruges is an open-air museum, our totally non- biased boat guide tells us, ‘’Ghent lives’’. It is certainly living on Saturday evening, arriving at the old centre the Corneli, as Stag Central for local Ghentonians . Thankfully, that’s just on a Saturday, and for the rest of the trip it’s peaceful canal side beverages in a range of ever more elaborate goblets. 

Ghent was a big deal in ye olde medieval times, growing wealthy on the wool trade. The town is dotted with grand cathedrals and belfries, testament to the wealth of the merchant class and leading to rampant Ghentrification. The town centre is a  pretty little thing, with those diagonally built roofs and bridges like Amsterdam but with less piss smell. High atop the towering grand belfry is the symbol of Ghent, a golden dragon. The Gulden Draak is also the name given to the locally brewed ale that I purchase for Bella, when she wants something a bit lighter than the fare we’ve been partaking. Turns out to be the strongest beer we encounter all holidays. In the grand town square, there is an infamous pub ( non-Irish but ..) called Duile Griet , where they notably serve 1.5 litre flutes of beer, the deposit required for said vessel is one of your shoes. Normally, I’d be all over that shit, but its 32 degrees, I’ve had beer served with every meal, so I settle instead for something more low- key- a light n’ delicious 12% Kwak served in a hybrid-test-tube-egg -timer glass that I highly approve of. So far, not a single beer served in the non-approved glass ( or kitchen utensil).

One of Ghent’s most famous sights is the Flemish masterwork, the Ghent altarpiece – one of the most storied paintings in European History. We take an Augmented Reality headset tour to see it, which gives a slight headache as I’d had my reality severely augmented the previous night  by several glasses of the Trappists finest. The painting, known as the “Adoration of the sacred lamb” was stolen by Napoleon, then Hitler, found by the Americans, but with panels of it stolen by some roguish Ghentlemen and according to legend is hidden under  some floorboards somewhere in the town.  Hubert van Eyck “maior quo nemo repertus (greater than anyone)” started the altarpiece, but it was finished by his bro Jan van Eyck, known as “arte secundus (second best in the art)” … Bit harsh on Jan there. I recommend the tour – you can see the restoration work up-close, including “the lamb with the face of a man” but don’t ruin it by repeatedly singing that  particular phrase  in your mind in a Morrisey voice like I did .

I have high hopes for Ghent pubwise, it’s a classy city that knows its drink so we are expecting a stylish canal side affair, a Syncretic beacon of Irish and Flemish high culture. Patrick Foleys straddles both cultures imperiously, a byword for how to do a really nice Irish pub abroad. Located outside of the main town square, it overlooks a grand canal to the front down a leafy, traffic-free road. Inside, it is darn classy. The highlight is the luxurious beer garden, much needed in this heat. Having a substantial beer garden is a canny move for a foreign Irish Pub, as a dark wooden cosy bolt-hole is fine if you’re in the west of Ireland battered by the wind and rain but less accommodating when in a sub-tropical heatwave or facing the inevitable impending climate disaster.

The pub is filled mostly with locals and kids hanging out having the craic (but not kwak). As a real Irish pub, they are showing the hurling, but not blasting it out at you from multiple angles, just in a part in the front where a couple of Galway men mumble at questionable refereeing decisions. It has the world’s smallest snug and an Oscar Wilde dining room , and all manner of alcoves and hidey holes . Bella and I both concur that this is one of the finest of the Irish pub abroad genres and that may only be slightly influenced by the strength of each glass of beer we’ve had. There were 2 other Irish pubs in Ghent we spotted, but I knew Patrick Foleys would be the one to watch, proving again that the best Irish pubs will always be named after a person. “The Porter House” in the student district looked a bit of a gamble and there was another one near the Red light district that we chose to ignore. As we enjoy the splendour of beer garden, and with each delicious local Monkish beer being testament to God’s love for us, I don’t even need to have a Guinness. But that’s fine – I know a couple of good spots in London for that.

FOOTNOTE: (Explaining Guinness’ popularity on social media, one lad I read on the Internet had one of the best hypotheses: Guinness looks cool as fuck on Instagram whereas beer looks like a glass of fizzy piss.)

**Over the course of preparing to write this, Publican Enemy was featured in LadBible, then on FOX Australia , and then Kerry’s Eye. What next lies in store ? See all Media here !

https://www.ladbible.com/news/travellingtheworldforirishpubs-618653-20230609