What is the genius of Belgian Trappist Monk tradition?

What does it mean: Trappist Beer and why is it six dollars a bottle? After a bit of imbibed research and some hard sought questions in a few local European Beer Pubs, I’ve found out some interesting facts about what makes a Trappist Ale so special, and why they’re themselves worth the trip to the countryside Abbeys of Belgium (plus The Netherlands & Germany). First, onto the monks themselves.

The Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance (O.C.S.O.: Ordo Cisterciensis Strictioris Observantiae), or Trappists, are a contemplative Roman Catholic religious order, that follows the Rule of St. Benedict.

So now onto the rules and regulations of Trappist Beer as set down by the International Trappist Association (ITA) in 1997.

• The beer must be brewed within the walls of a Trappist abbey, by or under control of Trappist monks.
• The brewery, the choices of brewing, and the commercial orientations must obviously depend on the monastic community.
• The economic purpose of the brewery must be directed toward assistance and not toward financial profit.

There are currently seven breweries that are allowed to have their products wear the Authentic Trappist Product logo:

• Bières de Chimay
• Brasserie d’Orval
• Brasserie de Rochefort
• Brouwerij Westmalle
• Brouwerij Westvleteren
• Brouwerij de Achelse Kluis
• Brouwerij de Koningshoeven (La Trappe)

Why is Trappism so fitting for the brewing of premium beer?

In a word: Quality. Many of the top-fermented, ale-style brews are cap numbered (6, 8, 10, etc.) dating from the days before labels, though a large number of the beers themselves are separated into three simple categories: Single, Double & Triple (Enkel, Dubbel, Tripel), which generally denotes the strength of the alcohol content. There are exceptions, which we will get into later.

Onto a few of the beers:

Dubbels are generally darker than their golden and slightly more alcohol rich brothers (brown color comes from dark malts), the tripels, though the lower alcohol content does not denote a lack of flavor or robustness. And while not as robustly-flavored as one would think when decanting (yes, decanting is appropriate here), after pouring the molasses-hued ale into the wide-topped glass and taking the initial sip, swishing the more complex, more herb-textured flavors about one’s mouth, encountering an unexpected dry crispness, one’s interest is more than piqued. You long for a day reserved for solely for drinking down these dark candy sugared Dubbels while picnicking in the pastoral sun of a Belgian lea surrounded by wildflowers and bubbly Belgique Belles Femmescooing haughtily into your warm ears. Pour another one sir, for though these bottle-fermented ales are slightly heavy, they go down smoother than panties on well-lotioned thighs.

Striking from the label to the glass bin, Achel proves that those who drink Blondes do have more fun. I am. One could only imagine what would ensue if this weren’t merely a bottle containing a beautifully crafted centuries-old recipe brewed by an order of Belgian monks who’ve been chased out of their abbey time and again (first by the French revolution and then the nazi’s). The smallest of the Trappist breweries, the Achel freres began brewing again in 1998 and seemingly have never looked back. The proof is in the pour. Patience is the key word here, because it takes what must be referred to as a Belgian Minute in the Trappist lingua franca for the thick, creamy head to dissipate.

There you are again, perusing the bottled multitudes at the liquor store. You’re eyeing a sixer of good microbrew to see you through yet another holiday party. You move to the last shelf and see the individual bottles and Flash! An Epiphany. Chimay. You see the maple colored bottle and its tan label modestly boasting its diminutive “Tripel”. Triple what? Taste? Creamy Golden-ness? Triple the hops, if you ask me (Surprisingly, the monks use the American-grown Nugget hop). On opening (or decorking if you’ve got the 75cl bottle) an evanescent aroma reminiscent of a fresh harvest of hops just after a rainstorm issues forth. Grab your glass and get thee to a chair. This slightly fruity brew, with just a touch of ephemeral bitterness washed away so quickly another sip is quite in order, deserves an audience. It needs a table and a warm fire, a finely-sweatered Northern European by your side. Take another sip. Then one more. Maybe that’s what the “Tripel” stands for. All sips come in threes. Though slow down, cowboy. This is made by monks. Trappist monks. Think Sloths. They cruise relaxedly chuckling away to God while beer bubbles foam away on upper lips, these giddy brewmeisters, high on hops, fermented to high heaven, they take their time. As should you, mon frere. Letting the head mellow and the rich amber settle, take another whiff and let the aromas pour over your skin, feel the soft bite of apples, sniff again and quickly now, take a deep drink, getting the head all over you as the color of caramelized happy liquid floats so smoothly down your throat. The strong crisp taste of raisins lingers so luxuriously on your tongue, on second (or third) thought, taking another sip too quickly is not recommended. Let it rest. Talk to her.

Serve chilled between 6 and 8°C (42.8 to 46.4°F). Amazing with a variety of cheeses, fruits, soups, stews, basically any hearty and well-prepared vittles.

Dark, rich-bodied with a light tinge of fruit, wrapped in a lush summertime breeze of hops, this Benedictine brew, though a staunch 10%, is amicably drinkable and overall gives off an old oak-refined finish, leaving only its smooth creamy head behind. Once you have entered the Maredsous universe (also a Maredsous 6 Blonde and a Maredsous 8 Bruin from Duvel Moortgat) there is little else that can grab your attention. Something your toothless uncle would drink on Tuesday mornings because it’s better than Muesli.

Upon opening the lanky brown bottle, a dark and immediate bouquet grabs one’s olfactory senses and takes one back to the days of Friar Tuck. Before then even, for the Abbey of St-Remy, in the southern part of Belgium, was founded in 1230, and the monks began to brew beer sometime around 1595. Imagine skinny dipping with sirens in vast natural hot springs of strong malt surrounded by oak-boasting mistletoe with wild almonds growing poolside and you have an inkling of how smoothly the 11.3% alcohol volume slides you into a medieval reverie. There you are cavorting like a drunken cherub in the smooth leather-colored waters when you get the urge to dive, to sink down deep into beery abyss and chase the roots of malted hop eddies unseen. You drain your glass and the silt of more than 400 years of utopian brewing ideals sinks into your tongue, penetrating deeper than mere mortal taste buds allow.

Goes great with hearty cheeses and Germanic breads, fondue, roasted and herbed potatoes, lamb, etc.

Orval 6.2% ABV

Yeasty and nonaromatic, the opening of the Orval bottle, though nicely shaped, is uneventful considering its boastful Trappist brethren. But then Orval is not the average Trappist beer, if indeed there could be one described as “average”. It has a smoother, more refined, decidedly English air about its dark caramel body, easily observed as early as the pour. This beer is not malt heavy, though does contain pale barley malt. Rather Orval depends more upon the various eastern European hops and a special yeast which calls to mind its history as a “liquid bread”. The first taste, a tinge on the bitter side, rather unfruity and overly like soggy toast, brings to mind nothing in particular, making Orval a bit of a disappointment. Midway through the beer, still nonplussed, I begin to picture the hard-working monks in their habits and their haircuts, toiling away all these hundreds of years. I consider the fact that there are a mere 7 Trappist breweries worldwide and that Orval is exported to the four corners of the globe. As I ponder not so much why I dislike Orval as opposed to why it’s merely not up to par with its Trappist roots, something happens. The beer shifts and the heretofore untasted bounty of flavors begins to show its Belgian blood. Compelled to continue to the last hop-rich gulp, the last few sips are reminiscent of a crescendo, and a strange buzzing of sorts, an aria if you will, arises upon draining the glass, dissipating only as the eager candy-colored liquid works it way molasses-like down my throat. Orval is an opera. Give it the temperament it deserves.