But as I took it all in, there was one thing missing: Where were the iconic German bierstiefel (beer boots) I had come to know and love? The ones from such historically accurate and culturally relevant investigations of German culture as Beerfest and “Around the World” frat parties? Where were the cheers of “Das Boot! Das Boot!?” I took my first slog of many to come: “Ahhhh, now that’s a beer.” A moment later, a burly bier maiden-carrying no less than eight of these ginormous steins-balleted through the crowd, slammed a glass down in front of me, took payment, and, with shocking grace, vanished again into the crowd.
I ordered my first beer, a one-liter monster. Weaving through mobs of lederhosen clad lads and ladies, I made my way into one of the bierhalls: Hofbräu, if memory serves (it was fuzzy the next day, let alone six years later). As a 20-year-old (and therefore unable to drink in my home country) Germanophile, and a lover of German-style beer, this was my dream. I made my way from my forest campsite on the fringes of Munich to the campgrounds in the heart of the city, completing the final step of my pilgrimage to the 200 th anniversary of Oktoberfest. We sit down with Brooklyn Brewery’s Brewmaster to talk socks, sours, and social justice.
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