I Need a Beer

I’m a picky girl. I like what I like. And what I don’t like, I really don’t like.

So, when it comes to what I love, I accept no substitutes. Which can be a problem.

For instance, I spent a few weeks of my 2011 trying to track down a certain Belgian ale here in Birmingham.

Leffe Blonde is my favorite beer on God’s green Earth. If I were Goldilocks and beers were beds, Leffe is the one that would fit just right.

My love springs from two things equally. One is, of course, Leffe’s pure, unadulterated deliciousness. The second is the memory of the very first time I drank that magical elixir. A memory which floods back every time I take a sip.

See, the first time I drank Leffe was at the end of a very long, very jet-lagged day in Paris. Clay and I had spent hours traipsing through the Louvre and the musée Cluny. Our feet throbbed, and our throats were parched.

The Louvre.

Scary stained glass from the Cluny.

We were so tired that when my butt hit the barstool I thought nothing could actually feel better than that. I was so very wrong.

We ordered the Leffe based on my brother’s recommendation. Matt had spent a few months traveling around Europe, so he’d had the opportunity to do more than his fair share of taste testing. His was an opinion to be trusted.

Ergo, we ordered Leffe. We drank Leffe. Leffe cured all our ills.

And Matt is now Olivia’s godfather. You connect the dots.

February 2005, drinking my first Leffe.
See how haggard I looked? After the Leffe, I looked like this...

Gorgeous, right?
From a Botticelli fresco at the Louvre.

When we got back to New York, we suddenly started to see Leffe everywhere. I don’t know if our trip coincided with a surge in the beer’s popularity, or – more likely – we were finally noticing what had always been there.

Nevertheless, we never had a problem finding a Leffe when we wanted one.

I never thought I’d have to scour Birmingham for a measly six-pack. Surely, if it was at my local deli – granted it was Blondie’s, home of Brooklyn’s “biggest bear selection”... or at least Brooklyn's biggest spelling gaffe – it could easily be found at Whole Foods or The Fresh Market.

No. And no.

By this point, I needed it. The beer was a vital part of Clay’s birthday present. After all, what good is a set of Leffe glasses without Leffe to go in it?

In my desperation, I again took to Twitter. And one very kind gentleman sent me to Highland Package Store, a 25-minute ride from our house.

Just as it should be: a Leffe in a Leffe glass. Order yours here.

Twenty-five minutes is a long way to go for a six-pack. But it is closer than Paris, and it’s worth every second.