Werewolves of Belgium (3 of 4)

After what seemed like hours of searching, we happened upon the Hollywood Tavern, a modest little drinking establishment with not too many people in it and a reasonably priced menu posted out front. We entered to the curious looks of those inside. Mike and I sat at a table and perused the menu of beers available. It was indeed an impressive array of lagers, stouts, ales, doubles and triples, none of whose names we recognized or indeed, could even pronounce. We selected one brand at random and ordered it, a Trappist double. It was quite good, a bit on the sweet side with a long smoky finish.

When the waiter returned and asked if we’d like another, we explained that we had no idea what to order but we wanted to try some different local beers. The waiter thought a minute and offered, “I’ll bring you some beers and if you don’t like them, they’re on the house.”

Mike and I glanced at each other, gratified that we had found the one sanctuary of friendly people in seemingly the whole of Belgium. The waiter hadn’t even played the whole language game of pretending to not know what we were saying as he was kind enough to start right off with speaking to us in English. “Sure! Thank you!” we responded happily.

He brought back the glasses of beer and we dove in. A few minutes later, another waiter brought two more beers and said, “Try these. If you don’t like them, these are on the house, too.”

“Thank you!” we exclaimed again.
The first waiter brought two more beers and told us they were from some locals seated at the bar. According to the waiter, they had overheard our conversation and also thoughtfully wanted us to try some of their favorite beers. This scenario was repeated again and again until Mike and I had ten glasses on our table; all in a range of different shapes filled with various hues of fermented hops and barley.

We did our best to not offend our benefactors by drinking all that we had been assigned to imbibe. Eventually, of course, Mike had to answer the call of nature and excused himself momentarily to find the toilet. In his absence, I studied the room and its denizens. The completely male clientele returned my looks with smiles and friendly waves. I began to speculate within myself. At that point Mike returned to the table and after sitting down solemnly asked “Sean, do you know where we are?”

“I think we’re in a gay bar!” I whispered back.
“What do these guys want in return for all these beers?” he asked, alarmed.
“Well, what do you think?” came my sarcastic reply.
“What are we going to do? How are we going to get out of here?”

I looked around again at the fellows in the bar. Ironically, we had selected this particular bar to give our custom partly because the patrons were more “average” seeming people. Most were big burly types, not the skinny, pseudo-haute-couture, black turtleneck-wearing rude Eurotrash that we had seen in so many of the other bars and clubs around town. Would they really expect anything from us? I had never been in a gay bar before and had no idea what to expect. I looked around again. They could easily clobber us in a fight.

We decided that forthrightness was the best solution. I ambled up to the bar to pay the tab. The barman only charged us for the first two beers. Transaction completed, I headed for the door. Mike followed me through the room. As we approached the door, everyone in the bar called out to us, “You’re not staying?”; “Have another beer!”; “Come back soon!”; “Thanks for visiting!”

We thanked everyone profusely as we headed out, but continued walking without slowing.

As Mike and I headed out into the fog, we both couldn’t help but notice how genuinely friendly everyone in the Hollywood Tavern had been. I felt a little pang of guilt at how precipitously we had exited. They had all been really nice! I had sort of always expected a gay bar to be a rough sort of dive where you had to have sex with someone before leaving. I was surprised, nicely so, at how amicable the populace had been. I guess I had them pegged all wrong.

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