At a quirky, locals-only kinda bar in Amsterdam, there’s sand scattered across the ancient, unfinished wooden floor. Photos and random trinkets line the walls. A vinyl station overflows with records from the 1970s.
The odd-but-wonderful place is mostly occupied by aging hippies and anarchists who aren’t particularly interested in the beer festival going on a few blocks away. In fact, the Dutch gentlemen in the corner are far more focused on their game of chess.
My friend and I go for the same thing—unblended Girardin Lambic served still from a plastic bladder inside a cardboard box. It’s young and under-attenuated, cloudy and a bit sweet, slightly tart with notes of baking spices. A complex ending to a busy few days.
