My pticheval was grey. And marroon, too. And it did get me to Paris. Where I now sit, sad hotel desk before me.
A bottle of Andechs Doppelbock smiles at me from the left of my keyboard. "Stop being such a tart, Andechs." She doesn't answer. Unsurprisingly. Few bottles of beer possess lips, much less the power of speech.
We'll be becoming much more intinately involved shortly. If I can get her to pop her top. These German birds.
C'est l'heure de dire bonsoir. Priez pour moi. Demain, il me faut faire quelquechose difficile. En utilisant mon pauvre Francais. Je suis perdu.
Of Blutwurst and Brewmaster - My Generations I wrote over two years ago of the 1944 beer tasting at the Waldorf-Astoria of the Wine and Food Society of New York. In fact, I recreated t...
2 hours ago