Brewing Belgian Ale

Max smacked down on the handle with a cheerful whack and opened up
the door to the student kitchen. It didn't surprise him to see Alan
there, eating his carefully prepared meal of pasta and pasta sauce. It
didn't surprise Max either that Alan had a lava lamp in his room
upstairs. What did surprise Max was Alan's pose, slouched forward
eating each beige morsel one at a time. Max put down his carrier bag
and pulled up a chair opposite him.

"What's up?" Max asked as he slid onto his seat.

"Hi," replied Alan, mistaking his question for a greeting.

"Alright?" asked Max, trying again.

"Hello." Max paused a moment and smiled. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah" he answered in a half cheerful tone, with a nod for added
reassurance. His expression and pose, however, remained the same.

Max had a sudden thought. "I know what'll cheer you up." He reached
down and drew out a green glass bottle, which held little under a pint
of liquid.

"What's that?" enquired Alan, sitting up at once. "Oh just some
Grolsch. Do yer want some?"

He offered the bottle across the table. Max's mobile at this moment
rang, and he swiftly pressed cancel, not feeling the need to look who
was calling. "Bloody Sarah," he muttered. "Won't give me a moments
peace."

"Thanks" said Alan, taking the bottle. "Good old alcohol, the solution
to near every problem. Or at least it allows you to forget them" He
examined it carefully "Why did you take the label off?"

"Oh I was just bored," Max replied without making eye contact. Alan
paused, opened the bottle, and took one large gulp. Max laughed as he
started coughing. "Good shit, eh?"

"Yeah," said Alan with a grin, having recovered his voice. "It is, but
I'm not stupid. That's no Grolsch. What is it? I've never tasted
anything like it before."

"Well, booze, that's all that matters." Max pulled out another bottle
from his bag, and took a swig.

"It tastes slightly odd. What's in it?" Alan asked, his cat of a smile
having been run down by the automobile of his curious nature.

Max paused, and again avoided meeting his eyes. "Well, some Belgian
ales are brewed with coriander for extra kick." He waited
hopefully.

"Ah, so its got coriander in it?" Alan asked. Max sighed.

"I never said that," said Max, his smile hiding his disappointment that
Alan wasn't satisfied with his ambiguous statement.

"What do you mean?"

"I was talking about Belgian ales. I never said this was one, and even
if it is I said 'some'." Max was unsure at this point why he didn't
just tell another lie, like he did at the beginning. Must be some
ethics creeping through, he thought. He took another gulp from his
bottle in an attempt to ward them off.

"So is this is Belgian ale?" Alan put down his bottle and nudged it
away from him, eyeing it suspiciously.

"Well, yes; it was made by a Belgian, I suppose it could be called ale,
after a fashion."

"Who do we know whose Belgian?"

"Frenchie"

"Frenchie's a Belgian?" Alan laughed out loud, then shook his
head.

"Well yeah," said Max slowly, mulling over his words. "Just a French
speaking one. Well an English speaking one of French speaking origin...
err.."

"So this is Frenchie's home brew?" Alan looked over to the kitchen
sink. The drink he could get from there was looking suddenly
appealing.

"Yeah." Max got up and pulled a packet of crisps out of his cupboard.
He ripped open the foil and began causally munching the chicken
flavoured snack.

"Look, have it back. I don't want any." Alan pushed the bottle further
away from him.

Max returned to his chair with a heavy sigh. His face was screwed up
slightly in annoyance. "You should be grateful, you know. These are the
last few bottles. I've just come from over there. He won't be making
any more for a while, his plumbing's gone nuts and his landlords been
pissing about, refusing to get anything done about it. Nothing works,
not sinks, toilets, showers. If he wants to use anything he has to go
next door. It's a complete pain when he needs to go to the bog. He's
gonna move out, if nothing's done."

"God, that's bad." Alan took in a breath. "But still, I don't really
won't any. I like to know what's in the stuff I drink."

"Of come on, it tastes nice, what's the problem?" Max was starting to
feel annoyed. He crunched on his crisp. "Go on."

"No. It smells funny anyway." Alan's tone seemed resolute.

"Don't be stupid. Go on, one more gulp and I'll let you off," said Max,
his tone suggesting that this arrangement was like letting him off with
murder, of the feline kind at least. Alan looked down for a moment,
then met Max's eyes.

"No."

"Fine then." Max began to reach for the bottle, and putting on a face
of contempt. Alan sighed.

"Ok, one gulp." He took the bottle and allowed a little more of the
liquid to trickle down his throat. Max smiled, took one last sip of his
drink, then resealed both bottles and put them back in his bag. There
was a knock at the window.

"Damn that Sarah" Max said under his breath. "I miss one phone
call...". The window was steamed up, and he proceeded to move as slowly
as he could towards it, muttering curses under his breath. He opened
it, but to his surprise found Frenchie standing outside, sweating and
out of breath. He was carrying a bag.

"Hiya mate" he said breathing deeply. "I gave.. I gave you the wrong
bottles. Here." He passed four green bottles one by one out of his bag
and through the window. "Give me the others back." Max passed Frenchie
the plastic bag with the mistakenly given bottles, wondering why
Frenchie had bothered running here, and hadn't just phoned him.

Alan, with a expression as bland as the food he had been eating, looked
towards Frenchie. "What was in the other bottles?" he asked, waiting
for the reply. Frenchie stood for a moment, having still not caught his
breath. He stared at Max, then Alan, and then spoke.

"Trust me, you don't wanna know."