Barmaids and beer bellies

Chapter 1

The day I moved into my new apartment, everyone I knew started telling me that I needed to check out a beloved pub in the neighborhood. It was a microbrewery called Das Hexenbräu that made use of some old time German beer recipes brought over from the old country by the family that owned the establishment. It would be almost two weeks that I lived in the area before I would finally make the time to swing by – once I finally did, I knew right away that my life would never be the same.

As I entered the place for the first time, a chill ran down my spine as a strange etherial sensation washed over me. The room was dark, and even though it seemed to be filled with people, the mood was somewhat somber and it was surprisingly quiet inside, a stark contrast to most of the neighborhood bars I’d been to in the past.

I made my way over to an empty stool at the bar where I was greeted by a tall and very curvaceous looking woman with long blonde hair done up in braids. She was dressed all in black, and her thin yet pouty lips were painted a bright crimson and contrasted boldly against her pale but leathery-looking skin. She had a copious amount of cleavage billowing from the top of her skin-tight blouse, her bosom would jiggle and bounce with each step and subtle movement she made.

“Well hello there, handsome,” she said to me in a deep and sultry tone, “what can I get for you?”

“What’s good?” I asked. “I never know what to get when I come into these types of places.”

“Oh, I guarantee you’ve never been to a place quite like this before,” said the woman with a wry smile as she drew nearer to me from the other side of the bar, explaining to me that the special brews they made had an old-world enchantment unlike any other brew I’d ever had.

“So what do you recommend?” I asked again.

“I think I have just the thing for you,” she said as she looked me up and down as if she were making an evaluation of some sort. She turned toward the taps, grabbing a robust looking frosted mug from a nearby cooler. Holding the mug firmly, she pulled a lever marked Mastfutter-Bier. “This will go down smooth and will cure whatever ails you,” she said then as I watched the viscous amber fluid come flowing down into the mug, “and it’ll put some meat on your bones too.”

“Sounds good,” I said as I pulled out my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“First round’s on the house,” said the brew mistress as she set the glass down in front of me. The mug felt heavy as I lifted it to my lips and took my first sip. The brew was ice cold and strongly aromatic, with a sweet taste that tickled my tongue as it glided down my throat. It felt as though it was coating my throat as it went down, and rested heavy in my gut.

“Wow,” I said as I wiped the foam from my lips, “that’s some beer.”

“Do you like it?” the woman behind the bar asked me. “I thought you might. This is your first of many Mastfutters – prost!”

“Prost!” I replied enthusiastically as I lifted my glass, gesturing cordially toward the bar mistress before taking another swig.

The mysterious woman in black went off to attend to some other bar patrons as I sipped my cold beer, but she came back to check on me often. As soon as I had downed the last drops of beer in my mug she offered me another. At first I was hesitant, thinking maybe I’d be better off trying something a little more conventional.

“You’re free to try whatever you’d like,” said the woman, “but I think that this is the beer for you.” By this time I was already feeling the effects of the alcohol, and my inhibitions were slowly fading away.

“I think you’re right,” I told her, “pour me another, bar maiden.”

“As you wish, good sir,” she replied with a smile, and she quickly poured me another glass. This time the woman stuck around and chatted with me for a while.

“So what’s your name, stranger?” she asked me.

“Marko,” I replied, “Marko Hanson. I just moved to this neighborhood a couple weeks ago.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Marko,” replied the woman. “My name is Helena.”

Helena started telling me all about her life, how she was a divorced woman, thirty six years of age, and how she had a young daughter that she was raising on her own with help from her mother. She told me about how her family had owned this tavern for generations, that it was one of the only German-themed bars in the city and one of the oldest taverns in the entire state. Then she started asking me about my life, where I was from and what I did for work. As I began talking with her about my life, my job at a small architectural firm, I began to feel more and more like I had found a place where I truly belonged, a place that I could consider to be a home away from home.

“Another round?” Helena asked me the moment that I had sucked down the last drop from my mug, not waiting for me to answer before sliding a fresh mug down in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said, “I guess I could go for another one.” The drinks were going down so smoothly now; I began to worry that if I wasn’t careful I could easily overindulge in these hearty libations and get a little tipsier than I should. Before I knew it however, I was chugging down these beers like they were water. No matter where she was in the room, Helena would appear out of nowhere the moment I had finished my glass with a fresh one in hand. I felt good, but I didn’t feel drunk. I just felt very full, happy and satisfied.

Helena poured me drink after drink, making me feel more and more warm and full inside as the evening went on. Before I knew it it was last call, and I hadn’t moved my butt from that barstool once the entire evening, not even to go to the bathroom. Looking down, I could see my belly protruding out a couple of inches more than it had when I first walked into the bar. “Gosh,” I thought to myself, “this beer sure does have me feeling bloated.”

“Last call, sweetie,” said Helena as she came sauntering over to me from the other side of the bar, “can I get you one for the road?”

“Sure,” I said, “why not?”

Helena took my empty mug and held it under the tap, once again pulling the handle and pouring out that thick and delicious lager. As I watched her standing there with her beautiful statuesque figure and her braided blonde locks that fell down and cascaded around her lovely face, a feeling of liquid courage came over me, and suddenly I felt compelled to make a bold move.

“Helena,” I said, “what would you say to me taking you out sometime?”

Helena smiled brightly as she closed the tap and turned to face me, sliding the full beer mug right in front of me. “That’s very sweet,” she said, “but we’ve only just met. I think I might need to get to know you a little better before I say yes.”

“I understand,” I said. “Well I will come back tomorrow night and we can talk some more.”

“I’ll see tomorrow night then, lover,” she said with a wink and a smile, then she dropped the check in front of me.

Pulling my glasses out of my shirt pocket and placing them upon my face, I looked over the check and was shocked by what I saw. “Wow,” I said to myself, “did I really drink over a hundred dollars worth of beer tonight?”

True to her word, the slip indicated that the first round was indeed free, but apparently every subsequent round was ten dollars a pop, and I had polished off no less than a dozen of them that evening. You would have thought that I’d be ***d and on the floor after downing twelve beers in rapid succession, but there was something about how smooth and enchanting that brew was that made me feel nothing but a light sense of euphoria in my head and a bit of a gaseous expanse in my gut.

I paid the check, said goodnight to Helena and made my way out the door. The evening was cool and the skies were clear, the stars shining brightly upon me as I walked home. When I got back to my apartment I flopped down on my bed, the many pints of beer inside of me sloshing around like a tidal wave. Drifting off into an alcohol-induced slumber, all I could think about was this beautiful and mysterious stranger I had met that evening.