A Field Guide to Belgian Beer Styles
“Belgian” is not a style of beer. It is a whole brewing tradition with a dozen styles inside it, and the distance between two of them can be wider than the distance between a lager and a stout. A Rodenbach and a Chimay have about as much in common as a Riesling and a Cabernet.
So here is a plain guide to what the words on our board actually mean — written around the ten beers we have on tap right now. No homework required. Read it before you come in, or read it at the bar while you drink one.
Trappist ales
What makes a beer Trappist is not a flavour. It is a legal designation. To use the word, the beer must be brewed inside the walls of a Trappist monastery, by or under the direct supervision of the monks, with the proceeds going to the community or to charity. There are only a handful of authentic Trappist breweries in the world. It is one of the oldest and strictest appellations in drink.
On our board: Chimay Cinq Cents. A tripel from Scourmont Abbey in Hainaut, brewed to mark Chimay’s 500th anniversary. Peppery, bright, dry, with an orange-peel lift. If you have never had a Belgian and want to understand what the fuss is about, start here.
Tripels
Pale, strong, and dangerously drinkable. A tripel is typically 8–9%, golden rather than dark, and carbonated enough that it never feels its weight. That is the trap in the name: it tastes like a beer half its strength. The style was effectively invented at Westmalle in the 1930s and has been copied ever since.
On our board: De Garre. The house tripel of a tiny bar down an unmarked alley in Bruges, and one of the great examples of the style. Smooth to the point of creamy, with a long honeyed finish. Traditionally served with a cube of cheese and a three-glass limit, which tells you everything.
Belgian strong golden ales
Close cousins of the tripel — a touch drier, a touch more aggressive, usually finishing with more bitterness. Duvel is the benchmark of the category. The name means “devil,” which should tell you how it was received when it first went around.
On our board: Delirium Tremens (8.5%) — spicy and bright, with that famous pink elephant on the glass. And Duvel 6,66, a softer, hoppier take on the original at a slightly gentler strength — a good way into the style if 8.5% feels like a lot on a Tuesday.
Belgian IPA
What happens when Belgian yeast meets modern hopping. The yeast throws off pepper and clove and stone fruit, the hops bring citrus and pine, and the result tastes like neither tradition on its own. It is a relatively young style and one of the most interesting things happening in Belgium.
On our board: Houblon Chouffe (9%) — a tripel backbone with a genuine hop punch behind it. If you came up on West Coast IPAs, this is your bridge into the rest of this list.
Flanders reds
This is the one that surprises people, so order it with an open mind. A Flanders red is aged in enormous oak foeders for a year or more and soured by wild microbes living in the wood. The result is tart, vinous and tannic — genuinely closer to a wine than to what most Americans mean by beer.
On our board: Rodenbach Grand Cru — oak-aged, sour and sweet at the same time, and the category’s reference point. And Duchesse de Bourgogne, the classic Flemish red: sour cherry, a drop of balsamic, and a texture like silk. If you drink dry cider or natural wine, order one of these two before anything else on this page.
Belgian strong dark ales and quadrupels
Dark, rich and warming — but the depth comes from Belgian candi sugar and long fermentation rather than from roasted malt, so you get dried fig, raisin and caramel instead of coffee and char. These are cold-weather beers that Florida never quite earns, which has never stopped anybody.
On our board: Gouden Carolus Cuvée van de Keizer. Het Anker’s imperial dark, brewed once a year on the anniversary of Charles V’s birthday. Dense, port-like, and built to age for years. A sipper, full stop.
Lambics and fruit beers
The oldest and strangest corner of Belgian brewing. A true lambic is fermented spontaneously — no pitched yeast at all, just the wild microbes living in the air of the Senne valley outside Brussels, which is why the style cannot really be made anywhere else. Many lambics are then refermented on whole fruit.
On our board: Lindemans Framboise (2.5%) — raspberry, sweet-tart, jammy, and almost shockingly low in alcohol. And Liefmans Peach (3.8%), light and fruity and built for heat. Both are excellent over ice, which is not a compromise — it is how they are served in Belgium. In a Florida August they are the correct answer.
The glassware is not decoration
Nearly every Belgian brewery makes its own glass, and it is not branding. A tulip narrows to trap and concentrate aromatics. A chalice is scored at the base to feed a steady stream of bubbles up into the head. A flute keeps a delicate lambic lively. The glass is part of the recipe.
We pour every beer in its proper glass, at its proper temperature — which is warmer than most people expect. A Belgian served ice cold is a Belgian you cannot taste. And we pour the proper portion: these are strong beers meant to be sipped, so the measure matches the beer rather than whatever glass is nearest.
Where to start
- Never had a Belgian: Chimay Cinq Cents
- You drink wine: Duchesse de Bourgogne
- You drink IPAs: Houblon Chouffe
- It is ninety degrees out: Lindemans Framboise, over ice
- You want to understand the hype: De Garre — one glass, no hurry
- You have an hour and a book: Gouden Carolus Cuvée van de Keizer
Taps rotate, so the list on this page is a snapshot rather than a promise. The current board is always up at the register.
Read why we went all-Belgian →
Photograph by Azuree Holloway.
