What would you do if you found yourself in 1810, trying to save a brewery on the brink of bankruptcy—armed with nothing but your cell phone?
This is a story about a journey through time to the origins of Oktoberfest.
The start of the journey follows the same logic as Lewis Carroll's *Alice's Adventures in Wonderland*: Alice sits by a lake beside her sister, who is reading a book with no pictures in it. Suddenly, a white rabbit dashes past and stirs her curiosity. She follows it down the rabbit hole and tumbles into a fantastical world.
Another point of reference is the Germanic legend of Gambrinus, the Beer King. Several versions of the legend exist, but the one drawn on here tells of a young glassmaker's apprentice who falls in love with Flandrine, the daughter of his workshop's owner. Spurned by her, Gambrinus heads into the forest to hang himself, where he meets the Devil, who offers him an infallible gift to win the girl's heart—in exchange for the young man's soul, thirty years hence.
The Devil first turns him into a dazzling musician and dancer, but the young woman still won't have him. Faced with the apprentice's failure and heartbreak, the Devil teaches Gambrinus the secret of brewing beer with hops—a drink potent enough to make a man forget his sorrows.
Gambrinus becomes a master brewer of tremendous success, grows rich, earns the title "The Beer King," and leaves his unrequited love behind him. Thirty years later, when the Devil comes back to collect his due, Gambrinus gets him so thoroughly drunk on beer that the demon gives up on claiming his soul.
In our story, the legend gets a livelier makeover, and Flandrine, rather than serving as the prize to be won, takes on a new role altogether. She is present at every turn and emerges as a key piece in how the plot unfolds.
Watch as historical events unfold around the hatching of a bold, half-mad business plan to create the most famous beer festival the world has ever known.
Beni adjusted the Gamsbart on his velvet Bavarian hat, sitting on a bench beside his sister. She was scrolling through her phone, oblivious to everything around her. Once or twice he glanced over at the endless feed she was watching, but none of it struck him as particularly interesting.
So he found himself thinking (as clearly as anyone could after that many beers) about how someone had ever managed to invent a festival that blended traditional costumes, music, beer, and pure joy into something with so much soul. Oktoberfest.
A young woman in a traditional dirndl hurried past him, carrying a fistful of full steins as though the liter-sized Maß mugs weighed nothing at all. She glanced back at him for just a second. Beni got up and pushed through the crowd after her, but she was far too quick. By the time he finally caught up, his friends cut in front of him, and he lost sight of her completely.
His friends dared him into the kind of dumb, hilarious stunt that only makes sense to people who love dumb, hilarious stunts—something straight out of *Jackass*. It wasn't the sort of thing anyone would try sober, but after enough beer, nobody was short on courage. He climbed into a barrel and went rolling down the street, shoved along by his friends.
The barrel stopped, but his head kept spinning. Beni crawled out on his hands and knees, then stood up, brushing his hands off against his traditional peasant costume.
"You must be the young man they call Gambrinus—one of the tavern keeper's sons," grumbled a big man with a mustache, wearing a beat-up leather apron.
"That's me." Beni answered without thinking, glancing around for his friends. He was standing in a shed with a packed-dirt floor.
The man grabbed a thick clay mug—one of those with a rim chipped from years of use—filled it from the nearest barrel, and pushed it toward him.
"Try it."
Beni drank. What hit his tongue was warm, thick, and tasted strongly of smoke and stale bread.
"That's not beer."
The man takes it back. Looks at what's left. Drinks it himself.
"Tastes great to me."
The double wooden doors swing open hard. Daylight floods the dark shed. Beni squints. Three people walk in. The brewmaster sets down his stirring rod. Wipes his hands on his apron. Gives a quick bow.
"Herr Direktor. Herr Chef. Fräulein."
The most polished-looking of the three strides through the shed, slow, taking in the place.
"Is this one of the breweries serving His Highness's wedding?"
The old man—the owner—speaks fast, nervous:
"Yes, Herr Direktor. Bruder Benedikt has tradition behind it. Over two hundred years. My father served the prince's father. My grandfather served his grandfather."
"Tradition doesn't fill a barrel."
The envoy stops in front of the barrel Beni climbed out of. Looks at the barrel. Looks at Beni, still standing by the table with the clay mug in his hand.
"Who's this?"
"The new apprentice," says the brewmaster. "Gambrinus, the tavern keeper's son."
"Gambrinus?" The envoy laughs. "Like the Beer King?"
He looks Beni up and down. Traditional peasant costume, caked in dirt, hair a mess.
"Looks more like a drunk who fell out of a barrel."
Beni opens his mouth to answer. The brewery owner cuts in:
"Herr Direktor, would you care to try the beer? The one we brewed for the wedding?"
The envoy takes the mug from Beni's hand. Sniffs it. Makes a face. Takes a small sip. Spits it on the ground.
"This is barrel water. His Highness expects a beer worthy of Princess Therese."
"Right, barrel water!" Beni agrees, before the brewmaster's arm yanks him back.
"The recipe is a good one—from the Benedictine monks." The young woman standing beside them answers the prince's envoy.
"Flandrine, don't." The envoy says her name slowly, almost like a dare.
But she continues:
"If you give us time, we can do it."
"Time?" The envoy laughs. "The wedding is in three weeks. His Highness won't wait on you, miss."
He turns to the owner.
"Herr Müller. If the thirty barrels for the wedding aren't ready—and good—Bruder Benedikt will be seized. The brewery becomes property of the crown. And you and your daughter…"
He lets the sentence hang.
The old man lowers his head.
"We'll get it done, Herr Direktor."
"I hope so."
The envoy slams the clay mug down on the table.
"Because if you don't, the brewery won't be the only thing you lose."
He turns and walks out.
"Who are you to say our beer is barrel water?" Flandrine rounds on Beni, fuming.
"I don't know much about beer, but that's nowhere close to an IPA or a lager. And hats off for the immersion, by the way—I really felt like I was in a real, old-timey brewery."
Flandrine didn't understand a single word, but she was too angry and too worried about the brewery's future to bother with him.
While she argued with the two men, Beni headed for the door to find his friends. When he stepped outside, he finally saw that he wasn't at Oktoberfest anymore.
The brewery owner and the brewmaster bump into Beni on their way out of the shed. He steadies himself and heads back inside to grab the phone from his pocket. The battery was nearly dead, but he still had signal. He texts his friends, but they don't answer. The clock on the screen seems frozen in time, the hour never changing. He opens his location, and the map shows he's in Munich.
"We're in Munich?" Beni asks Flandrine, who's lost in thought, staring at the vat where the beer is fermenting.
"Where else would we be!" she answers without even looking at him.
"Do you know today's date?"
"There are exactly three weeks left until Prince Ludwig's wedding, you idiot!"
It wasn't the most precise answer, or the most polite one, but it helped. One quick prompt later, the answer came back: the wedding took place on October 12, 1810. Now came the real question—how could he have signal in 1810? He walked around the shed, checking the signal strength. Flandrine watched him pace back and forth, finding it strange that he was holding up a polished piece of glass. Bingo—the signal was strongest near her barrel. That was the modem.
It was clear Flandrine wasn't too pleased about Beni's comments in front of the prince's envoy. The only thing to do was apologize—explain that he'd thought it was one thing, then realized it was another. Try to patch up the first impression. She got straight to the point:
"I accept your apology, but on one condition. I want you to come with me to see a master arcanist and mesmerist—I've heard about his powers. I'm afraid to go alone, and I don't want my father to know."
Beni asked her to wait just a moment and, turning his back to her, asked the AI what an arcanist and a mesmerist were. The answer: an arcanist dealt in physical and chemical magic, a mesmerist in mental magic. In short—a quack. But for a guy who'd already climbed into a barrel to go rolling down the street, there was no room to turn down a visit to a quack. Who knew—maybe the guy could help him charge his phone.
"Yeah, great idea. Whenever you want to go."
Flandrine motioned for Beni to follow, before he'd even finished talking.
The pair walk through the tree-lined streets of Schwabing, the intellectuals' district. They arrive at the back of a stone mansion. Flandrine pushes open a heavy wooden gate, and they step straight into a private inner courtyard at street level, where the carriages of wealthy clients—and barrels of smuggled goods—are unloaded.
Right at the entrance to the courtyard stand the "Arcanist's" men. They wear well-cut leather vests and heavy boots. Their arms are thick, the kind built from moving hundreds of pounds without breaking a sweat, and their faces make it clear they're not looking to make friends. One of them, with a silent nod, points toward a solid oak door right there on the ground floor, leading directly into the boss's private chamber.
Beni had been expecting some kind of mad-scientist mess, but instead found a room with dark stone walls, quiet, lit by the flat, slanting light of mid-afternoon. In the center sat nothing but a heavy black oak table, holding a quill, an inkwell, and sheets of paper. The quack seated at the table looked as though he'd already been expecting them, a wide grin spread across his face.
This Herr Voland showed little interest in Flandrine. He addressed only Beni. Flandrine, for her part, was thoroughly uncomfortable in that place, already regretting having come.
"What is it you desire, Brother Benedikt? The love of this young lady, or wealth and power?"
Beni found it remarkable that no one ever asked his actual name—everyone just called him whatever they liked. The quack must have picked up the brewery's name somewhere and assumed it was his. Sloppy client research, apparently.
"Actually, Herr Voland, love and riches sound nice enough, but what we need right now is a way to charge this device."
Beni held the device out for Herr Voland to see, and the man broke into a grin, as if the sight of it filled him with grand possibilities. Flandrine stared hard at the phone, which at that moment was nothing more than a useless slab of black glass.
"Then we can draw up a contract." Herr Voland picked up the quill and inkwell and began to write. "I tell you how to bring your object to life, and thirty days from now, you give me your soul."
Beni glanced at Flandrine, whose eyes had gone wide, then back at Herr Voland.
"Deal. We have an agreement."
Herr Voland finished writing the contract, thoroughly pleased with himself.
"Now cut your finger and press it to the paper, to seal the pact."
"No need to cut anything, if you don't mind." Beni picks up the inkwell, dips his thumb in the ink, and presses his thumbprint onto the page. "There. Deal's done! Now, how do I charge my device?"
Flandrine had long since stopped understanding anything happening around her, and Herr Voland's grin had dimmed a little, but he held up his end of the bargain.
"To bring the device to life, hold it against the bell of All Saints' Church at the Cross, in St. Peter's Cemetery, right after it tolls."
"Got it—wireless induction charging! Bronze bell, copper-tin alloy, magnetic field… I'll give it a shot. If it doesn't work, the contract's void, right?"
"It will work. Have faith."
Beni and Flandrine leave the arcanist's chamber. Once they're out of sight of the henchmen, she tries to make sense of what just happened.
"You sold your soul to the Devil over a useless piece of glass? My family's about to lose the brewery, you're about to lose your soul, and you're still standing there with that idiotic grin on your face?"
"Dear Fräulein Flandrine, this little piece of glass holds all the knowledge in the world inside it. What time does the bell at that church strike, and how do we get to it?"
Before heading to the church, Beni and Flandrine stopped by the brewery, where she filled a two-liter clay jug. Trying to be a gentleman, Beni offered to carry it, but Flandrine took one look at his hopeless grip on the Krug and decided otherwise. She took it from his hands and set off at a brisk pace, just like the dirndl-clad girls hauling Maß through Oktoberfest. The hurry was to make it there before the Angelus.
They arrived at the Kreuzkirche with little time to spare before six o'clock. Flandrine explained that the church had been shut down over some bureaucratic matter—something to do with Napoleon—and now served only as a hay storehouse. Inside, they found just the sexton, adjusting the bell ropes to ring the Angelus. He accepted the jug of beer in exchange for letting them climb up to the bell tower once the ringing was done.
The sexton unlocks the small door leading to the tower and begins pulling the bell ropes. Beni and Flandrine stand near the door, ears covered, laughing at the racket. When the sexton stops, they push the door open and hurry up the narrow spiral staircase. At the top, Beni presses the phone against the rim of the bell, still humming with the vibration of the bronze. The fast-charging alert lights up, and the percentage starts climbing.
"Look how beautiful it is from up here." Flandrine, still catching her breath from the climb, is captivated by the view of the city. She forgets entirely why they'd come up. She starts pointing out places she'd only ever seen from ground level, walking the streets below.
Beni splits his attention between the view, Flandrine's running commentary, and the battery percentage. Within a few minutes, it hits 100%. The Devil had held up his end of the bargain.
"Flandrine. Look this way." Beni, standing beside her, snaps a selfie with 1810 Munich in the background.
The young woman says nothing. She takes the phone and stares at her own image—something she'd only ever seen before in mirrors.
"Is it a magic painting?"
Beni decided it was better not to try explaining the unexplainable. After all, even in his own time, with everyone walking around holding a phone, nobody actually understands how the thing magically works. It's just like *Alice's Adventures in Wonderland*—absurd, surreal things happen, and everyone just goes along with it as though it were perfectly ordinary.
"Yeah, a magic painting. This little piece of glass does other things too, but we need to get back to that barrel of mine at the brewery. And with a little help from this glass, you're about to brew the best beer in Munich!"
Back at the brewery, Beni starts checking the signal strength.
"Flandrine, let's head over there by Jackass." He points and names his barrel-modem.
"Strange name. Named after some relative of yours?"
"Named after a group that inspires young people to go on adventures. Comes with a 'don't try this at home' warning, though."
Flandrine had already gotten used to not understanding a lot of what came out of Beni.
Beni pulls up an AI assistant, avoiding voice mode—that would send Flandrine's confusion to a whole new level. He sits close by so they can look at the screen together. Beni asks which beers could possibly be made in three weeks. Flandrine can read, but not very fluent, and can't quite keep up with what Beni's typing. He notices and starts narrating what he's doing so she doesn't miss anything.
"Which beers can be made in three weeks." A second after he types it, a table comes back with a list of various beers and how long each one takes, all the way up to ones that need more than three weeks. "Weizenbier and ale are the ones that work."
"My father doesn't brew Weizenbier. And I don't know what this ale is."
Beni typed a new prompt, this time explaining that it's 1810, he has a friend with a brewery in Munich, and they have three weeks to produce beer for Prince Ludwig's wedding.
The answer took a little longer this time. Then it came:
*Weizenbier is feasible within 3 weeks, but check wheat availability and royal authorization. In Munich, wheat production was a crown monopoly. Alternative: high-fermentation barley ale, with well-modified malt.*
Beni read it out loud, slowly.
"Crown monopoly." Flandrine nodded. "That's what I said. Weizen's out."
"So, barley ale, then."
"We've got barley." She glanced at the vat. "But what's ale?"
"It's a high-fermentation beer. Like Weizen, just without the wheat."
"So it's just regular beer."
"More or less."
Beni kept firing off questions to the AI, adapting the alternatives to whatever Flandrine actually had on hand. Two thousand liters of beer, no electricity, working with the limited resources of an 1810 brewery.
What came out of the phone was a plan for a barley ale. No wheat, no lager. High fermentation, ready in three weeks—provided the yeast was good and the temperature was kept under control.
To get started, they needed a high-fermentation yeast, different from the one the Flandrine family's brewery normally used. The AI assistant offered a few suggestions on how to get a sample to work from. The best option was the Hofbräuhaus brewery. Beni started thinking about a trade: the yeast in exchange for a solution to a problem that brewery wouldn't actually solve for years to come.
Today, the Hofbräuhaus is one of the most famous breweries in the world. Tourists from every corner of the globe line up to sit on its long benches, snap photos with liter mugs, and listen to live music. But in 1810, when Beni walked in with the Jackass barrel on his back and Flandrine trailing behind him carrying the empty Krug, the place had nothing famous about it. It was rustic, just like every other brewery around.
Customer service was entirely self-service. You had to fetch your own mug, wash it at the fountain, and pour your own beer at the counter. Completely normal by the standards of the time.
The beer itself, though, was already good—often excellent. And the place drew a very particular crowd: the "Hofbräuhäusler," regulars so used to all the inconveniences that they'd turned the place into an authentic, rough-edged slice of everyday Munich life.
The pair went to find the brewmaster to propose their trade. He looked the two of them over like they were peddlers hawking cheap trinkets.
"What do you two want?"
"High-fermentation yeast." Beni set the barrel down on the ground and propped the phone against it. "In exchange, I'll fix a problem of yours."
The brewmaster laughed.
"What problem?"
Beni looked over at the barrels lined up against the wall. Sniffed the air. There was something sour underneath, that smell of old beer that never quite goes away.
"Your barrels are going sour." He pointed toward the corner. "That one's the worst."
The brewmaster stopped laughing.
Beni typed quickly, read the answer, and narrated it for Flandrine:
"Quicklime. Scald the barrel with quicklime and water. Let it dry out. The sourness goes away."
The brewmaster frowned. Looked at the barrel in the corner. Looked at Beni. Then he called over an apprentice and had him fetch some of the lime they used for construction repairs.
They scalded the barrel right there on the spot. The smell changed. The brewmaster stuck his nose into the barrel's opening, breathed in deep, and went quiet for a moment.
"Where'd you learn that?"
"Far from here."
The brewmaster muttered something like "can't believe I never thought of that," but sent one of the apprentices off to fetch a pot of yeast. He handed it to Flandrine with a nod.
"If that barrel sours again, I'll come find you."
"It won't."
They left with the pot of yeast. Flandrine carried it like it was gold. Beni carried the Jackass.
Back at the brewery, the yeast was secured. Now they had to replicate it at the right temperature.
"Flandrine, where's the brewery's thermometer? We're going to need it now."
She plants her hands on her hips and just stares at him without answering.
Beni realizes she has no idea what he's talking about. He sits down on the barrel and pulls up the AI assistant.
"Where can I get a precision thermometer in Munich, 1810?"
The answer takes a second. Apothecaries sell thermometers, but their scales are too broad, without enough precision for fermentation. The right place is the Mathematical-Mechanical Institute, where instruments are built for scientists.
"I need to offer something not yet discovered about thermometers to negotiate a trade."
Answer in hand, Beni looks at Flandrine.
"Do you know where the Mathematical-Mechanical Institute is?"
"I know where it is. I don't know anyone inside it."
"Neither do I. Let's pay a visit."
Arriving at the institute, they step into a packed-dirt courtyard. To the left, a forge with the smell of coal. To the right, a solid wooden door, standing open. Inside: workbenches, tools, glass everywhere. An apprentice of about fifteen is sweeping up broken shards. He stops when he sees the two of them.
"What do you want?"
Flandrine speaks first, firm:
"We're from the Bruder Benedikt brewery. We've come to speak with the master glassmaker about Prince Ludwig's wedding." The apprentice looks them up and down. Peasant clothes, dirty hands, a girl in a dirndl. Doesn't look like a court commission. But "wedding" and "prince" aren't words he can just ignore. "Wait here." He disappears through a side door. Comes back a minute later. "The master wants to know what Bruder Benedikt wants with a glassmaker." Beni leans in. "Tell him I know why his thermometers explode at 100 degrees." The apprentice blinks. Goes back in. Comes out again. "The master says come in." The master glassmaker is sitting on a tall stool, hunched over his workbench. His fingers are thick and burn-scarred, his nails cut short, a glass tube in his hand. He doesn't lift his head when they walk in. Only his eyes move. The apprentice vanishes. The side door shuts. Flandrine looks around at a kind of place she's never set foot in before. The glassmaker addresses Beni directly. "You said you know why the thermometers explode. And what does that have to do with the prince's wedding?" "We need a precision thermometer for our beer production for the wedding—one that won't shatter the moment we calibrate it in boiling water. So here's the deal: we tell you how to fix your problem, and we keep a prototype." The glassmaker was skeptical, but agreed to hear the solution out and promised the prototype if it made sense and actually worked. "Then talk." Beni didn't step closer to the workbench. He stayed put, next to Flandrine, and spoke the way someone recites a memorized instruction. Because that's exactly what it was. "Thin tube, about thirty centimeters. Bulb at the bottom, uniform capillary. Mercury inside, but don't fill it all the way. Before sealing it, heat the whole thing in boiling water. Let the mercury rise and push the air out. Then seal the tip, leaving a gap at the top. Two fingers' worth of vacuum." Beni sneaks a quick glance at what the AI had answered earlier and adds: "To create the vacuum, use the same process as barometers. Boil the mercury inside the tube, let the vapor drive everything out, then seal the tip while it's still hot, before it cools." The master glassmaker ran through the whole process in his head as he listened. He grabbed the materials and tools he needed, and before long the prototype was ready. After letting it cool, the master dunked the thermometer into hot water, and it didn't shatter. The master mounted the thermometer on a wooden stand and marked the 100°C point. Since there was no ice on hand, marking 0°C wasn't possible yet. Back at the brewery, they still had to fill in the rest of the markings. Beni had an idea without even needing the AI assistant. It was a MacGyver-style fix: use body temperature to mark 36°C, then space out the intervals every 5 degrees from there. To get down to 0, it was just a matter of repeating the same spacing downward. Not NASA-level precision, but good enough to brew beer. Now they had everything they needed to start production. Only two things were still missing. One was the schedule. Beni put one together quickly with the AI assistant and wrote it out in chalk on the lid of an old barrel lying on its side on a shelf. Beni tipped the barrel onto its side and knelt beside it. With the chalk, he drew a horizontal line from end to end across the lid. At the start, he wrote D1. At the end, D21. Between the two, he marked the days with small tick marks, like a wall calendar. Above the line, he wrote out the stages, each one positioned above its corresponding day: Propagation — D1 to D4. Mashing, boiling, cooling, pitching — D5. Fermentation — D6 to D19. Casking — D19 to D20. Conditioning — D20 to D21. Below the line, the names: Flandrine, the brewmaster, Beni, everyone. What each of them was doing, and when. Then, next to the schedule, he wrote out another list. Shorter. More direct. Propagation: 25°C. Mashing: 50–65–75°C. Fermenting: 15–24°C Flandrine looked at the numbers. Then at the thermometer in her hand. Then at Beni. "I know how to brew beer. I just don't know how to read this." "When the mercury hits the number, you do what needs doing. Too hot, it kills the yeast. Too cold, it goes to sleep." She nodded. Tucked the thermometer into her apron pocket and went to light the fire. Flandrine lit the fire under the small kettle. While the water heated, she measured out the malt with a tin cup—two level scoops. For propagation, a weak wort. More water than grain. She pressed her wrist against the side of the kettle. Not yet. She waited. When the steam rose, she glanced at the barrel lid. Then pulled the thermometer from her pocket. Dipped the bulb into the water. The mercury climbed slowly. She watched it, checking it against the number Beni had chalked on the wall. Sixty-five. Good. She threw in the malt, stirring with the paddle, breaking up the clumps. A sweet smell rose into the air. She kept stirring, low heat, glancing at the thermometer now and then. Couldn't go past seventy. The number was right there on the wall. She didn't need to memorize it. Beni sat with his phone timer running. After nearly an hour, Flandrine pulled the kettle off the fire. Strained the wort into a small barrel through a linen cloth. Squeezed the cloth with her hands, wringing out the last of it. Tossed the spent grain into a basket—it would go to the pigs. The wort was still warm. She checked the thermometer. Twenty-five. Still too hot. She left it in the shade near the door and went to wash her hands. When she came back: twenty. She picked up the pot of yeast from the Hofbräuhaus. Sniffed it. Sour, fruity, alive. Poured it into the barrel. Stirred it slowly. Covered it with a clean cloth and tied it down with a cord. Beni appeared at her side. "Done?" "Done. Tomorrow it goes into the bigger barrel. Day after, into the kettle." He nodded. Looked at the schedule on the barrel lid. Day 1, propagation. Done. The door opened. Old Müller walked in. Behind him, the brewmaster. This was the second thing still missing: telling Flandrine's father about the plan. The old man stopped. Looked at the tipped-over barrel, at the chalk, at the small covered barrel, at the thermometer hanging nearby. Then looked at his daughter. "What is all this?" Flandrine took a deep breath. Beni stood up. "Father, we need to talk." The old man didn't sit. He stood there, staring at the schedule on the lid. He couldn't read well. But he recognized the lines, the names. And the numbers. "Who wrote this?" "I did." Beni stepped forward. "It's the plan for the next twenty-one days." "What plan?" "The plan to save our brewery." "My brewery is two hundred years old." The old man's voice was low. "My father served the prince's father. And you show up here, fall out of a barrel, and think you know how to brew better beer than we do?" "Not better. Different. Faster. Your recipe doesn't come together in three weeks. This one does." The old man looked at his daughter. At the covered barrel. At the thermometer. "And if it fails?" "Then we lose everything anyway. But if we don't try, we lose it too. The difference is, if we try, we've got a chance." The old man turned to the brewmaster. "Did you know about this?" The brewmaster hesitated. "The girl came to me yesterday. Said they were going to try a new recipe. I didn't know it was all this." The old man grumbled. Looked again at the schedule. At his daughter. At Beni. "Three weeks?" "Three weeks." He let out a breath through his nose. Pulled up a stool and sat. Didn't say yes. Didn't say no. "Then explain it to me." Beni explained. The high fermentation, the weak wort, the thermometer, the hops added in two stages. The old man listened without interrupting. The brewmaster drew closer, curious in spite of himself. When Beni finished, the old man went quiet. Then looked at the brewmaster. "Did you follow any of that?" "The yeast part, yes. The rest…" "The rest we learn by doing." The old man stood up. "If we're going to lose everything, let it be while trying." He held out his hand to Beni. A business handshake. Hard, short, dry. "You've got twenty-one days. After that, either we serve the prince his beer, or the crown takes my house." "Twenty-one days." The old man let go of his hand. Looked at his daughter. "And you. Could've told me sooner." "You wouldn't have let us." "No, I wouldn't have." He almost smiled. Almost. Then turned to the brewmaster. "Come on. We've got barrels to clean." "Father, I need to tell you about a new way to clean them—using lime." A new brewmaster was being born. Ten days had passed when the prince's envoy showed up unannounced. He walked into the shed with two guards, the same twisted-up nose he'd had that first day. Old Müller came up from the cellar, his hands caked in malt. The brewmaster froze mid-motion with his paddle. Flandrine stood beside the large kettle, the thermometer hanging from her apron. Beni sat near the Jackass. "Herr Direktor." The old man wiped his hands on his apron. "We weren't expecting you so soon." "I came to check on your progress." The envoy walked through the shed, eyeing the row of barrels. Sniffed the air. "It's fermenting." "It is." "Let me taste it." Silence. Nobody moved. The beer had six days of fermentation behind it. Green, cloudy, flat. Tasting it now was like tasting bread dough before it went in the oven. Flandrine walked over to the larger barrel. Opened the tap. Filled a clay mug halfway. The liquid came out cloudy, a dirty straw color, with a thin foam that vanished fast. She handed it to the envoy. He looked at the mug. Sniffed it. Took a sip. Held it in his mouth. Swallowed. Silence. "It isn't ready." "No." Flandrine didn't back down. "Ten more days." The envoy looked at her for a moment. Then at the barrel. At the thermometer on her apron. At the young man sitting in the corner with a black piece of glass in his hand. "What is that?" He pointed at the thermometer. "A precision instrument. For measuring the fermentation temperature." "Where did it come from?" Flandrine hesitated. Beni stood up. "The Mathematical-Mechanical Institute." The envoy looked at him. Recognized the face. The young man who'd fallen out of a barrel. "You're still here." The envoy fell silent for a moment. Then looked back down at the mug in his hand. Took another sip. Smaller this time. Swallowed. "Ten days?" "Yes. Ten days." Flandrine spoke before her father could. The envoy looked at her. Then at the old man. Then at the brewmaster. Then at Beni. He drank down what was left in the mug. "Herr Müller, Fräulein Flandrine. Auf Wiedersehen." To Beni and the brewmaster, just a nod. Now that production at the brewery was under control, Beni had other plans. Everyone in Bavaria already knew: after the prince's wedding, there would be five more days of festivities, and on the last one, a horse race on the outskirts of the city, at the Theresienwiese. The crown only allowed stalls on Sendling Hill. Anyone who wanted to sell beer to the race crowd had to secure a spot there. It was the big chance to raise Bruder Benedikt to an entirely new level—beer, food, music, the whole experience. Flandrine liked the idea of being a waitress—carrying mugs straight to the customers instead of waiting for them to come to the stall. Fritz's bakery was two blocks from the brewery. You could smell the flour and woodsmoke before you even reached the door. Inside, the oven was massive, vaulted, its mouth dark. Fritz stood at the counter, kneading dough. Ida, his wife, was helping a customer. Two young women worked in the back, shaping loaves. Flandrine walked in first. Beni followed. "Meister Fritz. Frau Ida." The baker looked up. Recognized Flandrine. Knew her father. "Fräulein Müller." "Have you heard about the horse race?" Everyone already knew, and everyone was excited to go. Beni spotted honey-cakes on the counter and remembered these same cakes shaped like hearts. "We're setting up a stall to sell beer. Would you want to set one up next to ours?" Fritz and Ida liked the idea. Beni seized the moment and threw out something that could make for a solid piece of marketing. "Everyone loves honey-cake. For the race, you could shape them like hearts." The couple's daughters drew closer, curious. They were pretty. Young. Quick hands, the kind that came from working dough since childhood. Flandrine looked at them. Then at Beni. "Instead of waiting for people to come to the stall, I'm going to carry mugs to whoever's passing by." She looked at the young women. "Your daughters could do the same. We'd make a team. Sell more, and sell it faster." Fritz looked at Ida. Ida looked at her daughters. Both of them were smiling. "All right." Fritz held out his hand. "We'll set up next to you." "We're looking for musicians, too." Flandrine was already carrying herself like a seasoned event planner. Fritz thought it over. Looked at Ida. "My brother-in-law plays the horn." Ida said. "And his son, clarinet. My nephew's got an old violin, though I don't know if it still plays." "Anyone else?" Beni asked. Ida counted on her fingers. Horn, clarinet, violin. Thought a bit more. "Fritz's brother used to play the bagpipes. Not sure if he still has it." Fritz shrugged. "He does. But he drinks." "Even better." Beni grinned. "Drinks and plays." The eve of the wedding. The wedding beer was nearly ready; the beer for the race still needed a few more days. Flandrine opened the tap on the maturation barrel. The beer ran out through the linen cloth, clear, clean, free of sediment. The liquid in the barrel below looked beautiful. But pale. Beni looked at it. Said nothing. Looked again. "Is there a glass cup anywhere?" Flandrine grabbed one of her father's cups, the ones kept just for tasting. Beni filled it and held it up to the light from the window. Straw-colored. Not amber. He thought back to the beers at Oktoberfest. Golden, amber, almost red. This one was too pale. Pretty, but with no soul to it. Flandrine noticed. "What's wrong?" "The color. It's too light." "Pale beer is good beer." "Not for what I want." He sat down near the Jackass and pulled up the AI assistant. *Beer is ready but too pale. How to darken it without ruining it?* The answer came back fast: *Roasted malt, if available. If not, caramel. Boil sugar until golden brown, then add it to the barrel. Darkens the color and adds flavor.* Beni read it. Put the phone away. Looked at Flandrine. "Got any sugar in the house?" "We do. What for?" "We're making caramel." Flandrine went to fetch the sugar. Beni lit a fire under a small pan. Poured in the sugar. Stirred slowly with the wooden paddle. The sugar melted. Turned liquid, clear. Then it started to brown. Beni kept stirring, unhurried. The smell changed. Sweet, then bitter, then deep. Honey-colored, then amber, then the color of oak. "Now." He poured the caramel into the barrel of beer. Stirred. The color spread through the liquid, slowly, like ink through water. Pale turned to gold. Gold turned to amber. Flandrine filled a mug. Held it up to the light. "It's beautiful." "It is." She tasted it. Held it in her mouth. Swallowed. "It's better." Beni tasted it too. The caramel had done more than just add color. It had rounded off the bitterness of the hops. Given it body. Left the beer tasting like… a celebration. "Do we do this to every barrel?" "Every one." Beni looked at the barrel. "And save a bit of caramel for the stall. If someone wants it darker, we stir some into the mug." Flandrine smiled. "You think of everything." They filled a ten-liter firkin with the finished beer and sealed it shut with the mallet. The door opened. The prince's envoy walked in without knocking. Two guards behind him. "I've come for the tasting." Beni grabbed the glass cup, wiped it with a cloth, and filled it from the firkin's sample. Held it up to the light from the window. "Deep amber. Clean. No sediment." He handed it to the envoy. Herr Direktor looked at it. Sniffed it. Drank. Held it in his mouth. Swallowed. Silence. He took another sip. A bigger one. "It's ready." "It is." He looked at the cup and pressed his lips together. Looked at the barrel. At Flandrine. At old Müller, who had just walked in and stood frozen in the doorway. At the brewmaster, in the corner. "Then get them casked. All thirty barrels leave first thing tomorrow morning." He paused for a moment, then went on. "I'll be taking this firkin." "Herr Müller. Fräulein Flandrine." He looked at Beni. "Herr Gambrinus." He looked at the brewmaster. "Herr Braumeister." A nod. To all four of them. He left. The guards behind him. The door shut. Old Müller stood frozen for a moment. Then walked over to the counter. Picked up the glass cup the envoy had used. Held it up to the light. Drank what was left. On the 12th, the bells of Munich rang the entire morning. Beni, Flandrine, and old Müller stood in the brewery courtyard, listening. They weren't invited. No one was. But the sound reached them all the same. Later, they watched the procession pass by in the street—carriages, horses, banners. The crowds on the sidewalk, cheering. Flandrine rose up on her toes to get a better look. "You think they're drinking our beer?" "If Herr Direktor didn't drink it all himself first, then yeah, definitely." Old Müller said nothing. But he stayed in the courtyard until the last carriage passed. Over the next four days, all of Munich celebrated. Music in the streets, lit-up facades, people drinking in the taverns. Bruder Benedikt sold beer to anyone passing by. The same beer served to the prince's guests—only nobody knew it. On the fifth day after the wedding, before dawn, a line of wagons stood loaded up. Barrels of beer, sacks of bread, the iron spit, firewood, instruments. And of course, the Jackass barrel couldn't be left behind. Fritz and Ida arrived with their daughters. The musicians showed up one by one, their instruments wrapped in cloth. The pit-roaster—a big man with thick hands, recommended by Ida—turned up last, a whole lamb slung over his shoulder. The men wore green felt hats with a feather—the same style as Beni's own hat, but new, made in a rush by a hatmaker from the neighborhood. The women wore dirndls, with a green ribbon in their hair or tied around their apron. Fritz and Ida were in their Sunday best. The musicians wore dark vests and green hats. The sun was still low when the wagons pulled up at the top of the hill. The view stretched out wide: down below, the racetrack marked off with stakes and ropes. All around them, the breweries were already setting up. Planks, tarps, stacked barrels. Smoke from cookfires. The smell of burning wood. Bruder Benedikt claimed a spot where the crowd was gathering to watch the horses. The pit-roaster drove his spit into the ground and lit the fire. Fritz and Ida set up the bread stall right beside them—honey-cakes shaped like hearts, pretzels, rye bread, beer bread. Anna and Grete stacked the trays. Beni climbed down from the wagon with the Jackass over his shoulder. Flandrine followed behind, his hat in her hand. The men in green hats unloaded the barrels. The women in dirndls stretched out the tarps. The brewmaster drove four stakes into the ground and tied down the canvas. Old Müller stood off to the side, watching. He didn't help. But he didn't get in the way, either. The musicians tuned their instruments in the corner—horn, clarinet, violin, bagpipes. Ida's brother-in-law already had the horn to his lips, testing it out. Beni looked over the stall. Planks laid across trestles. Long benches. The spit with the lamb turning. The bread tables. The barrels lined up behind the counter. The crowd began to arrive. A trickle, at first. Then in waves. Families, carts, children running about. Down at the track, horses were already being exercised. Anna and Grete grabbed the mugs. The other girls from the bakery took up the baskets. Flandrine put on Beni's green hat and went behind the counter. Beni stood still for a moment, taking in the stall. The team. The start of a big day. The race began at two in the afternoon. The royal family watched from a pavilion beside the track, shielded from the wind by curtains. Farther back, near the village of Sendling, the crowd spread out across the hillside—sitting in the grass, standing, climbing onto wagons for a better view. There were thousands of them. A National Guard officer read out the rules in a loud voice. Any citizen could race. This wasn't a contest for nobles. It was a contest for anyone with a horse and enough nerve. The riders lined up on the track. Twelve of them. Some in fine clothes, others in plain work clothes. One rider, a coachman with thick hands and a worn-out coat, caught Beni's eye. He didn't look nervous at all. He looked like he belonged there. The start was a cannon shot. The horses took off. Dust rose. The crowd roared. On the turn, two riders nearly collided. One fell. His horse kept going without him. The rider stayed on the ground, cursing. On the third lap, the coachman in the worn-out coat was out in front. He wasn't pushing. Just holding steady. His horse ran like it already knew the way. He crossed the line first. The crowd erupted. A name passed from mouth to mouth: Franz Baumgartner. Coachman. National Guardsman. The man who, some said, had come up with the idea for the race himself. The royal family applauded from the pavilion. Baumgartner received a cash prize and a medal. He didn't smile much. He looked tired. But the crowd kept roaring for several minutes. The race was over. The crowd didn't leave. The stalls on the hill were already packed. Smoke rising from the roasting spits. The smell of bread everywhere. The breweries that had set up stalls were surrounded by people. The Bruder Benedikt stall stood out. Not because they'd built it bigger. Because they'd built it better. Long tables, wooden benches, the spit turning with the lamb on it. The musicians in the corner—horn, clarinet, violin, bagpipes —playing something nobody could name, but everybody was tapping their foot to. Anna and Grete carried four mugs each. Flandrine stood behind the counter, pouring nonstop. Fritz and Ida sold pretzels and beer bread beside them. The pit-roaster carved the meat onto wooden plates. Other stalls had people buying. Bruder Benedikt had customers. People who waited twenty minutes for a mug. People who came back with friends. People who stayed. Beni stood still for a moment, watching. The crowd drinking, eating, singing along with the music. Children running between the tables. The sun sinking low, golden light spread over everything. Flandrine appeared beside him. The green hat sitting a little crooked on her head. An empty mug in her hand. "We're going to need to brew more beer." "We're going to need to brew a lot more beer." He laughed, taking a sip of his own. "For next year?" Beni looked at her. "For every year." Flandrine grabs two mugs and heads back out toward the crowd. "Nothing quite like a party with plenty of drink, plenty of food, and pretty women." Herr Voland appears in front of Beni, and everything around them freezes in time. "Herr Voland, what a pleasure to see you here. Best party in the world, don't you think?" "Yes, quite good. I couldn't have done better myself." The Devil breaks into a wide grin. "You know it's been thirty days now?" "You want my soul. I get it." Beni pulls out his phone and types to the AI assistant. *The Devil is here to collect my soul. What can I do?* Beni smiles reading the answer and turns to Herr Voland. "What exactly do you understand a soul to be?" "My boy, a soul is a soul. It's what makes you human. What gives you life, joy, and hope." Beni fills a mug with beer and holds it out to the Devil. "Right here is what gave me life, joy, and hope. Drink it, and tell me I'm lying." Herr Voland drinks and feels a wave of dizziness. "You're right, it's true. The debt is paid. It wasn't exactly what I expected—so it's only fair it isn't exactly what you expected either." The world starts moving again: the noise, the smells, the buzz of the crowd. Herr Voland waves to his henchmen. Flandrine, from a distance, spots Herr Voland standing beside Beni. Mugs still in hand, she comes running back toward the stall. The henchmen grab Beni, snatch the green feathered hat off Flandrine's head, and jam it down onto his. They shove Beni into the Jackass and start rolling the barrel. The barrel stops, and Beni, still dizzy, crawls out on his hands and knees and stands up, hearing his friends laughing and shouting "Beni, Beni." He was back at Oktoberfest, and right there in front of him stood Flandrine, holding a Maß, laughing at his idiocies, but worried all the same. "Hey, you okay?" The EndChapter 8 — The Boil
Chapter 9 — Maturation
Chapter 10 — The Bakery
Chapter 11 — The Final Tasting
Chapter 12 — The Royal Wedding
Chapter 13 — The Race
Chapter 14 — The Festival