"And we also have Brewster's Octoberfist," said the hesitant, English-as-a-second-language waitress when I asked her what beers were available on tap.
Octoberfist? Very interesting. Obviously the very strong and profoundly hoppy product of an artisanal cask, probably pushing eight percent alcohol by volume. The kind of beer to order if you're only having one at lunch.
Then I suddenly realized that she meant to say Oktoberfest, your average, vaguely German, reliably malty, seasonal beer. So I ordered a regular American pale ale instead. Octoberfest has never been my cup of tea, particularly when it expands from just a German drink into the simulacrum of an actual Germanic event. After all, I've never been a joiner, especially of anything described as a 'fest.' And who knows, it might erupt into a torchlight parade at any moment.
Nevertheless, the ridiculously named foodstuffs prevalent at such events have always appealed to me, mostly because it seems like they exist purely to lampoon the German language. Milchbrotchen, Mohnkuchen, and Vollkornbrot, for instance. They sound like Colonel Klink's breakfast or a list of obscure organ stops in a complicated Bach fugue. It becomes impossible to resist the temptation to create and christen my own baked Bavarian delights in the privacy of my own kitchen.
Untergobble, Weaselkrappen, Skoff, Dized Karrot Kake, Zauzagerolle, Schwein Pfoof, and Kaiserbutt: just a few of the pastiche German pastries and sweetmeats I conjure up at this time of year. I call it Octoberguffaw.
I just need to obtain one of those homebrewing beer kits and some powerful yeast to ferment my own Octoberfist to accompany my Octoberguffaw feast. Now that's what I call a fest, even if the only celebrant is me.
