A desperate waitress bearing six mugs of beer in each hand scurried past. They call them masses, by the way, not mugs. The bald-headed character and I both held up a finger and she slid two of the masses over to us and then hustled on.
"Down the hatch," the other said, holding up his mass in toast.
"To the ladies," I told him. Before sipping, I said, "You know, the tourist pamphlets say this stuff is eighteen per cent. That's nonsense. No beer is that strong." I took a long pull.
He looked at me, waiting.
I came up. "Mistaken," I admitted.
A mass or two apiece later he looked carefully at the name engraved on his earthenware mug. "Löwenbräu," he said. He took a small notebook from his pocket and a pencil, noted down the word and returned the things.
"That's a queer looking pencil you have there," I told him. "German?"
"Venusian," he said. "Oops, sorry. Shouldn't have said that."
I had never heard of the brand so I skipped it.
"Next is the Hofbräu," he said.