"Next is the Hofbräu," he said.
"Next what?" Baldy's conversation didn't seem to hang together very
well.
"My pilgrimage," he told me. "All my life I've been wanting to go back
to an _Oktoberfest_ and sample every one of the seven brands of the best
beer the world has ever known. I'm only as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraid
I'll never make it."
I finished my _mass_. "I'll help you," I told him. "Very noble endeavor.
Name is Simon."
"Arth," he said. "How could you help?"
"I'm still fresh--comparatively. I'll navigate you around. There are
seven beer tents. How many have you got through, so far?"
"Two, counting this one," Arth said.
I looked at him. "It's going to be a chore," I said. "You've already got
a nice edge on."
Outside, as we made our way to the next tent, the fair looked like every
big State-Fair ever seen, except it was bigger. Games, souvenir stands,
sausage stands, rides, side shows, and people, people, people.
The Hofbräu tent was as overflowing as the last but we managed to find
two seats.
The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaring
accompaniment.
_In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!
Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!_
At the _G'sufa_ everybody upped with the mugs and drank each other's
health.
"This is what I call a real beer bust," I said approvingly.
Arth was waving to a waitress. As in the Löwenbräu tent, a full quart
was the smallest amount obtainable.