Oktoberfest in America

Ask any American to name a cultural event in Germany, and you'll get a quick answer: Oktoberfest. If five to seven million people are going somewhere to drink beer, word'll get around. But this has, I think, a lot to do with the fact that America itself is a beer-drinking country.

Sure, fine wines are produced along the West Coast and drunk on the East Coast as well; but everywhere in between, beer is what's served. It's something most people will drink, and it's an equalizer among all levels of society — if you don't look at the brand labels.

Coors and Miller are marketed to working-class people; Budweiser, which used to call itself "the king of beers", still aims for a more sophisticated clientele, though Samuel Adams has since won over that group. The Mexican brand Dos Equis has been a favorite of college students for more than a generation, though those with deeper pockets and refined tastes will order a European beer such as Beck's instead.

Local brands are hit or miss: the Iron City brewed in Pittsburgh is drunk not so much for enjoyment, but to show local pride. ("You can taste the iron in it" is what my dad used to say.) By contrast, anything calling itself a "microbrewery" aims to produce something special.

A common history

One can thank the 19th-century German and Dutch immigrants who settled in the grain-producing areas of Wisconsin, Illinois, and Ohio, as well as parts of New England. They developed an American style of beer that ignores German purity guidelines, allowing the addition of things like rice and corn.

Any American will admit that Germany sets the world standard for how beer should taste. So it's no surprise that many people dream of one day going to the Oktoberfest. They dream this dream without any awareness of the usurious prices, nor of the utter lack of breathing space, unoccupied seats, ventilation, clean rest rooms or, as it would appear, concern for fire codes. They also cannot imagine the phenomenal level of drunkenness more than a few of the tourists achieve.

No, what stops most Americans from going is the relatively high cost of traveling to and within Europe. And this is where U.S. ingenuity takes over. They've created their own Oktoberfeste. By the hundreds. Any medium-sized city with even a handful of people who claim German ancestry has at least one such event going on at this time of year.

Room for local tastes

Unlike the original Oktoberfest, which carefully maintains a strong and very standardized Bavarian character in its radishes, chicken and Radler, the American Oktoberfeste aim to suit local tastes. Recipes allow plenty of substitutions and locally familiar ingredients: hot dogs may be passed off as Bratwürste, cole slaw often contains carrots and mayonnaise, and dishes from other German-speaking areas, such as potato pancakes, are allowed.

What make these festivals special is that, whether they're sponsored by the city or by private groups, they are almost always staffed by volunteers who bring their grandmothers' recipes and share stories of where their families came from.

These people love to talk about Germany, and they have time to talk to the guests. And that's why you should go. They would love to meet you. A real German in their midst is always given a hero's welcome — as are Austrians and Swiss.

Did I mention that the food is cheap and that you'll always find a place to sit? You also don't need to worry about drunks. Nearly everyone is local, comes by car and is careful to drink only in moderation.

Someday, perhaps, the powers that be will follow my advice and move the German Oktoberfest to an area outside of town large enough to handle the crowds. But until then, I'm going in search of a more dignified beer-drinking experience. The leaders of 20 important countries will be following my example when they join me in Pittsburgh next week. Prost!