woods; and so on, and so on. There is even, I hear, a temperance
restaurant in Munich, the Jungbrunnen in the Arcostrasse, where water is
served with meals, but that is only rumour. I myself have never visited
it, nor do I know any one who has.

All this, however, is far from the point. I am here hired to discourse
of Munich beer, and not of vintage wines, bogus cocktails, afternoon
chocolate and well water. We are on a beeriad. Avaunt, ye grapes, ye
maraschino cherries, ye puerile H_{2}O!

And so, resuming that beeriad, it appears that we are once again in the
Hoftheatre Cafe in the Residenzstrasse, and that Fraeulein Sophie, that
pleasing creature, has just arrived with two ewers of Spatenbraeu--two
ewers fresh from the wood--woody, nutty, incomparable! Ah, those
elegantly manicured hands! Ah, that Mona Lisa smile! Ah, that so
graceful waist! Ah, malt! Ah, hops! _Ach, Muenchen, wie bist du so
schoen!_

But even Paradise has its nuisances, its scandals, its lacks. The
Hoftheatre Cafe, alas, is not the place to eat sauerkraut--not the
place, at any rate, to eat sauerkraut _de luxe_, the supreme and
singular masterpiece of the Bavarian uplands, the perfect grass embalmed
to perfection. The place for that is the Pschorrbraeu in the
Neuhauserstrasse, a devious and confusing journey, down past the
Pompeian post office, into the narrow Schrammerstrasse, around the old
cathedral, and then due south to the Neuhauserstrasse. _Sapperment!_ The
Neuhauserstrasse is here called the Kaufingerstrasse! Well, well, don't
let it fool you. A bit further to the east it is called the Marienplatz,
and further still the Thal, and then the Isarthorplatz, and then the
Zweibrueckenstrasse, and then the Isarbruecke, and then the Ludwigbruecke,
and finally, beyond the river, the Gasteig or the Rosenheimerstrasse,
according as one takes its left branch or its right.

But don't be dismayed by all that versatility. Munich streets, like
London streets, change their names every two or three blocks. Once you
arrive between the two mediaeval arches of the Karlsthor and the
Sparkasse, you are in the Neuhauserstrasse, whatever the name on the
street sign, and if you move westward toward the Karlsthor you will come
inevitably to the Pschorrbraeu, and within you will find Fraeulein Tilde
(to whom my regards), who will laugh at your German with a fine show of
pearly teeth and the extreme vibration of her 195 pounds. Tilde, in
these godless states, woul