I can’t say for sure if any of these is the true story, but as a student of history, I like to look for evidence. The other dominant story proposes that some German divisions-or even some more antiquated militaries-would haze soldiers, as a rite of passage, by having them drink from their marched-in boots. But there the history already begins to split, with some recollections saying he completed the wager and thus inspired the glassware, and others claiming he had a glass boot fashioned as a way to keep his word and avoid a nasty pour.

Needless to say, the unit was victorious.

One states that, in an effort to motivate his troops in the face of a particularly trying day on the battlefield, a German general wagered to drink out of his boot should his forces win that day (a tradition rugby players are all too familiar with). There are several divergent origin stories for the bierstiefel, but the two most common oral histories trace their roots back to the battlefield. Kōkua Project: A Worldwide Collaboration Benefiting Those Impacted by the Maui Wildfires But with another Oktoberfest-expected to draw approximately 7.2 million visitors this year-on the horizon, I’m again curious: Where did the notion of the bierstiefel come from? So I got to wondering: Is the boot an authentic element of Germany’s drinking heritage, or a poetic interpretation to popularize the depiction for an American audience more obsessed with cultural clichés than cultural histories? I returned to my beer and promptly forgot all about the shape of the glass in which it was served. But as I took it all in, there was one thing missing: Where were the iconic German bierstiefel (beer boots) I had come to know and love? The ones from such historically accurate and culturally relevant investigations of German culture as Beerfest and “Around the World” frat parties? Where were the cheers of “Das Boot! Das Boot!?” I took my first slog of many to come: “Ahhhh, now that’s a beer.” A moment later, a burly bier maiden-carrying no less than eight of these ginormous steins-balleted through the crowd, slammed a glass down in front of me, took payment, and, with shocking grace, vanished again into the crowd. I ordered my first beer, a one-liter monster. Weaving through mobs of lederhosen clad lads and ladies, I made my way into one of the bierhalls: Hofbräu, if memory serves (it was fuzzy the next day, let alone six years later). As a 20-year-old (and therefore unable to drink in my home country) Germanophile, and a lover of German-style beer, this was my dream. I made my way from my forest campsite on the fringes of Munich to the campgrounds in the heart of the city, completing the final step of my pilgrimage to the 200 th anniversary of Oktoberfest. We sit down with Brooklyn Brewery’s Brewmaster to talk socks, sours, and social justice.

Das boot beerfest