My Favourite Thing is Monsters by Emil Ferris x Rose de Gambrinus by Cantillon
For a start, a disclaimer, I’m not a big reader of graphic novels, for a follow up I’m not a big reader in French, so My Favourite Thing is Monsters in French (Moi, ce que j’aime c’est les Monstres) has been a challenge, but perhaps not as big a one as the job of translating this gorgeous artefact and tribute the the marvel and art of print publishing in the first place. Hats off to you, masters and mistresses of your art.
What is happening? Good question, and one we definitely need a detective to help us figure out, thank the dark lord, then, for Karen Reyes, our young narrator, wannabe monstress and break out PI.
Karen guides us through the parallel mysteries facing a 10 year old in 1960s Chicago, including but not limited to the real story behind the mysterious death of her neighbour Anka Silverberg.
For a book like this my first thought was this: “Oh, this is an easy pairing. It’s going to be some jaunty IPA called Bigfoot v Godzilla or something, the can will be pure pulp B movie horror vibes and I’ll be able to say something about coming of age being bittersweet.”
But Emil had other plans for me... following along with Karen on the trail of the truth I came across a trail of rose petals, hidden in cellars and crime scene and my thoughts turned to that Cantillon I’ve been saving for just such an occasion.
Because it turns out that hearing tales of penniless women in pre-war Germany turning to drugs in brothels to blot out what’s happening to them and their tiny daughters or single mums facing cancer or the ability of little girls to be so mean to other little girls or just lonely people in crowded worlds isn’t a big bold butch hop slap. It’s sour, it’s tart, it stings. But at the same time, a precious moment in front of St George and his Dragon, the discovery of another clue and especially the many tiny acts of kindness given and received that make up a life are sweet and rare and worthy of cellaring.
If you’re a beer nerd this bottle needs no introduction, if you’re here for the books, let me tell you about the joy of popping the top on a Cantillon, especially this one.
The ceremony is a huge part of it, that iconic cap comes off to reveal cork. The divine pleasure of easing it out of that thick green glass and releasing those funky aromas - wine and wood and crab apples and a tiny sting of sulphur and tangy springtime farmyard gases - that explode in your nose, careering chaotically down the back of your throat before you’ve even taken a first sip.
When you do finally stop just rolling in those heady scents, and raise the glass to your lips prepare for a confusion of senses - this is why this beer is here, now in my hand with this book. I’m an adolescent again, struggling to make sense of my feelings: what is this, who am I, why does it hurt and why do I like it?! Fresh raspberries macerated in vintage sour lambic give up their tang and just a teeny touch of their forgotten sweetness. This beer feels old and young at the same time, wiser than it should be, more elegant than the label would suggest. There’s this rounded deep acidity that I would normally associate with natural wines, it’s not at all unpleasant but it takes getting used to. A deep rusty pink colour, clouded with hidden secrets, Rose de Gambrinus is not going to win any beauty prizes, but, just like Karen, it has unexpected qualities that make it legendary. I’m licking my lips and finding sweet residues that I didn’t get in the glass and they’re soothing my taste buds like tiny kisses after that assault of acidity.
In short why this pairing? Because reading this book I craved this beer, it was exactly what I wanted and now I have the two together it’s like poetry. This beer is the flashlight guiding Karen and I (and Emil) through our dark adventures, together we brave cemeteries and nazis and hippies and mean girls and ghosts. We do not have the answers and with each sip and page turn our questions double, but that is life. Sticky and sweet and messy and confusing and often it stings, but it’s always an adventure and very often there’s more comfort in those dark places than we ever expected.
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