Beers, Brunch, and a Side of Bavarian Tradition

It was Sunday 9 November, which, as any calendar will confirm, is not October. And yet, there I was, in the dimly lit depths of The One Under Bar, attending what was proudly billed as an Oktoberfest Brunch. Since, naturally, when you think of German cultural tradition, you think of damp Scottish weather, golfers in lederhosen, and free Tennents lager at 11am. The event itself was an intimate affair — around fifty people squeezed into the low-ceilinged bar, tickets priced at £52, which, given the free-flowing beer, felt like a challenge. It wasn’t open to the public either, just committee members and friends. I must say, this was the most legitimate cultural immersion event I’ve ever attended in St Andrews. Forget your ‘Constructing Gender in Chinese Literature’ lectures, your Persian film screenings, or that one painfully awkward ceilidh. This was where culture truly lived.

The morning began with the kind of efficiency that would make the Deutsche Bahn blush: trays of sausages, pretzels, and mac and cheese (the last one being, of course, a classic Bavarian staple. I think Goethe wrote about it). The air was thick with the scent of mustard, malt, and the faint regret of people who hadn’t eaten breakfast yet but were now staring down their third pint of Tennents.

Franziska Lippit, a member of the organising committee and the group’s resident Bavarian authority, assured us that this was the real deal. “The sausage and condiments we had are what my dad eats for breakfast every day,” she told me, with the kind of pride only someone surrounded by hungover students can truly muster. I nodded solemnly, pretending this revelation hadn’t just made my Tesco croissant breakfast seem like an international disgrace.

No Oktoberfest, or Novemberfest, as we might more honestly call it, would be complete without a dash of chaos. Someone decided that free Jäger shots were an appropriate accompaniment to brunch. Of course, nothing screams ‘morning festivity’ quite like herbal liquor before noon. By 11:45am, conversations had reached the kind of philosophical depth only achievable when you’re on your second sausage and eighth lager. We spoke of German tradition, which seemingly consists of lots of phallic foods and liquor, and plans for the winter including ski chalets and more Bavarian beer drinking. 

The music? A glorious mix of traditional German oompah tunes and whatever playlist the bartender refused to change. I’m fairly sure I heard ABBA somewhere between ‘99 Luftballons’ and ‘Mr. Brightside’. Authenticity, after all, is about spirit, not specifics.

By the end, people were swaying like a line of malfunctioning metronomes, clutching their pretzels in hand as if they were life preservers. The room had that warm, fuzzy blur between joy and poor decision-making. And somehow, in its chaotic, beer-scented glory, it worked. It felt like a genuine cultural exchange, equal parts confusion, carbs, and collective disbelief that many might be headed to mass right now.

So yes, this might have been one of the most legitimate cultural immersion events in St Andrews. Who needs Munich when you’ve got bratwurst in a basement and free Tennents on tap? Prost, my friends. Prost.

Photo by American Homebrewers Association