Beerhive is hard to get to: it’s in the heart of downtown, on a street split by the train, where you can’t turn left if you’re coming in from the east. Parking is at a premium, especially when the weather’s bad (it’s been raining a lot here, come to think of it).

But.

Beerhive is old, and warm. The regulars are lively and crowd the bar, leaving the window seats for me and a stiff old gentleman in a Hawaiian shirt.

My favorite part of Beerhive, though, is when the train rumbles up through the stones and the seat of your chair before it rumbles through your line of sight. The walls are full of black and white memories. And the Belgian beer list is good.

Today, it’s a story about the Sandman and a Tripel Karmeliet.