BrainsABERGAVENNY, South Wales (Oct. 16, 1996) -- "I'd like a pint of Brains, please."

Without flinching, the bartender at the Coach and Horses pumps 16 ounces of bitter into a glass and hands it to me. I still feel as if I'm in a third-rate zombie movie each time I ask for a pint of Brains. Mmmmm. Brains good.

"That'll be 1p6," the bartender says, taking a good look at the American bloke who wondered into this quiet, mostly empty pub early on a Thurday evening. I hand him two quid, and when he gives me the change, I set it on a ledge of the bar that's closest to him. It sits there, untouched, until a woman, older than the bartender -- perhaps his mother -- wonders by and says, "What's this?"

"It's a tip," I venture.

She looks at me quizzically, scoops up the change and sets it next to the cash register. My first breech of barroom etiquette in South Wales. But it's a minor infraction. The bartender drifts toward me while a guy at the far end of the bar rails about Paul Gascoigne, the Glasgow Rangers star who's accused of beating his wife and might now be banned from the national soccer squad.

"What's the best bitter," I ask the bartender.

"You're drinking it," he says.

"But what about Welsh bitter?" I point to a sign that says "Don't forget your Welsh." It's the same sign I saw earlier when I had dinner at the Black Lion.

"That's not even brewed in Wales," he says. "Brains is best."

We talk about the economy, one that has been devastated by the retreat of the mining industry. It reminds me of my home town, Pittsburgh, after the steel industry collapsed.

"Folks had nothing to do but drink," he says, motioning toward the row of taps. I nod, thinking of the dire bars near closed steel mills in Pittsburgh. The city did a good job of rebounding when the economy shifted beneath it like the heap of slag that slid down a hill and killed dozens of children at a school in Aberdeen, Wales, 20 years ago this month.

I'm fighting off jet lag after an overnight flight from the States. The Coach and Horses is my last stop on a long day. I arrived at London's Gatwick Airport at about 11 a.m. and grabbed a train for South Wales.

The flight over was horrific. I was trapped in the center of a five seat row on a DC-10. To make matter worse, it was the first row in that section of the plane, so a wall was immediately in front of me. I felt as if my 6-foot, 4-inch frame had been starched, folded and stuffed in a plastic dry cleaners bag.

twisterAnd the movie screen was immediately above me, so when I looked up I could see Twister swirling above me.

After 10 hours of anguish -- we of course had to stop in Newark to fix a minor problem, adding insult to my injurious Austin-Houston-London flight -- I was deposited at Gatwick, somewhere over the rainbow.

I half expected those evil flying Wizard of Oz monkeys to greet me when I staggered off the plane. winged monkeysBut there were no monkeys. No Toto. No yellow brick road. Just British rail, a change in Reading, a change in Newport and on to Abergavenny, a small market town outside Brecon Beacons National Park. All this for the low low price of 34 quid, which also bought me a return ticket that would take me all the way to London's Victoria Station.

After a quick shower at the Angel Hotel, I decide to venture out and find out if British food is really as bad as I've been lead to believe.

I wonder the narrow, twisting streets of Abergavenny looking for the perfect pub. I'm almost run down several times when I step off the curb looking the wrong way. I still haven't gotten used to these Brits driving on the "wrong" side of the road.

As I turn down Lion Street, I spot The Black Lion. This is the place. I enter the pub, and it's nearly empty.

A group of older folks sits at a table finishing their meal, and a few guys in their 20s play darts. Everyone is speaking Welsh.

Hmmm.

I walk to a table and sit down. I wait, the uncomfortable wait of someone who's about to dine alone and doesn't know the local rules.

Should I go up the the bar and order?

Should I just wait here until the woman who appears to be in charge comes over?

I don't want to look like a rude Yank, demanding immediate attention. But I do want to eat ...

In the awkward minutes that feel like hours, I watch several African cichlids chase a pair of irridescent sharks around in the hearth of the fireplace. I wonder who decided to put a fish tank there.

"Hello pretty pretty," the reputed waitress coos at a cockatiel that's perched near the bar.

Ahh. Finally a few words of English among the incomprehensible Welsh that's being whispered throughout the Black Lion.

I alight and flutter toward the bar.

"Are you serving dinner?"

"Yes, certainly," the bird lady says. I sense a subtle softening in her demeanor. It's as if I passed some strange, minor quiz.

"I'd like some fish and chips, please, and ..." I hesitate, scanning the bar, hoping to seize the name of some local brew to finish my order. "Welsh Bitter -- Don't forget your Welsh" -- the sign glows green and red before me. "... And a pint of Welsh Bitter."

I retreat to my seat across from the fish. The cockatiel preens its feathers, and night snuffs the last light of a beautiful fall day.

The door swishes, crisp air rushing in.

"Allo, Martin," the waitress chimes.

"Good day," says Martin, emphatic, an exclamation point at the end of a day that's worth cheering about.

It has been an incredible day. I hope this weather holds when I go mountain biking tomorrow.

I sip the bitter. It reminds me of a batch of homebrew I once made. It didn't carbonate correctly, so I had a flat, though tasty, batch of beer.

The fish swim around in the fireplace. The sounds of Welsh swim around in my mind. And I take another drink of bitter, wondering what tomorrow will bring.

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