Ich hab mal den Biergarten-Artikel versucht zu finden; leider ohne Erfolg, dafür hab ich ein Fragment einer englischen Übersetzung auf einer meinen alten Back-up Festplatten gefunden. Here you go (falls jemand damit das deutschsprachige Original findet - please lmk. Der Artikel hat mich damals schwer beeindruckt )
Sitting about untroubled, timeless happiness
For 200 years now Bavarians are hying into their beer gardens,; and that is the place where they find moderate inebriety, friendly fellow drinkeres and peace for the soul.
During the summer Munich is a place far out in the north sea. “Then this is an oil rig”, says Christian Vogler, the innkeeper of Augustiner Keller. It is a back-breaking job for his waiters, who constantly keep working throughout two weeks hardly leaving the grounds. Starting at ten before midday until one in the morning their job remains unchanged: Lifting. Beers.
Beer is the Bavarian man’s oil, the people are thursty, and the beer garden is the place where to get the fuel. These fuel stations might be more or less fancy equipped, but one thing is taken for granted: freshness of the beer.
For example take the Augustiner Keller close to Hauptbahnhof, a giant among Munich’s beer gardens;
5000 to 6000 outdoor seats, and another 1300 indoors. And all are occupied? “When the weather is fine we are full”, says the innkeeper. “Always.”
Everybody’s relaxed – except for the employees. 130 people swat at Vogler’s, and starting in April until October another 30 saisonal workers are added.
They heft the beer to the millionair’s crackerbarrel . They heft the beer to the whoremonger’s crackerbarrel. They heft it to the regular table of the club of alpinists founded in 1896, and to the one belonging to Jakob Gustl, who actually already passed away, but handed down the crackerbarrel to his son. “What you can always find here, that is the love for Augustiner”, says Vogler Christian. What sort of love is that – love for boozing?
It’s more a love for peace of mind. In Munich sun is more intensive than in Cologne, Berlin, or Kiel, even in late summer, the town is 519 meteres above sea level. Everybody’s jonesing for some shadow and refreshment. Hardly can one see the sun, the bear gardens are filling up.
Then roaring fills the air – for outlanders some abstruse swarmlike sound, as if it stems from humming bees.
It arises out of the Parlando and laughter of the felicitous befuddled, the chewing and speaking with half-full mouth, the raising and settling of the ever more emptying jugs, the shuffling of the feet under the tables.
What is it that makes the beer gardens attract people to fall upon these places at ten in the morning in order to settle? And how come this sparkish enthusiasm to halt for 200 years now?