Under the Chestnut Trees

I'd been in Munich for a few days now, and while Marienplatz and the Altstadt were beautiful, I was ready for something more local. Something real. I pulled up a Near From Home video on my phone, the one about beer gardens. The host's voice was enthusiastic and clear:

"If you want to drink where actual Münchners drink, skip the Hofbräuhaus. That's for tourists taking selfies. Go to Hofbräukeller instead. Same brewery, completely different vibe. Locals only. Trust me."

Locals only, that sounded perfect. So I grabbed my jacket.

Der Abend was warm, the kind of spring evening that made you want to be outside. Time to see what a real Munich Biergarten was all about.

Hofbräukeller sat on the edge of Haidhausen, a short walk from my hotel. As I approached, I could hear it before I saw it. Laughter, conversation, the clinking of glass. Then I turned the corner and there it was, just as I'd seen in the video.

Massive Kastanien trees spread their branches over rows of long Biertisch tables, their leaves filtering the golden evening light. Hundreds of people sat shoulder to shoulder on wooden Bank benches, holding enormous Maß mugs and plates of food. The whole scene felt alive, buzzing with energy and warmth.

This was nothing like the quiet Flughafen or orderly Bäckerei. This was loud, crowded, and completely overwhelming.

And I loved it immediately.

I watched people navigating the space, trying to figure out the system. No servers. No menus on tables. Everyone seemed to know exactly what to do except me.

Then I noticed the flow. People lined up at a long Theke, loaded up their Tablett trays with Bier and Essen, then paid at the end before heading to their seats. Selbstbedienung. Self-service. I could do this.

I grabbed a Tablett and joined the line at the beer counter. Ahead of me, a man ordered confidently: "Zwei Maß Helles, bitte." The server pulled two massive glass mugs from under the tap, filled them to the brim with golden beer, and slid them across with two small plastic tokens. Easy.

When it was my turn, I took a breath.

"Eine Maß Helles, bitte."

The woman behind the counter nodded, grabbed a glass mug the size of my head, and filled it smoothly. A full liter of beer. Foam settled perfectly at the rim. She set it down with a satisfying thunk, along with a small plastic token.

"Pfand," she said, tapping the token.

Deposit. Right. I'd seen this in the video too. You pay a few euros as a deposit on the glass mug, and when you return the empty glass and the token you'll get your coins back. Smart system.

I carefully balanced the massive Maß on my Tablett and moved to the Essen counters, where baskets of enormous Brezn and plates of cheese, and sliced radishes sat under glass. I pointed to a plate of creamy orange-white spread and the spiraled white Rettich.

"Einmal Obazda und Rettich, bitte. Und eine Brezn."

The man behind the counter nodded approvingly. He plated the Obazda, a traditional Bavarian cheese spread made with camembert, butter, and paprika, added the thin-sliced Rettich, and handed me a warm pretzel the size of my face.

I took my Tablett to the register at the self-service Ausgang. "Dreizehn Euro."

Thirteen euros total. I paid, picked up my Tablett carefully, the Maß sloshing slightly, and turned to face the hardest part.

Finding a seat.

Every Biertisch was packed. Every Bank bench was voll. Strangers sat elbow to elbow under the Kastanien, laughing and talking like they'd known each other for years. Two young men in their thirties hunched over a leather backgammon board at one table, moving pieces enthusiastically between sips of beer. At a few different tables around me, young and old, people were playing some strange card game with playing cards that looked nothing like any I'd seen before. Where was I supposed to sit?

I wandered between the tables, trying not to look too lost. Finally, I spotted a bench with a sliver of space at the end. Three people sat there, deep in conversation, but there was maybe just enough room for one more.

I hesitated. This felt intrusive. But everyone else was doing it, right? Gemeinsam. Together. That's how beer gardens worked.

I approached the table and tried my best German.

"Entschuldigung... ist hier noch frei?"

Excuse me, is this spot still free?

A man with graying hair and a friendly smile looked up. "Ja, natürlich! Sitzen Sie."

Yes, of course. Sit.

I slid onto the bench, setting my Tablett down carefully. The Maß was heavier than I expected.

"Danke," I said.

The man grinned. "Kein Problem. I'm Stefan. This is Claudia and Markus."

He gestured to the woman beside him and the younger guy across the table. Both smiled warmly.

"Nice to meet you. I'm, well, I'm clearly not from here."

Claudia laughed. "We could tell. But your German is good! First time at Hofbräukeller?"

"First time at any real Biergarten."

Markus raised his Maß. "Then we must do this properly. Prost!"

"Prost!" Stefan and Claudia echoed.

I lifted my mug, clinked it against theirs, made eye contact like I'd read you're supposed to, and took my first sip.

Cold. Crisp. Slightly sweet. Absolutely perfect.

"Das Helles ist gut, ja?" Stefan asked.

I nodded enthusiastically. "Sehr gut."

Claudia pushed the Obazda toward me. "Try this with the Rettich. Classic Bavarian Brotzeit."

I broke off a fluffy bit of my Brezn and loaded it up with a hearty portion of the creamy orange cheese, threw on a slice of radish for good measure, and took a bite. The sharpness of the Rettich cut through the rich Obazda perfectly. I might have made an involuntary sound of happiness.

They all laughed.

"See?" Markus said. "This is why we come here. Good Bier, good food, good people."

We talked as the evening stretched on. Stefan was a teacher. Claudia worked in a bookshop near Sendlinger Tor. Markus was a graphic designer. They'd been friends for years, meeting here most weeks under these same Kastanien trees.

"Every Thursday," Claudia explained. "Our Stammtisch. Well, unofficial Stammtisch."

"You should come back next week," Stefan said. "Make it official."

I smiled. "I'd like that."

The first Maß disappeared faster than I expected. Markus stood. "Another round?"

"Ja, bitte," Stefan and Claudia answered in unison.

I hesitated, then nodded. "Why not?"

Markus returned carrying four fresh Maß, two in each hand, fingers looped through the handles with practiced ease. No Tablett. Just pure skill. He set them down without spilling a drop, grinning at our impressed faces. "You get good at this after a few years. The Frau at Oktoberfest often carry 13, and can you believe the current world record is 19!"

We each raised our single Maß. "Prost to that!"

The second round went down easier. The conversations flowed in a comfortable mix of German and English. I drank and listened, and heard people lachen all around us. At some point, a group at the next table started singing. At another point, Claudia told a story about her cat that I only understood half of but laughed anyway.

The sun dipped below the horizon. String lights flickered on overhead, casting a warm glow through the Kastanien leaves. The Biergarten didn't empty. If anything, it got louder, more alive.

Der Abend grew spät, but I didn't want to leave.

Finally, though, Stefan checked his watch. "Okay, I have to teach tomorrow morning. I should go before I regret this third beer."

We all stood, slightly unsteady, grinning.

"Same time next week?" Claudia asked.

"Ja," I said. "Definitely."

We exchanged numbers. Markus clapped me on the shoulder. "Welcome to Munich. The real Munich."

I walked back through Haidhausen as the city settled into night. The streets were quieter now, just the occasional Straßenbahn rumbling past. My head buzzed pleasantly from the Bier, and my cheeks hurt from smiling.

I'd come to Munich to see the sights. To learn some German. To check things off a list.

But tonight, under the Kastanien trees, drinking Maß after Maß with people I'd just met, I'd found something better.

I'd found Freunde.