German food can generally be winnowed into two necessary components -- first, meat; second, beer -- and if you have any appreciation for this, as Munch most certainly does, you can understand the torment felt when Munch recently grabbed a seat at the Penn Brewery, asked for a beer and was promptly told, "Sorry, we're out."

OK, so Munch exaggerates slightly, but only because fumes of frustration still blow from Munch's nose and mouth, and that's tough to live with when you have a paper bag affixed to your head.

So anyway, the full story is this: Munch, craving beer and meat, traveled to the Penn Brewery with two Friends of Munch. When a waitress ventured by our group's table asking for drink orders, Munch didn't hesitate -- namely, because Munch loves hefe weizen beer (or wheat beer, in the Anglo tongue) as if it were fermented gold.

The waitress auto-piloted through the beer choices, including the home-brewed lagers and pilsners and specialties, but Munch didn't even let her finish.

		Penn Brewery is located at 800 Vinial St., Troy Hill; 412-237-9402.

"I'll have the Penn Weizen," Munch said, opting for the wheat beer, which, by word of the Penn Brewery's Web site, wins awards for being one of the world's best.

Then the waitress explained the news. "We're out," she said.

Munch's bag-covered cranium flooded with panic. Then the fumes, lots of fumes. Munch asked when the beer might return to the brewery.

"A few weeks," the waitress guessed.

Munch, dissatisfied, continued the interrogation, though the waitress clearly wished for it to stop. Munch asked her how long the hefe weizen beer had been absent from the menu. Again, it was explained, "A few weeks."

Munch growled and dejectedly ordered another kind of beer, the Penn Gold, which was tasty but acted mostly as a chaser for Munch's disappointment. In the meantime, Munch sought solace from the FOMs, who wholeheartedly agreed that a German brewery should always be equipped with all advertised varieties of beer.

Of course, the Penn Brewery still had the meat, which our traveling party ordered in great quantities. At the picnic table where we sat -- the tables were a fitting part of the workmanlike decor -- our waitress delivered plates of knockwurst and bratwurst and jaegerschnitzel, a veritable rainbow of pork and veal and other savory but unhealthy animal products.

As expected, the meat was the highlight, and the Penn Brewery offered a rangy menu selection that allowed patrons to find the right combination. Schweinebraten. Sauerbraten. Wiener Schnitzel. Even if you can't pronounce it, you'll probably like it.

The details of the entrees, though, drew some complaints. The bread: a bit stale. The salmon ordered by one FOM: a bit overcooked. The vegetable side dishes: better for decoration than consumption.

Perhaps that's to be expected from a German restaurant haus, where beer and meat are akin to the hydrogen and oxygen necessary for water. Everything else is just table dressing. That's the difference between German cuisine and its more ostentatious European brethren. So coming full circle here, that's why a German restaurant should always have the basics -- like, um, beer -- mastered.

For the mere sake of edification, Munch, two weeks after dining at the Penn Brewery, placed a call to the restaurant and inquired once more about the long-vanished hefe weizen brew.

"I have it back on tap," an employee named Eric confirmed.

Good news, Munch thought. But what took so long?