Some beers speak, others take a stance. The Witz Bio from Brasserie de la Senne belongs to the second family: under its summery witbier looks hides a brewing manifesto, a polite but firm challenge to a dogma we thought settled. Because coriander and orange peel — those spices we present as the immemorial signature of Belgian witbier — may just be one man’s reinvention, and la Senne, Brussels’ guardian of brewing orthodoxy, means to remind us.
Don’t say “witbier” anymore, say WITZ! — Brasserie de la Senne, launch text.
Brussels, 2002 — la Senne is reborn
The story begins at the Zinneke Parade in May 2002, when Bernard Leboucq — housing-rights activist, host of clandestine dinners in a squat — crosses paths with Yvan De Baets, then a commercial rep at Cantillon and De Ranke. Zinnebir is born of that meeting: a bitter, hoppy beer running against the sweetish spiced blondes Brussels was then drinking. In 2003, Sint-Pieter Brouwerij opens in Sint-Pieters-Leeuw; in 2010, it moves to Molenbeek under the name Brasserie de la Senne — after the river that gave birth to Brussels more than a thousand years ago. Since 2020, it has occupied the former Tour & Taxis industrial site. Fourteen thousand five hundred hectolitres a year, one of Brussels’ six production breweries, and above all the house that “brought bitterness back to centre stage” in a capital that had forgotten the taste of hops.
The witbier before Celis — the historical argument
In 1966, a milkman from Hoegaarden named Pierre Celis relaunched the wheat-beer style, extinct since Tomsin brewery closed in 1957. He rebuilt a recipe, and put in coriander, curaçao orange peel, a touch of secret in the mash. The success was planetary: Hoegaarden became the world reference for witbier, bought by Interbrew then AB InBev. Coriander and orange became, in the public mind, the witbier itself. Except that nineteenth-century descriptions — those of J.B. Vrancken and Georges Lacambre, two beer chroniclers who documented the whites of Leuven, Hoegaarden and Diest before their disappearance — speak of something else: plenty of oats, little wheat, spontaneous fermentations with lactic bacteria, fresh beers drunk within a fortnight. Spices? Nothing systematic, nothing canonical. La Senne reads that history and brews accordingly. Its Witz Bio is certified organic, refuses coriander-curaçao, banks on fresh wheat and round oats. It is a wink, yes, but an argued one.
Visual analysis
A pale straw-yellow body, very light, shot through with the matte haze characteristic of the style — the proteins of raw wheat and rolled oats refuse the crystalline clarity we associate with modern lagers. On the pour, the head rises in a thick collar, brilliant white, rich and creamy, with that beaten-snow texture oats bring. Effervescence is fine, almost discreet — carbonation makes itself felt without ever demanding attention, which heightens the sense of roundness on the palate.
The nose
The nose opens frankly cereal-led: crushed raw wheat, rolled oats, a biscuit tip in the background. Then comes the floral layer — apple and pear blossoms, a limpid spring note — wrapped in a fresh, perfumed trail suggesting bergamot and a very light pinch of spice, esters of the house Belgian yeast. A fruity breath at the bottom: the green currant the brewers announce, a delicate citrus zest. No coriander, no candied orange peel — and yet, everything is in place.
The palate
The attack is fresh, immediate, almost electric. Wheat crackles on the tongue, oats coat the palate with the creamy silkiness typical of the style. Balance tilts clearly toward the soft — bitterness is barely traced, as the brewery announces — but a fine, refreshing acidity, likely underpinned by light lactic work, structures the whole and stops malt roundness from settling in too comfortably. Spice — bergamot, a peppery trace, a fruit tip — comes from yeast and noble hops only, never from a mash addition. The finish is short-to-medium, clean, on a biscuit and floral note. Four degrees two, invisible.
Doctor Beer’s perfect pairing
The brewers suggest coarse-salt pretzels, and the path is excellent: salt wakes the acidity, brioche crumb answers the oats’ roundness, and the exchange is immediately refreshing. Doctor Beer adds two paths: grilled cod with preserved lemon — the beer’s floral freshness extends the citrus, the white flesh weds the crackling wheat — and a sea bream ceviche with passion fruit, where the marinade’s lively acidity converses with the witbier’s, while the yeast softens the peppers’ vigour. Simple, precise, spring-like.
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Thirteen out of twenty for a wit that doesn’t merely aim to be good — it tells a story. And when a brewery brews a manifesto instead of a beer, one listens with interest, even if the glass stays quieter than the argument.
