My Mind's Ink

If you’re looking for adventure, don’t hide in a corner, sit at the bar.

I had a great time in Brussels and it all stemmed from stepping up to a bar and showing an interest in the local beers, which Belgians are passionate about. When asked for my order at a restaurant or bar, my most common response, when I can make myself understood, is, “What do you recommend?” It’s an approach that produces more than its share of disappointments, but you can’t discover hidden gems on your own.

The place I was in, Celtica, has a good selection of draft beer, it’s ridiculously cheap, and they serve it, and little else, by the bucketful. The next night a customer ordered a mojito, and Alex, the Irish bartender I was about to meet, screwed up his face into a disgusted grimace, and yelled across the bar, “Are you fuck’n serious!?”

On this particular evening though, Alex was on my side of the bar, and when I asked for a recommendation, he piped up at my elbow and ordered for me. I spoke to Alex until the education he was giving me on Irish whisky caught up to him and he had to go home, but before he did he introduced me to Margret, also an off duty bartender at Celtica, the second of four I would eventually meet.

Margret is a straight forward and honest Londoner. About 5’9″, slim, fair skin, dreadlocks, an eyebrow piercing and dark eye makeup turned up a little into a cat’s eye at the edges. She told me she worked the upstairs bar during the recent St. Patty’s day. The upstairs bar in Celtica is just a small ell shaped counter set in the middle of what becomes a crowded scrum on busy nights. The bartender is not cordoned off, people surround on all sides. It’s a ripe atmosphere for drunken louts to make a grab at breasts and asses, so female bartenders are not assigned to this role, except Margret, who requests it. She likes mixing it up with the people, and tells me anyone who grabs her ass doesn’t do it twice, she enjoys throwing elbows. She describes St. Patty’s day with pride, like someone who has stepped into the fray and come out victorious. I liked her a lot.

She invited me over for beers with her and her flatmates the following afternoon. She shares a small apartment with her boyfriend of three and a half years. They were splitting up, so it was an invitation I was somewhat hesitant to show up for. I’m glad I did, all the people I met through Margret, including her boyfriend, were welcoming, generous, and fun.

The two of them told me lots of stories from their own travels, including living in the middle of a dry¹ aborigine village in the Australian outback. I also got their thoughts on Brussels, Belgium, beer, and bus fairs. None of the locals pay that last one, there is a healthy underground economy going on in the European Union, I observed.

I went out drinking later with Margret and her funny friend Greg, another Irishman. We ended the evening at Margret’s for a few sensible cocktails before turning in. Greg put a stop to my plans to walk home. He insisted I “didn’t know Brussels for shit” and that we should share a cab. Fifteen minutes later he lifted his nodding head and observed the cab was not heading toward his house. In his Irish accent, made so much thicker with drink, he yelled, “Hey! Where the fuck’r we going?” Then he turned and looked at me, “Who the fuck’r you!”

I told him my name in the most reassuring tone I could muster, and informed him of the plan we had to drop me off before he headed home. I was prepared to provide additional proof of our time together, but this was sufficient, reality and Greg were now friends again. He just said, “Oh. Right. OK,” and slumped back into his seat. Minutes later we shook hands and parted ways as friends.

Brussels houses the headquarters for the European Union and consequently is home to more languages per square block than I encountered anywhere else in my travels. Many of the cities residents are transplants from somewhere else, or tourists. Standing in a local bar I heard German, Russian, French, English, and I think, Ukrainian just from the people that stepped up to order a beer. It’s an eclectic mix that makes for an interesting atmosphere, and it is this, more than any sightseeing there is, that makes Brussels a place to visit.

Brussels is known for its “frites”. I don’t get the big deal. A fried potato tastes the same in Canada as it does in Belgium. A rainbow of sauces are available as an accompaniment, maybe that’s what everyone is so worked up over.

You can still smoke in bars and restaurants in Brussels, the only such place remaining in Europe, and people take full advantage. Perhaps no one has mentioned this to you yet Europe, but smoking is bad for you. Just FYI. Cigarette butts in the streets are prevalent everywhere I went in Europe but this city dominates. It also excels at honking drivers and beggars with infants and small children, something I hadn’t see before.

There are some beautiful elements to the city, most of which can be explored on foot in a day. My suggestion is to stop at the famous fountain of the little boy peeing and buy a box of Belgian chocolates at one of the shops you can see from where you are. Gourmet Belgian chocolate is dirt cheap by Canadian standards, and it’s amazing. It compares to the first time I had a girl’s nipple in my mouth. Sample your box of chocolates in front of the fountain, and see how many you can eat before one of the tourists in front of the fountain says, “It’s smaller than I thought it would be.” You won’t get to eat very many.

Footnotes

1. alcohol free [↩]

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