Choose my favorite café in Brussels? You might as well ask me to choose a favorite painting in the Louvre or book in the New York Public Library. The ridiculous abundance of options makes such a choice a daunting task. In Brussels’ hundreds of cafes, you can sip tea in elegant Art Nouveau surroundings next to well-heeled matrons with their lap poodles or drink a beer at a rustic table in a café with tobacco-stained walls. I haven’t kept a record, but I estimate that I have been to several hundred Belgian cafes over the past 20 years. Narrowing the list to one would be impossible. OK, I’ve done it: Café Belga.
Place Flagey in the Ixelles is dominated by the old National Radio building, a striking Art Deco building that now houses a cultural arts center and a café. Café Belga occupies a large L-shaped space, with large windows to the north looking out over the square and a multicultural neighborhood, while the west side overlooks the string of small lakes that stretch a mile southward, surrounded by stately homes. Café Belga occupies a prime spot on this transitional line. On the weekends there is a bustling market, with stands for fresh fruits and vegetables, meats, cheeses, olives, rotisserie chicken, household goods and flowers. There are many food trucks and pop-up cafes if you’re in the mood for food or drink. Each weekend we compete for a parking space with shoppers, fellow café-goers, and neighborhood locals. We walk past a portable food stand set up on the edge of one of the ponds, where a dozen Portuguese men stand laughing and talking as they eat small sausages and sip beer or porto, rain or shine, year-round.
The clientele at Café Belga changes depending on the day and hour. (On weekends it is open from 9:30am until 3:30 the next morning.) Here are several glimpses at different times of the day.
Saturday, 9:30am
When not traveling we are weekend regulars here, spending at least two hours on Saturday and/or Sunday mornings. Living in a small urban apartment with no lawn allows us to follow this typical routine: Arrive at 9:30am, buy a cup of coffee. Read or talk for an hour. Purchase a second cup of coffee. Talk or read for another hour. Walk to the market to buy some olives or flowers for the table. Drive home. Or not.
The weekend morning crowd is a mix of families with small kids, older couples, young hipsters, and a high degree of dog density. A young couple pushes their toddler in a stroller through the crowd. People line up to order their lattes or teas at the bar, shared by an unshaven man who sips his first morning beer. A woman grabs one of the newspapers in four languages before seeking a window spot. The dogs from two adjacent tables dance in a circle, tails wagging and nostrils flaring, as their owners chat. Cheryl and I unpack our bag: books, newspaper, magazines, calendars, work stuff. We settle in for a leisurely morning.
We have developed a smiling, nodding acquaintance with a couple more regular than us – the Clauses. We have nicknamed them this because of the husband’s appearance: rotund physique, rosy cheeks, bushy white hair and beard, rimless spectacles and red suspenders. Mr. and Mrs. Claus are as regular as Christmas, always sitting in the same corner booth, usually arriving before and leaving after we do. Employing their rudimentary English and our basic French, we exchange pleasantries each weekend. I always make it a point to be nice and friendly. It’s possible that he’s not the real thing, but why take chances?
6:00pm on a different Saturday
Cheryl is out of town for the weekend, and I have stopped by Café Belga on my way to a documentary film at the cultural arts center theater next door. It is a balmy spring evening, and the place is packed inside and at the tables outside. I get a beer and share a table with two couples also waiting for the theater box office to open. The demographics have shifted from the morning crowd:
Average age: 35
Drinks being ordered: 50% caffeine-based / 50% grain or grape-based
Music being played: Popular tunes, moderate volume
9:00pm the same night
I am now back for a post-movie drink and have settled into an elevated booth on one edge, where I have a great view of the place. I have a good book with me, but people-watching soon trumps reading.
Average age: 29
Drinks being ordered: 30% caffeine-based, 70% grain or grape-based
Music: Rock, high volume
11:00pm still the same night
I’m still in the same booth. (Hey, I’m a bachelor for the weekend, OK?) The crowd is now wall-to-wall, and the energy level has intensified.
Average age: 20
Drinks being ordered: (Sorry – I’ve misplaced my research notes.)
Music: Techno, deafening volume
I’m into the moment, feeling the loud beat reverberating in my bones and feeling almost twenty-something myself, until the cold realization hits me: These youngsters are probably wondering “Who’s the old coot in the corner, and why is he smiling with his eyes closed?” On that sobering thought, I decide it’s time to head home and walk to the tram stop to catch my ride home.
10:00pm another Saturday night
My colleague Greg and I have stopped by for a beer on one of his last evenings before moving back to the U.S. After an hour at Café Belga, we decide to walk around the neighborhood before taking the tram back to our apartments. The neighborhood around Place Flagey has a large Portuguese population, which is reflected in the stores, restaurants, and bars. We walk past Café Braga and Churrascaria Sol de Belem to the tram stop, where we read that the next tram is not due for 20 minutes. So we duck into a tiny bar nearby for a nightcap. We look around and quickly realize that we might as well have walked into a working-class neighborhood bar in Lisbon. The whole place is perhaps 10 feet wide and 30 feet from front to back. Through the thick cloud of smoke (This was 2005 or so) we see about 20 men drinking and conversing loudly in Portuguese. As we walk toward the bar, the place falls silent, and 40 eyes turn to take in the two obviously non-Portuguese strangers who have intruded into their world. There’s no way to gracefully just turn and leave, so we smile and push through the crowd to the bar. We nervously look at the one beer tap, read the name and order two Cervejas Sagras. An older gentleman standing next to us smiles and says, “Ah, Cervejas Sagras, a good Portuguese beer!” (Translation: “You passed the test.”) The bartender places two small glasses on the bar, and our new amigo toasts our good choice. The ice broken, everyone returns to their conversations, and we relax and sip. We do a double take when a young man walks in with a large parrot on his shoulder. When he smiles, it is evident that his set of teeth is a few short of the maximum. If this were a movie, one might understandably declare this character over the top, but his friends greet him in a way that indicates that he and his feathered sidekick are regulars. We finish our beers, bid our bar mates adeus, and head to the tram.
Postscript: Saturday Morning, One Year Later
That was a year ago. I have lived back in the U.S. since then, and of all the things I miss about Europe, the café culture is near the top of the list. We must search long and hard to approximate the experience.
I recently visited Café Belga again after a year’s absence. As I approached, I passed the Portuguese men gathered around their stand, drinking and laughing. The weekend market was in full swing. I walked through the front door and scanned the room. There were the Clauses, ensconced in their usual spot. Several other regulars were there, giving me a feeling of warmth and comfort. I ordered a cortado, found a free table, and opened my newspaper. It felt nice, but a wave of grief momentarily swept over me as I paused to take in my surroundings.