Brussels' Beer Cafés - Part II

Brussels is strewn with signs in two languages.  Good reason. There’s the French speaking south and the Dutch (Flemish) speaking north, plus Brussels, which is bilingual.

Brussels is also the capital of the European Union, so just name a language and it’s spoken here.  English, German?  No problem.  Japanese?  Maybe.  I see lots of tour groups. I also see signs claiming Brussels is the capital of Europe.

We walk the streets.  Difficult to tell which melodious syllables will float past.  Italian.  Spanish.  Those are just the ones I identify.  In a Europe without borders, much like water seeking its own level, the masses flow to fill the jobs.  Europeans from the east flood the west.  Poles.  Rumanians.  Bulgarians.

I’m content to amble the streets, window-shopping, traipsing into shops that specialize in beer.  Beer Planet. De Beer Tempel.  Racks of bottled beer for sale.  Shelf after shelf of beer glasses. 

Enormous Selection

The Belgians are sticklers for serving beer properly.  Unlike in other lands, in Brussels beers come in glasses uniquely shaped and sized.

My wife tires of the quiet trundle through the light, but incessant rain.  We pass Delirium Village, which serves over 2700 different beers, 27 of them on tap.  Her tears confirm it’s closed. Only another beer will end her agony.   I am nothing if not anxious to please.

From her now wrinkled map, she places a well-manicured, red fingernail on the exact spot.  La Chaloupe d’Or. Right on the Grand Place, less than a hundred yards away.

The Grand Place is itself a vast wonder of cobbled space, and towering stone buildings, most dating to the 17^th Century.  There’s the Brewers’ House, the last functioning guild in Europe, the Hôtel de Ville (town hall) and many more.  All of them grand.  No wonder this is a World Heritage Site.  The first mention of a market in this area goes back to the 1st Century.  Streets leading into it pay homage to the market it once was.  Poulet (chicken) Herbes (herbs) Fromage (cheese). By the 12^th Century, the swamps and marshes disappeared, and along the way, so did the market.  Through the centuries, the buildings were toppled by cannon or design, but always rebuilt.

In the basement of The Brewer’s House is a brewing museum.  Sadly, it is also closed.  Wait a sec….closed?  Means we will have to come back!

On to La Chaloupe d’Or (The Golden Rowboat).  Another historic beer Café. Before that it was a tailors association.  History prances before us in layer after layer.

We seat ourselves at a small, back table, on the mezzanine overlooking the main bar area.  My wife makes a choice. Trappistes Rochefort 8.  There’s also a 6 and a 10.  We have no idea, until she downs the bottle and breaks into song, that the number approximates the alcohol content.  The number understates the reality.  9.2 %. 

Note the dark amber hue.

On the nose, it’s sweet ginger, but the first sip says chocolate.  The finish is bitter, but pleasing.

I op for an Affligem double dark.  Sweet vanilla nose.  Light whiskey flavor.  Easy finish.

Make no mistake. Both of these are full bodied.  Rich.  Deep in flavor.

We linger, watching the waiters (and one waitress) race from bar to table to upstairs tables.  A lady on our right protests loudly that she has not been served.  French language, but the message goes on and her voice goes up.  The waiter apologizes, but there is no need.  There are six or seven of them and a couple of hundred of us.  Ah, but thirst has no patience.  This is a lively crowd.  Food comes out on large trays, held aloft, otherwise food would be divided randomly.

My wife considers it.  Cheese and bread?  A few slices of this or that?  Her humble servant awaits the decision.  The next table over is laden with bits of cheese and small slices of bread.  We stare, much like crows watching road kill while waiting for the cars to pass.

Perhaps another beer? I suggest.  Out comes the trusty map.  Another red nailed decision.  We march through the throngs and onto the rain slick Grand Place.

This time the pick is Falstaff, a gorgeous art nouveau café (1886), designed by a student of the famous Brussels’ architect, Victor Horta.  Originally a weinstube, it is now an excellent stop on the beer trail.

Down a side street.  From the entryway to the rear, Falstaff is a feast for the eyes.  At the very back, stained glass images of Shakespeare’s famous comic cover an entire wall.

The place is crowded, but not packed.  My wife orders a pils.  I order a Gordon Scotch Ale.  We sip. Glasses are quickly exchanged. She ends up with the Scotch ale, which is something over 8% alcohol.

It sports a fresh grass nose, full rich flavor and goes down smoothly…and fast.

Hunger rears it’s needy head.  She orders half a chicken, with fries and salad.  I order mussels (moules) au gratin.  I love mussels.  These are ok.  Her chicken has a funny flavor, as though shuttled over from the chickens’ retirement home.  My wife loves chicken, but not this particular bird.

I note that the wife downed two ass-kicking, high-octane brews in less than half an hour.  We started this gig at 4:30 p.m.  The hands now hover closer to 8:30 p.m.  We have walked several miles.  Plus, we drove almost four hours to get here.  There are consequences.

By comparison to us, her chicken was a youngster.  We stroll the streets a bit more.  Hunger rages.  We stop and grab a cellophane bag of large, chocolate-coated waffles. 

My wife, normally a late nighter and delicate eater, races through the chocolate waffles like a woman possessed.  I salvage two or three for myself.

More beer? I ask her.  She gives a one-word answer:  Bed.  I keep a tissue in my hand just in case.  We make it back, both of us exhausted.  Apparently, those happy years of drinking all-night and dancing until four in the morning are behind us.  Or maybe we just need to do this more often, go into beer training.

Brussels is the place to do it.  Traditional and historic Beer cafés galore.  And, the Belgian beer lives up to its distinctive reputation.  In general, it’s stronger and more flavorful than any other I’ve tasted.  Complex flavors. Even the Scotch ales we tried have more rich, full flavor here than any beer I downed in the U.K.  Other characteristics:  amber to dark colors, except for the pils.  Almost no head, for the traditional Belgian beer is top fermented, unlike its German and American cousins. 

I place Belgian brew somewhere in the gab between wine and beer.  And where better to sample it than in Brussels, one of the finest cities in Europe!

Should you go, stop in any info station or hotel and grab a beer map, “Brussels on Draught.”  Or visit:  http://visitbrussels.be/bitc/BE_en/do-see/to-do/attractions-and-leisure.do?gclid=CMGE-L_O1bwCFSTMtAodqQMAkw.  Click on top spot marked Eat & Drink.