Two Hours in Brussels

As a follow-up to my last post, I should mention that my trip to Brussels was akin to bringing a child to Disneyworld, letting them see the entrance, allowing them to go on Space Mountain and then leaving.

Our class left London early from St. Pancras Station on the EuroStar to Brussels. As I watch the French countryside slide into Belgian countryside, I couldn’t help but get excited. We pulled into the station and jumped on a subway train to the city center. Our guide was quite adept at getting us around the city quickly and assured us some time to explore on our own after our lecture at Boston University’s small offices in Brussels.

Besides the incredibly early morning, the lecture was hampered by a language barrier that caused me to loose focus a few times. The consolation was a very lovely brunch of sweet and savory tarts that would have been made better by some local indigenous beverage, but that would have to wait. Patience Michael, patience I thought, you will somehow be rewarded…hopefully.

Our excursion into the city began at the Palais des Beaux-Arts, or Bozar, as it is called. We were met by a very enthusiastic docent who spent WAY too much time telling us about the crown molding in the main foyer. I think it was somewhere in the orchestra hall listening to the docent describing the etchings of the something, something, something, that I thought I might be able to make a break for it. I could sense the tension of my fellow classmates. I looked at the time and saw that we had less than two hours until our train was set to depart and I began to panic. Did I just come all the way to Brussels and NOT have a beer. The tour mercifully ended back in the main foyer and our guide let us free. We split off into small groups to explore the city, promising to meet up at the train station in less than two hours. Time for lunch, a few sites and beer.

I promised my group that if they came with me they would enjoy a quick beer and a stop at one of the best beer shops in town. The four of us nearly ran from Bozar and headed down the hill towards the city center. We made a brief stop at the Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula, a beautiful Gothic building upon a smallish hill just east of the Grand Place, before we hustled towards one of the beer bars that I had looked up before leaving London.

My first (and only) beer in Brussels was Rochefort 10. If I had to do it, I had to do it right. It came served in an appropriately logoed chalice with a dense head of foam atop a murky brown body. It…was…delicious. I nearly died drinking it. St. Michael had surely looked down upon me at the cathedral because the beer was heavenly. What happened next only confirmed that my namesake angel was looking down upon me. After our drinks, we flew through the Grand Place towards de Bier Tempel, a bottle shop that had come highly recommended for its exquisite selection of Belgian beers.

The assortment of beers was simply staggering. Beers from every corner of this tiny nation were neatly arranged on shelves from floor to ceiling. I quickly scanned the bottles to process what beers I could get stateside and to determine which beers to bring back to London. As I made my way along the shelves my heart nearly fell into my stomach. Sitting there on a shelf near the window was a row of label-less beers with blue and silver caps. Right there, just, sitting on the shelf was a row of Westvleteren Eight bottles. Oddly, I looked around to see if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing, I guess I felt like I had found something that shouldn’t be. I hesitated a moment before placing four of them in my shopping basket, surely there must be a bottle limit, I thought. But as I took my four, a stock boy simply replaced them with another four bottles! I quickly explained to my compatriots how rare this beer was and that they should grab some for themselves. We left the shop our bags full of goodies and made our way to the train station to meet up with the rest of our classmates.

While we were waiting to get onto our train, I thought I might have the opportunity to drink one of the Westvleteren Eights on the ride home. Then I noticed a shop near our platform selling all kinds of Belgian products, not least of which were four packs of Chimay. I scooped up a four pack and decided to leave the Westvleteren for another day.

The train ride home was sublime as I cracked open each of the bottles and poured it into a glass I hard procured at de Bier Tempel. As the countryside rushed passed my window and I sipped my beer I thought how providential it was to have had the opportunity to purchase those bottles of Westvleteren, especially considering the short amount of time I had in the city. As we pulled into St. Pancras Station and I thought of the wonderful experience I had in that short amount of time, I promised myself to return to Brussels as soon as possible.

In the Land of Wine and Cheese

In June of 2010, I travelled to London for a class in Comparative Cultural Policy and Administration at Boston University’s London campus. As exciting as that sounds (and believe me it was!) this trip also afforded me the opportunity to see a little bit of Europe. The class was to meet for one week, so I booked my ticket to arrive one week before so I could take the train to the continent.

I had the choice to either visit Brussels or Paris via EuroStar and while the choice may have appeared easy, it was not. The problem was that the class had an excursion scheduled towards the end of the week in London to visit Boston University’s campus in Brussels, so I would be travelling to Belgium later in the trip. I knew I wasn’t going to get a lot of time to spend in Brussels during that visit, but I figured it was enough to keep me satisfied, so I opted to visit the land of wine and cheese for two days.

Those two days in Paris were beautiful. I’ve told Amanda a dozen times that the only thing that would have made it better would have been her company…

Of course I visited the major tourist sites, I walked up the Eiffel Tower, did a quick loop around Notre Dame and shuffled along corridors of beautiful paintings at the Louvre. My favorite moments were simply wandering around the streets and alleys finding places to purchase bread with the only French phrase I had memorized, “une baguette s'il vous plait.”

I managed to find a few beer bars with some decent Belgian beer on tap and I even stumbled upon an expatriate Scottish pub with Belhaven on draught, but of course this was not Brussels.

On my last evening I had a lovely meal along a busy back alley and enjoyed plenty of crisp white wine with the meal as a small cat circled my table trying to nibble the crumbs that had fallen off my plate. I strolled back to my hotel, a lovely old place near the banks of the Seine and within earshot of Notre Dame’s blessed bells. I set my travel alarm to catch the train the next day and fell asleep to the sounds of the city just outside my open window.

The next morning I packed my belongings and headed to the train station. As I walked passed the Pompidou Centre down another small side street, I noticed a shop with Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in the window! I quickly popped my head inside and was greeted by the shopkeep who, after my clumsy exchange, asked if I wanted to speak to him in English—I guess I didn’t blend in too well. Simon was very interested in American beer and I was very interested in what the French were brewing and we chatted as I browsed his selection.

La Caves à Bulles was filled with artisanal beers from all around France as well as an ample selection of Belgian beers—I was quite overwhelmed by the selection. I asked Simon if he wouldn’t mind picking five or six beers that were his personal favorites for me to take back to London to sample. It was a shame that I hadn’t found this shop on my first day in Paris, but I wasn’t exactly looking for beer and I didn’t even know that France had such a burgeoning beer scene. I left the shop with a handful of delightfully obscure beers and I made my way to Garde du Nord to catch the EuroStar back to London.

When I got back to London I was very eager to give the beers a try. My favorite of the bunch was a beer from La Brasserie de Fleurac. Fleurac La Triple Brune IPA poured a dark brown with an appropriate café au lait colored head. Deep, rich, earthy hop aromas mingled with hints of toasted and roasted malt and some cocoa notes. Nice hop balance in the flavor with pine and earthy undertones and the accenting flavors of dark malt. The other beers were as expertly selected as the next. Simon certainly knew his beers and made sure I left his shop with the finest examples of artisanal French brewing.

I’m still amazed that I stumbled upon those beers completely by accident and that they were so fantastic—sometimes you find the best beers when you’re not even looking. The next time I’m in Paris, La Caves à Bulles will definitely be one of my first stops.

I did finally manage to make it to Brussels, but the time spent there was all too brief. Sometimes I think I should have chosen to spend my time there instead of Paris, but seriously, who gives up the chance to go to Paris? And I also remind myself of that little bottle shop a few blocks back from the Seine and the amazing beer I found there. The choice was easy.