I order my Lambic Blanche from the red faced waiter who shakes off the waves of lazy customers. My hands are chilled as I cup my pint, a white foamy mustache lays on my upper lip, freshness follows.
I’m staring down the hall of Mort-Subite as I sit in the window. The long vertical table and matching stools make it look like a school hall with oversized drunken students.
So what is it about these places that draws so much tourism? The local Belgium beers for one, the decor that matches the decade it was opened, number two, and the brisk service I guess. I definitely don’t feel at home if that counts.
My Lambic Blanche is going down well, a lot fresher, fruitier that I thought and the constant chatter and occasional bellow of laughter means I’m not drying the experience with American rap which has so far been the soundtrack to my day.
It’s not hard to imagine me being the youngest here, fresh faced at 21, eyes staring out at the passers by and then to the woman at the neighboring table who seems to be keeping a close eye on what I’m doing.
The waiter glides past me, his tray swaying as he plods through the building, the contents almost sliding off either side. What once was a place for men to gamble away their savings whilst guzzling down beer is now a bustling bar open to anyone willing to try a local boissont, whilst second hand smoke creeps through the crack in the door.
With the head on my beer dissolving and my hand warming the frothy golden liquid I’ve been nursing for an hour, I bid you, goodnight.
