In Search of Pink Elephants

The cobblestones are wet and a bit slick as I walk across La Grand-Place. It has been raining off and on for most of the day and even though the sun is now out, it is chilly. And damp. The air holds the damp and cups your face in its hands, keeping you chilled. Wind rushes down certain streets with enough bite to remind you that, contrary to what the daffodils are selling, winter is not quite finished. And in multiple taverns and tea rooms along the connecting streets, there are enticing fires with the promise of banishing the chill. But I do not want to sit inside. As pleasant as that may sound, I want to sit outside at a certain bar owned by a pink elephant on Greek street and enjoy a glass of Delirium Tremens as people stream by, eating waffles or cones of frites. Other than visiting the market, this is my favorite thing to do to get the sense of a place. Just sit outside at a cafe or other establishment with a coffee or drink and watch the world pass. The owners of the competing Greek restaurants prepare for the evening rush as they extol the virtues of their particular offerings to those who pause just a moment too long in front of the menu.

As I sip the heavy blond tripel, the thought occurs to me that Brussels is what happened to the Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory after it expanded and added beer to the menu. The foods that Belgians are good at and that remain in people’s memories long…