MUSSELS IN BRUSSELS
We drove into Brussels about an hour before dark. Sally was consulting “Europe on $5 A Day” looking for hotels under the label “cheap”. “If we go straight here, then turn left, turn right, we will be in the “cheap” hotel district”.
I went straight, turned left, turned right, and there we were. Several hotels lined the street on both sides. We parked and walked to stretch our legs. A small town square was at the intersection of several streets. There were no bombed out buildings, no US military rampaging. There was a sense of peace though, a quiet that we wanted, a quiet that we needed. It was like the sound of the world had been turned off. The people of Brussels walked these streets, mingled in the town square, with the sound off.
As we walked, holding hands, Sally said, “I need a nap. Let’s find that cheap hotel”.
There were many hotels in block of buildings near the square. They all looked the same. Storefront window, narrow street entrance door, brown brick exterior. We checked in, carried our luggage up 2 flights of wooden stairs, went into our room, laid down, and went into a deep, recuperative sleep. The sound turned off.
The sound seemed to still be turned off we went down to the street after our nap. We walked into the square where people gathered to chat, feed the pigeons, generally lounge. We were invisible in the square. Or perhaps just another couple strolling as the day turned to night.
We were hungry so we looked for a restaurant. Next to our hotel there was a neon sign in a store front window in 3 languages- Moules, Muscheln,Mussels. Mussels in Brussels.
We walked through the door of the Mussels restaurant and the sound turned on. It was full of diners of every type. Working people, men and women in business attire, people sitting alone, people in groups. Classical music played softly and was mostly drowned out by the sound of clinking glasses, the clatter bussing of tables, and the chatter of the patrons and wait staff.
We were seated by a host in a white shirt and black apron. A waiter came up to us quickly as we looked at the menu and we asked in English what was recommended. He said, “Mussels in red sauce, our house bread, and our house salad.” He spoke English. Of course, we were in Europe. The land of multilinguals.
We both looked at the waiter and said, “Okay”.
Our dinner arrived. Muscles and pasta first. Just as we began eating an older women entered the restaurant. For a moment the restaurant quieted as the patrons watched her entrance. She was dressed like an aging, yet still glamourous, Hollywood actress, in a sequined green dress with white fur collar. The green dress bulged a little in places it likely fit perfectly 40 years ago. She stopped just inside the restaurant door as if she was waiting for applause. None came. Her face was made up with pancake makeup and her lipstick was ruby red and slightly wide of her lips. She had a large white bulldog on a leash. The bulldog was tranquil as the restaurant host and a waiter walked up to her together. The host took her arm and guided her to what must have been her normal table.
The older woman was seated with a flare as another waiter immediately arrived with a bottle of white wine, a glass, and a basket filled with a sliced baguette. The waiter stood next to her, slightly behind, and out of her field of vision. She ignored the dinner crowd. The white bulldog settled under the table and promptly fell asleep. Wisps of quiet snoring leaked into the room.
This was and orchestrated and well practiced event. The soup arrived, the waiter whispering something to the grand lady. The waiter departed. Another arrived 15 minutes later with the fish. A new bottle of wine was produced and poured. Then cheese with another wine. The bulldog snored.
Sally looked at me, “She must be an actress or a faded society person. She does put on a good show, but I’m tired. Let’s pay and go.”
We walked out into the street. Night had settled in. But it was not dark. We walked a little, hand in hand. Down the street, in the direction of the square, the store front windows were glowing with red light. We walked a little way and wondered. In every window a young women sat in a chair, legs crossed, wearing lingerie. Some were smoking, some reading, some doing both. The sound was still off in the red glow of the street. We turned into our hotel, past its storefront red light, and walked up the stairs to our room. The day of quiet was over.
