24 hours in Brussels: a city of beer and food mastery

I took a high-speed train from Paris and arrived in Belgium about two hours later, close to midnight. It was a Saturday—and not just any Saturday: it was Brussels Pride weekend. My friends, who have lived in the city for over seven years, picked me up at the station. We quickly found a locker where I stored my luggage and where I changed from my comfy train clothes into something that matched the energy of the streets, which were packed with people serving insane looks.

Everyone was out, and I was immediately struck by how cosmopolitan the city felt—the sheer diversity of people, styles, and languages, more than I’d seen in many other European destinations. Everyone seemed happy, drink in hand, and the drink was always the same: beer.

We headed to a bar with outdoor seating by the Grand-Place, Brussels’ main square. Each of us ordered a different beer, and two of the four instantly became the best beers I had tried in my entire life: Duvel Tripel Hop and Chimay Blond. Despite their high alcohol content, both were smooth, with complex bouquets far beyond anything I’d had, even compared to the artisanal drafts I love in Brooklyn and Bogotá.

Before heading to a nightclub playing afrobeats—where we shook our asses under immaculate vibes—we got Belgian fries. And then: another record. The best fries of my life. Perfectly crispy outside, soft inside, with that perfect golden tan. Their secret? A double fry in beef tallow. They came in a paper cone with a choice of sauces—curry ketchup, sweet mayo, andalouse, samurai, and more. I stayed loyal to my favorite topping for any type of potato: mayonnaise, and it stunned me: flavorful, silky, indulgent. A few days before this, I had tried the best mayo of my life in a café in Paris, where I ordered it with the frites that came with my croque madame, but this mayonnaise at the Belgian fries stand was even better.

The next morning, after a good rest and a delicious breakfast on my friends’ terrace overlooking the city’s many green pockets, we went sightseeing. We stopped at a street cart to try her majesty, the Belgian waffle. Its golden exterior tasted like biting into a freshly baked cookie, while the interior was airy and tender, pretty much like a buttery, egg-rich bread. It was crowned with hearty whipped cream—clearly made from milk from happy cows—and drenched in hedonistic hot chocolate fudge.

With no time to waste, as my foodie hosts wanted me to try all the food staples of the city, we walked straight to a chocolate shop. And then came yet another record. Pure pleasure filled my palate, heart, and spirit. The chocolates were masterpieces: clever combinations of cacao percentages and textures, with jams, creams, butters and crystals flavored with raspberry, orange, toffee, pistachio, and more. What impressed me most was the texture—perfectly balanced, creamy, firm in the right places. It wasn’t just great chocolate; it was chocolate treated like fine art, kept at the perfect temperature and lighting.

We moved on to a food fair where we sampled international dishes made with fresh, high-quality ingredients, and finished the afternoon with beers poured from draft with ritualistic precision: glass tilted, pour overflowing, foam combed with a round knife, the glass dipped into water to prevent stickiness. We had a few beers, then headed home so I could rest before my 6 a.m. flight to Madrid—which I nearly missed.