It is 9am on a Sunday morning. I don’t feel like making my own breakfast so I open the maps app to find somewhere “new” to have breakfast preferably near the supermarket.

I hate wasting Sunday mornings bot I do it a lot lately. My phone returns a list of breakfast options. The first looks fairly crap so I choose the second one, Frank, which is near the end of the 71 bus route and not too far from the supermarket where I will want to get breakfast supplies for the week. I put on some shoes and socks, and get ready to leave. It’s only then that I notice the dusting of snow on the rooves of the building across the road. Wow. I had not expected that.

The world tells you no one sane is up early on a Sunday morning. I’ve always known this is a lie. A lot of people get off the bus near where I live. They are mostly on their way to the market near Gare du Midi. I went there once and I found it overwhelming. I get on the bus and I am on my way to Frank.

Frank is on the street along side the Theatre de la Monnaie. For me, it’s a short cut street, one I don’t pass through very often. Frank opened 5 minutes before I tumbled out of the bus, trying to orient myself. It’s still got a few tables free and it fills up as I peruse the menu. It’s a mostly youngish crowd, and maybe even a little hipsterish. The café is fronted by window which are maybe 4 metres high. Although the sparkling sun is still hidden behind the theatre, the windows and the corresponding high ceiling give the café a lovely airy feeling. It makes you happy to be in there.

There’s an art deco nouveau style feature ceiling glass decoration. The lighting is otherwise ultra modern. Most of the wait staff are young men. They are friendly and welcoming. There is, at ground level, a communal table and a good few small circular tables for two. While I am there, however, I don’t see one single laptop. I’m writing in notebooks. I guess I am hipsterish too.

There is retro pop playing in the background. I’ve recognised Fleetwood Mac and some Bob Dylan. Is Bob Dylan pop? My sisters had 45rpm singles by him when they were teenagers. I guess that makes him pop.

Gradually, the sound of more and ore voices drown out all but the basslines.

Frank has a good menu. I order sourdough toast. You can customise the toast, so I add a poached egg. A fully naked Eggs Benedict, I guess. I like it simple. I also ask for a guest roaster espresso. A cinnamon and cardamom roll, purely because of the cardamom. Oh, and a fruit juice. It’s not a bad breakfast at all.

The sound of chattering voices is intermittently pierced by a Ding from the kitchen at the back of the dining area. It opens on to us. Soon, one of those Dings will hearld the arrival of my poached egg and toast. In the meantime, everything else arrives to my table without too much fuss, accompanied also by a jug of water. I like that touch. The espresso is less than a mouthful – I think it’s a bean from Ecuador at the moment, I cared enough to order it, not enough to note it. It is fantastic. But I order another hot drink, this time, a hot chocolate which should last me longer.

For the first time ever, my hot chocolate arrives with latte art. A swan. I surreptitiously star at the cappuccino delivered to the woman at the next table to see what she got. Did she get a swan too? Is today’s barista an expert in swans? I don’t know. I don’t have my glasses on, and I really can’t discern what the top of her coffee actually looks like.

The language of choice here seems to be English. Brussels is a melting pot, English comes in many accents, Spanish, Irish, Flemish, you name it. I love that around the place. When the waiters turn away, guests return to their language of choice. Next to me, it’s Flemish.

When the poached egg on sourdough toast arrives, it’s perfect. The toast is still warm. The egg is perfectly poached, and better than I have ever managed to do it myself. I eat it and then turn to the sweet stuff. The cinnamon roll is lovely. It’s slightly stickly and of course, it has that touch of cardamom. I finish the hot chocolate but I’m not really read to leave so I order a pot of tea.

Someone knocks over the overburdened coat stand. I can hear an Irish accent two tables away. I don’t know what he is discussing. Occasionally, a waiter comes and clears away empty dishes from the table. The word “empty” makes me think of “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” from Les Miserables. It’s not a happy song and it is totally at odds with the gloriously relaxed ambiance in Frank on a Sunday morning.

But it’s 11.30 and I really need to go and get groceries. Sunday may be half over, but I am glad I came, and I will come again.