Ground floor, on the quay

Bar Noir

Small plates, natural wines, cocktails and late breakfasts, in a room with twenty-six seats and no view of a television.

It was the merchant’s shipping office. It still has the long counter, and on a Friday the same sense that something is about to go out by the next tide.

Breakfast, without a buffet

One long table of bread, butter, cheese and the fruit that is ready today. Then something from the stove, brought to you, whenever you get around to it. We serve until eleven and on Sundays until noon, though neither is strictly enforced.

Two croissants on a dark plate over a linen napkin on an old wooden table

Two cups of black coffee and two small milk jugs on a sunlit table, seen from above

A round floured loaf cooling on a wire rack

A wooden table in a warm restaurant lined with shelves and low lamps

The evening menu

Plates to share, or to pretend you are going to share.

The kitchen is a stove, a plancha and a chef who talks to the boats. Grey shrimp from Nieuwpoort, leeks from the Polders, a whole fish when there is a good one. It is Belgian in the sense that nobody is in a hurry and there is always enough butter.

The bar, after that

Forty natural wines on a list that changes when we finish a bottle. The cocktails are few, brown or clear, and made without theatre by someone who is also listening to you. It closes when it empties.