The Journal · The house · 4 min

A Slow Morning at NOIR House

On curtains, coffee, and the deliberate pointlessness of the hour before ten.

We open the kitchen at half past seven, and nobody we would want to talk to comes down before nine. This is how we hoped it would go.

The curtains in every room are lined twice. It costs about as much as the bed. You will wake when you wake, with the room still dark, and for a while you will not know what time it is, which is more or less what you paid for.

Grey light through sheer curtains over a tangled dark bed — The shutters in the Noir Suite, about a quarter past nine.

The tray

There is an espresso machine in the room and fresh beans in a tin, but there is also a bell. Ring it and someone will come up with a pot, two cups from the potter on the next street, and yesterday's crossword half done by whoever was on the desk.

An espresso on a saucer in low morning sun on a marble table — The first cup, and the second.

Two seeded rolls on brown paper beside a white enamel mug — The first cup, and the second.

The long table

Downstairs there is a table that seats fourteen, laid with bread, butter, three cheeses, and whatever fruit has reached the point of no return. Nobody will ask you your room number. Someone will ask whether you would like an egg.

Nobody will ask you your room number. Someone will ask whether you would like an egg.

We stop serving at eleven, and we are not strict about it. Sundays we do not even pretend. The only rule we have is that the table has to be free by the time the bar starts to think about lunch.

NOIR House and the people writing here are fictional. Bruges is not, and it really is worth the train.