A man walks into the Laboureur. He cannot find his dog. He talks to the bar keep, the waitress, the old man in the corner, none have seen his dog. He has a tear in his eye. He pulls out half an apple out of his coat pocket takes a bite and orders a beer. Two gulps later he is out the door. It is possible he is crying, the Heroes are not sure. Out on the patio four friends drink, maybe their thousandth drink together, lips puckered, they call out to us, “Where you from?” We answer in unison, “America,…Chicago.” A smile and a forlorn welcome bellows forth.
Au Labourer: Rough, Hip, Elegant and Crass-a drinker’s bar on the Rue du Flandre 108 somewhere in Bruxelles.