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Bruxelles of Harry Street was my spiritual and temporal home for most of the latter part of the 1980s. Out on the pavement, short rows of motorcycles tried to huddle inconspicuously away from the traffic wardens and gardai that from time to time wandered by, ticket-books in hand. As a customer, one tended to enter furtively, (even when of legal age... old habits die hard), and, if possible, early, before the bouncers came on and started making noises about I.D. and other inconveniences. Inside were two lounges: one a street-level, would-be café-bar, whose decor fitted the Euro theme with flags and newspaper mastheads from many countries. A non-working mannequin pis threatened everyone who went to the counter with a good dousing. On busy evenings, it was only marginally slower than the service... Below street level, accessed by a winding stair, was the deliberately seamy underbelly, a study in economic diversification. While the 'upstairs' catered for the 30-somethings and the passing lunchtime trade of tourists between the nearby, fasionable Grafton Street and the next-door-but-one Westbury Hotel, the basement attracted rebellious teens and would-be-teens again, who, (if they were like me) adopted denim or leather bikers' gear and stood self-consciously at bustops.
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