A saintly saloon

It's called the Eleventh Commandment -- and spirits are definitely present

Author: By Bud Collins, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, September 13, 1998

Page: D10

Section: Travel

Saints preserve us, this is the gospel truth, says Franz, who has also been communing with St. Paul.

``Yes, according to an old Belgian legend, the neglected Eleventh Commandment was this: `Thou shalt not water the booze.' Probably wine in the original version. There is no mention of whiskey, beer or jenever -- our gin -- that I know of in the Old Testament.''

In fact, this renowned saloon at the center of old Antwerp, is named the Eleventh Commandment, and houses a crowd of saints of every name, description and size -- plaster and wooden statues salvaged (or stolen?) from bygone churches that went out of business or were razed.

St. Francis is feeding his birds, although Franz says they would prefer beer -- ``at least here because our Belgian beer is the best in the world. It would make those sparrows act like eagles.''

Upstairs a sculpted Last Supper is in progress. ``The menu here at the Eleventh Commandment is more varied and tasty, I suspect,'' says Franz. ``As you can see, the location makes the saints feel right at home. We Belgians say, `Thirstiness is next to Godliness.' By the way, we lead the world in beer-drinking per capita: 200 pints a year for every citizen.''

Indeed, practically next door is the soaring Cathedral of Our Lady, the highest of the Lowlands' Gothic churches, facing the broad main square, the Grote Markt. Leading man outside is the bronze folk hero, Brabo, topping a fountain and clutching the hand that he ripped off the evil giant, Druoon Antigoon. I suppose the guides tell tourists, ``Let's give this guy a big hand!''

Within the cathedral, a leading man is the gifted hometown boy Pieter Paul Rubens, represented by two massive and powerful paintings: the raising of the cross, and Christ being brought down from the cross.

Those old-boy Belgians could paint, all right, and their work is all over town. Pieter Brueghel of the apocalyptic visions is my guy. At the Mayer Van Den Bergh Museum is his transfixing ``Mad Margot,'' a woman running across a landscape of desolation and destruction.

After that, my friend Aurelio says we need a cup of coffee. Conveniently the Sucree Salee is nearby, a 19th-century bakery with tables outside, presided over by two stunningly pretty and pleasant blondes, Sonia Rymenans and her daughter, Marianne.

``It's been in the family for generations,'' says Sonia. ``My father's retired, but he still does some baking. Since you are a stranger, I must insist, perhaps immodestly, that you have my new cookies with your coffee. They have become quite a hit in Belgium, and have been given a prize for calling attention to our great port.''

Deservedly so. The cookies, trimmed in the celebrated Belgian chocolate, are shaped like the container ships that are so prominent in Antwerp's maritime economy. Deliciously they take the edge off Breughel.

Nostalgia takes over during a look through the handsome house of 16th-century printer Christopher Plantin, a museum devoted to ancient books, manuscripts, presses, and printing equipment. Not that I can read them, but it's still thrilling to look upon ninth-, 10th- and 11th-century manuscripts, under glass, and the 15th-century poet Jean Froissart's ``Chronicles.''

Some of the metal type, set into headlines and stories by hand, isn't too different from what I used in a shop where my college newspaper was printed.

``You don't go back that far, do you?'' says Aurelio.

``Not quite. But look at these galley proofs with inked corrections. This wasn't uncommon until -- suddenly -- computers took over. Not that long ago.''

Dock's Cafe, beside the Schelde River that leads to the harbor, had been recommended for its seafood. It's excellent, a lively place with waitresses charging up and down stairways to cover the main floor and mezzanine.

My personal rule, undoubtedly provincial, never to eat lobster outside of New England is countermanded by Aurelio's insistence to ``take a chance. Belgium's blue lobster has a great reputation.''

She's right. It's small, succulent, needs no melted butter. Lobster follows Dutch sardines with onions and beans, taken with a straight shot of gin. Now her personal rule -- no gin ever -- countermanded. ``It works with the sardines. They're marvelous.''

Walking back to the hotel on this Saturday night, we stray into a downtown pleasure precinct called ``de rosse buurt'' -- the red-light district where men of all ages are window shopping. The ladies in lingerie in the show windows are there on a rental basis, and the neon tube illumination of the storefronts is, yes, scarlet.

Our concierge later tells us, ``It's, of course, illegal, but a very old custom that alarms no one. This is a very old port, and you know the saying about sailors and their girls in every port.''

Journalistic zeal leads us to knock on a door. Tina leaves her window to answer. ``Both of you?'' she inquires pleasantly.

``In the window?'' Aurelio grimaces, wondering about working conditions.

``No, no,'' Tina laughs. ``We have a room behind. For both of you the fee would be 3,000 francs ($80). Shall we begin?''

``Just looking,'' says Aurelio, and the door closes. ``I think we better go back and hang out with the saints.''