#170: World Cup City - Mexico

Day 3 - tacos auténticos

Welcome to an ongoing Brussels Notes series exploring the 48 participating countries of the 2026 World Cup, without leaving Brussels. Read the explainer, and then subscribe.

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Los Agaves, Av. Jean Volders 4A, 1060 Saint-Gilles

Is 12.45 too early for a shot of Mezcal? When the woman comes to my table and asks in awkward French what I want to drink I chicken out and order a Jarritos Mexican Cola - “Hecho en Mexico since 1950” it says on the side of the humming green fridge beside my table. It’s scalding out on the street and a cold soft drink from the fridge will temper some of that heat.

“You can’t get good, authentic Mexican food in [insert European capital here],” is a tiresome American argument rolled out by Americans algorithmically designed to enervate us on the Old Continent. And, unfortunately, it was true of Brussels when I moved here almost two decades ago, when the most visible dining options were yellow packets of Old El Paso taco kits in the supermarket, and Chi-Chi’s Tex-Mex Restaurant and Bar on Boulevard Anspach, where you could get a Buffet Tex-Mex á volonte for €12.50.

That we are a long way from those dark old days is evident by the fact that Los Agaves was my third choice for lunch today, the first being too far away and the second closed repeatedly despite both its website and Google Maps listing declaring it was open from 12pm. SO Los Agaves it was, on the margins of Brussels’ most obviously Latino neighbourhood - there’s a Pueblo Latino superette further up Avenue Jean Volders, several Brazilian churrascarias in close proximity, and a Colombian bar serving Arepas and Empanadas two streets over (more on that anon).

Is it good? The sweating bottle of Jarritos certainly was, sweet and sticky like a melted Mr Freeze ice pop. I ordered a trio of vegetarian Tacos (a canny business decision in a neighbourhood incapable of living down its Bobo reputation). Within a few minutes the smallish dining room was suffused with the smell of warming corn, as the waitress worked away at a counter half-hidden by the fridge. They arrive with a pair of little twin terracotta bowls, one filled with freshly-diced white onion, and the other with a lip-tingling red salsa. Of the three, the courgette was my favourite, followed by the soy chorizo, with the cactus trailing a distant third. I may be a vegetarian, but I continue to struggle with overcoming my childhood aversion to the texture of actual vegetables, and the cactus was just too slippery. I inhaled all three, struggling too to keep the fillings from spilling out of the fragrant, just a little bit crunchy tortillas and over my hands and plate. Chi-Chi’s, this is not.

Now, you can’t eat authenticity and I have never been to Mexico. On the face of it, Los Agaves has all the trappings of your typical Euro-Mexican restaurant. On a pedestal near the back there’s an oversized painted white skull, with more Day of the Dead-style skulls nailed up around the place and brightly-coloured blue, orange violet and turquoise plastic banners hanging from the ceiling. The main back wall is covered with a mural of a jaguar or some other big cat, and the central columns are decorated in imitation adobo. Otherwise, though, the restaurant is sparsely decorated, the food comes on a plain white plate and without cutlery.

There is a bar immediately to the right of the entrance as you walk in, opposite the small kitchen, with several shelves stocked with liquor brands I don’t recognise. On the bar counter there’s a bulbous green demijohn one-third full of a clear liquid that I assume to be one of the Mezcals listed on the laminated drinks menu. My watch has ticked past 1pm.

I have the place to myself until I’m almost finished, when a young man walks in and engages the woman in the kitchen in a conversation in Spanish. He’s wearing a black football jersey but I don’t recognise the team, and though I get the (unfounded, as I don’t speak Spanish) impression he is asking for directions, “soy músico” is all I can understand. He has a guitar bag strapped to his back; maybe he’s looking for the location of his next gig. The woman gestures out through the windows, and they continue talking for a minute or two more before he leaves with a parting wave.

I have the place back to myself, staring across the dining room to the bottles arranged by the streaky front window. We’re on the cusp of the weekend. No one has to know.

Tomorrow, we start our trip through some of the tournament’s debutants and minnows…

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Thanks for reading - I’m writer Eoghan Walsh and this is my weekly free-to-subscribe newsletter about life in Brussels. If you like it and you’re not already subscribed, you can sign up here!

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