“Whose idea was this again?”

Tom’s tone says he wishes we hadn’t bothered. In turn, I can’t be bothered to answer his question. We know this was my idea. And yet, I can’t quibble with his gloominess. We are standing in a small side-street in Brussels, the Belgium capital. It is a raw Friday afternoon in early February, and the wind, whipping into our faces, is not helping matters. Overhead, the sky is the grey of ashes.

“Come on, it will be fine,” says Jay, ever the peacemaker. I’m not sure. It had seemed a grand plan at the discussion stage. A weekend in one of Europe’s more underrated cities. A place renowned for good food and beer. Throw in a football match, a small spot of sightseeing. What could go wrong? So we have a nettle to grasp. It is bleak. It is mid-winter. But then, surely we can find a way to enjoy ourselves in a city where fine brews almost flow from the taps? Surely? As we head for the centre, it becomes obvious that Brussels is no ordinary city. It is, in ways, schizophrenic. A bilingual metropolis where French and Flemish are official languages. This plays out in the street signs, each a double-headed hydra, speaking to two different crowds. Thus the ostensibly Gallic Rue Des Bouchers, which we stroll along as we seek our bearings, is also announced as the Dutch-sounding Beenhouwersstraat.

This makes sense. Brussels is the hub of the EU: a paragon of cooperation. Of course – depending on your perspective – you might also view it as a nest of bureaucrats, all of them making up laws on the shape of bananas. It is this last opinion that contributes to Brussels’ reputation as a political pigpen, a bolthole of boredom, a den of dreariness. But we have not travelled seeking dreariness. And we aren’t thinking about politicians as we sip our first beers. There is a sense of history in the Grand Place, wood-fronted guildhouses harking back to the 17th century as they shelter this expanse of cobbles. But the draw is its bars. We plump for Le Roy D’Espagne, a happy oddity, where, for no clear reason, a life-size model horse takes up floor space.

Two hours later, spirits are up, and so are appetites. We throw ourselves back into the Rue Des Bouchers, a maelstrom of a street, where restaurants tout for your business. Possibilities are plentiful, and we try Aux Armes De Bruxelles, brightly lit and long of menu. Filled with couples, it radiates a safe aura. But there is no faulting the food. My When-In-Rome call for moules returns a mountain of chewy crustaceans in a soupy sauce. And when Jay, sweet tooth piqued by beer, orders a crepe suzette, the waiter sets it alight at the table with a gusto that has heads turning.

Tom puts the issue into words the next day. “Last night was fine,” he muses. “But not the real Brussels.” Mildly of headache, I’m not sure what ‘the real Brussels’ might be. But having set aside a morning for sightseeing, there is a chance we will find it in the city’s cultural side. Brussels has a wealth of museums, including the art wonderland of the Musees Royaux des Beaux Arts de Belgique. Which we venture nowhere near. Because, give three men on a foreign weekend jaunt the choice between perusing a few paintings or watching a statue that urinates, and there will only be one outcome.

You have to applaud Brussels here. No other city can boast a two-foot sculpture of a boy relieving himself into a fountain. Amusement floats over the junction of Rue L’Etuve and Rue du Chene as we approach this tribute to youthful freedom – which, we see, is clad in blue cloak and pointy hat, an outfit that makes him look like a tiny wizard with prostate woes. Strange. Though arguably no stranger than the Atomium, Brussels’ other off-kilter monument. A cluster of nine spheres, linked by slanting walkways, this refugee from an oversized science lesson dates to the 1958 World Fair. “Weird,” exclaims Jay, as we stand below its formerly futuristic structure. But even so, there is no complaining about the view from its top sphere, right across the city.

Watches are checked. The hour of the headline event has arrived. Football in Brussels is still dogged by the Heysel disaster of 1985. Happily, our route will not take us to the rebuilt, renamed ‘King Badouin Stadium’ – but another, smaller ground, the clunkily titled Constant Vanden Stock Stadium, where Brussels’ favourite sons ply their trade. Anderlecht are at home today, facing fellow Belgian heavyweights Club Brugge. The team have been playing well all season, and there is a vibe of expectation around the stands. In fact, there is definite pep to the atmosphere, helped by the intimate capacity (the ground holds 26,000) and the fact that terraces are still in situ behind the goals. It proves a well-matched tussle, Les Mauves Et Blancs battling to a tense 3-2 victory as a partisan crowd – populated, it seems, by short moustachioed men – roars approval. One of these gruff-of-voice fellows comes to our aid when, full-time whistle blown, we ask the location of the best bars in the city. He thinks for a second, then suggests we go south of the centre to the Saint-Gilles district. There is more life here, he nods.

So it is that we roll into the Brasserie De L’Union shortly after eight. It is still early, but already a merry throng is building amid a hotchpotch of languages and accents – French, Spanish, German, Italian. The brasserie appears to be aiming for a casual, Bohemian feel – all wooden chairs, solid tables and a heavy bar serving beers in fat tankards as a hum of human chatter begins to swell and ooze into its darkened corners.

Later, we find ourselves in another watering hole, attracted by the sign over the door. A La Mort Subite (To Sudden Death,) is named in honour of the dice players who once made up its clientele. And there are hints of high times in its mirror-clad walls, still proclaiming its 1928 birthdate. The list of drinks, meanwhile, is extensive. As he beckons the waiter to order another round of Grimbergen Blond, Tom turns to me and asks: “Whose idea was this again?” This time, I’m happy to answer.

Brussels Spout?

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The Belgian capital’s most famous landmark is a statue of a boy having a pee. But don’t let that put you off. Chris Leadbeater investigates