It’s a Saturday evening, and with the pretense of an impromptu date night, my wife and I end up at Yi Chan for the first time. It’s not, however, the first time we’ve wanted to come. The previous time just so happened to correspond with the Chinese Lunar New Year, and appropriately the reservation I’d requested is declined.

Uncharacteristically, we’ve made a reservation the night of, somehow finding an availability at what, when we arrive, is a packed restaurant. 

We request to sit inside and enter through the large glass doors. The weather is nice, but we choose to sit inside. A friendly host escorts us in and presents us with a two-top near the bar where we can both watch the bartender work behind the stick. 

“That’s the guy,” my wife says, motioning her head in the direction of the host who just sat us. 

“What guy?” 

“The guy. The Pijiu guy. The Yi Chan guy,” she clarifies, pulling out her phone and showing me a picture from Instagram. “See?” 

- - -

It’s 10am on a Saturday morning a couple weeks later and I’m standing outside of Yi Chan. I’m early, as always, trying to beat the summer heat, sipping from a bottle of water. I notice a name labeled above a mailslot on the door adjacent to the central entrance: YEN PHAM. It’s then that the sound of unlocking and unlatching commences, and I’m greeted by Yen himself. 

“This way, through the speakeasy door,” he directs me, leading me into the restaurant. “This is where people would enter,” he tells me. “We’d have the windows closed, with one of those Chinese pharmacy shades, a couple tables over there,” he points to a couple of two-tops, “You’d have no idea anyone was in here.”

The restaurant is slated to open for Saturday’s lunch service in just a couple hours, but for now it’s just Yen and I. We sit at a table in the back, and before I can get my voice recorder, notebook, and phone set up for the interview, Yen begins telling me about the restaurant. 

The year I was born, Yen’s parents, Chinese immigrants who immigrated via Vietnam, opened a restaurant at this same location, on Rue Jules Van Praet in the center of Brussels. The restaurant, Au Bambou Fleur, Yen tells me was mismanaged and eventually forced to close. Six years ago, Yen decided to take the restaurant back. 

When he started, Yen worked a lot in the kitchen, putting himself not only into the drinks, but into the food as well. Yi Chan used to have two menus. The first, the fresh dim sum menu which the restaurant still features exclusively today, and the second, a “gastro” menu—two starters, two mains, two deserts—that changed every week. Over time, Yen shifted to a more minimal approach with a focus on quality and freshness, again moving away from the traditional large menu. 

Whereas the aim of many traditional Chinese restaurants is to accommodate a large number of patrons, Yen was most interested in putting in a cocktail bar. Reopening the restaurant, Yen decided to go in a slightly different direction. 

When he first came up with the concept, he wanted to do something with more of a lounge vibe, an initial decision he’s not so thrilled with today. “‘No, Yen, this is not going to work,’” his parents refuted when he first told them about the idea of adding a cocktail bar. “You need to change,” he told them, “it’s okay to not have numbers.” 

“You build your own business, you build your own image, you build your own reputation,” he tells me. “Everything works like this.” 

- - -

My wife and I eagerly scan the menu. 

Xiao Long Bao, something I haven’t had since I lived in China. 

Char Siu Baos. Har Gow. Siu Mai. Pai Gwut.

A trio of rotisserie–Glazed Pork, Crispy Pork, Peking Style Duck. 

And of course cocktails. 

Le Lychee for me—Barsol Acholado Pisco, Saint Germain Elderflower liqueur, verjuice, and lychee. 

La Passion for the wife—Plantation 3 Stars Rum, Hampden Estate 8 Year Rum, lime, Angostura Bitters, topped with a passion fruit honey foam. 

- - -

In 2018, the number that seemed to follow Yen around was “2.” 

Yi Chan, and Yen, were everywhere in the local media, and Yen’s mixology skills had netted him multiple placings in rather noteworthy cocktails competitions–though he had never won—hence the nickname: “Number 2”. 

Despite this, his innovative cocktails, inspired by Asian dishes such as phô, piqued the interest of many food writers, including Vice, which featured him in their 2018 People of the Year series for Belgium, along with numerous food critics, bloggers and professionals alike. 

With a quick Google you can find profiles of Yen from Le Vif, La Libre, De Standaard, and DH; his partnerships with Cointreau and SoulPicks, an application where experts share their local hotspots; and of course there's the Gault & Millau listing for not only Yi Chan the restaurant, but a separate entry for Yi Chan the bar as well. 

The Brussels cocktail scene has been growing steadily in the last decade. Six years ago, Yen tells me, there were only one or two, now there’s ten or fifteen. Yet, despite this influx of new establishments, Yen seems to welcome them rather than seeing them as competition. “The people from Brussels, and from Belgium are waiting for it, they’re hungry. They’re thirsty,” he corrects himself. “They need cocktail bars, they need new concepts.”

“If people keep coming [only to Yi Chan], I will have nothing else to say. It’s better for them to go to other places as well, and try new addresses.” Yen tells me they regularly send Yi Chan customers to other bars, sometimes with boomerangs, a pre-made cocktail that’s shuttled back and forth between bars as a way of sharing experimentation or building comradery.

Ironically, many of the bartenders and the cocktail bars grew into their own together. They built a community together. He laughs at the idea of competition. “There’s so few bars, what's the competition? What’s the competition?” he repeats. “The only thing we want is to give [the customer] a good experience behind the bar. And then COVID hit.”

- - -

As we sip our cocktails, I notice more and more people coming in. The terrace is full, with no available open-air tables. Despite the sunset being still hours from now, inside the dimly lit restaurant, each table is brimming with patrons. I start to think that maybe I’ve been quite lucky today finding a table on such short notice. 

Yen arrives with our dim sum. A bamboo steamer tray opens to reveal four very different, yet beautifully wrapped, dumplings. This is quickly accompanied by two other steamer baskets, one with fluffy buns filled with caramelized glazed pork, the other with marinated pork ribs. 

With our chopsticks, we dive in, trying each dumpling and bao in unison. The wife notices a lack of sauces for dipping, but I’m too consumed with the savory umami flavors of the dumplings, the sweetness of the glazed pork ribs, and the pillowy bao to notice until it’s nearly all gone. 

- - -

Yen had just landed in Los Angeles, when he took his phone off airplane mode and discovered 30+ calls, informing him that the country, and subsequently the restaurant industry in Belgium, had just been locked down. Forced to take out a lot of his personal money to keep his business alive, the restaurant went from eleven employees to six when it finally opened back up. The mandated addition of protective barriers and various safety and distancing requirements set previously planned renovations back nearly four years. 

After being stuck in the US for 3 months, unable to return to Belgium, unable to do anything, Yen returned, and Yi Chan started offering delivery—Yi Chan at Home. “It wasn’t even to survive, it was just to get busy,” Yen admits. “Everyone was doing yoga, or finding a new skill, and stuff like that. We were just doing [delivery] to get busy.”

In the beginning Yen did all the delivery with the help of his wife working the email and functioning as the back office, and his parents, who helped him cook. Yen even personally delivered the first delivery orders in his own car, driving to all corners of Brussels. The next go-round, Yen put out a request via Instagram for volunteer delivery drivers. He ended up with eight volunteers with nothing better to do than help. He even sold cocktails in sous-vide bags, ready to pour.

Yen supported the protests in support of reopening the restaurant industry. “I was totally with them. We needed more support, and more help, and more help means money.” But, having lost an old best friend to COVID, his wife pregnant at the time, and being asthmatic himself, he chose not to personally attend any protests. “I was a bit selfish not to be there,” he confessed, “I didn’t want to be with them. You can show [your support] in a different way.” 

“You need to reach your community, your people,” Yen says. 

During this period, Yen appeared on national television and radio, described as a “speaker for the Asian community,” speaking out against racism towards Asians. When asked if he wanted such a title he tells me it doesn’t matter, “the title would have been given anyway”. 

“I care about my people,” he says, “about the Asian community, the restaurant community, and the bar community. I care about people in general. I care about humans, and I hope they care the same way. It’s normal, I think.”

During COVID, he posted frequently on social media about his state of mind, about how the food beverage industry needed to stay strong. He met with other cocktail bar owners from around the city, and helped to organize a group called Shakers United. “Whenever we need someone to work [a shift], when we need a specific bottle, when we need anything, we would post in this group.” 

They created various cocktails, sous vide cocktails, or takeaway cocktails, and from the proceeds, donated what was raised to charity. “Even if our business were closed, there were more people in need than us.”

“People wanted to support,” he tells me, “but I didn’t want them to give me money, I wanted to work for it.” Along with the charitable work with Shakers United, Yen hosted Master Classes on cocktail making, and even created his own beer—Pijiu. 

- - -

My wife and I sit, taking the last sip of our cocktails. There’s a strong temptation to order another. 

In front of us, three empty steamer baskets. 

There isn’t a cocktail on the menu that sounds bad. In fact, they all sound delicious. Le Yuzu sounds good, sweet and easy to drink—Grey Goose, Cointreau, Yuzu, Ginger, and soda… then again so does the La Rhubarbe—Bombay Sapphire Premium Cru, Strawberry wine, Rhubarb juice, maple syrup, and soda. I’m leading, however, in the direction of La Framboise—Mezcal Amores Verde, Wild Raspberry Eau de vie, Sweet Verjuice, Martini Vermouth Riserva Speciale Ambrato. 

“I think I’ll have a Pijiu,” my wife states. 

“Actually, make it two.”

- - -

Around Chinese New Year, Yen put out a request on social media for mandarin skins. Originally, Yen just wanted skins to do a mandarin liquor for his takeaway cocktails. The skins were washed by hand, sous-vided, and put in the freezer. The result was a mandarin essential oil that could be used in various cocktails. People were bringing him skins they’d been keeping for months in their freezers, and in the end, Yen ended up with 200 kgs of mandarin skins. “Every year people eat a shit ton of mandarins, and they always throw out the skins,” he begins, recounting how it all started. 

“I’m a proud Belgian,” he proclaims, “I love beers as well, so I’m going to do something with this.” That something was Pijiu, a pale ale with a bit of orange flavor from the mandarin skins. At first it was just sold at the bar at Yi Chan, but after high demand, and requests from other bars and restaurants, the operation was expanded. 

“We started doing two brews a month, and then we scaled up because the restaurants wanted more.” Yen was approached by one of the largest Asian import/exporters in Belgium who wanted to take the beer national, and so they scaled up production. Today, the beer is even served in Michelin-starred restaurants. 

Though he’s still looking for better distribution in Flanders, Yen tells me the goal is to branch out to France and UK, and he’s even received multiple distribution offers. “Why I think my beer will work out there, first in the United States, and Asia after,” he tells me confidently, “It’s the first Chinese-Belgian beer.”

I’d heard rumors of a second variety to follow Pijiu, and when I ask him about it he tells me it’s in the fridge. 

“Sorry, did you say it’s in the fridge or in the future?” I ask, unsure if I had heard him correctly. 

“No, my beer is done! It's in the fridge. You can drink it now.” 

Yen grabs a couple glasses from behind the bar, and an unlabeled bottle of beer from the fridge. He pops the top and pours us two glasses.

“It’s more like a pils, it's easier to drink,” he tells me. “But now, looking at the color…” he lifts the glass, looking at the color of the beer with a light source behind it. “...maybe it’s a bit oxidated, but maybe it’s good oxidation.” 

The beer was brewed back at the end of last year in a garage. He tells me the idea comes from doing a Berliner Weisse, and compares it to something like a radler. “Here, in the aromatic profile it’s really cereal,” he tells me, “with sudachi, a Japanese lime, and sansho pepper,” a numbing pepper similar to the Sichuan peppercorn for balance. “If you really have a good palate you can feel it at the end.” 

This, however, is the first time in a while that he’s drunk the beer. “Maybe it’s bad.”

He takes a sip. 

“Well, it has an oxidation,” he says with a tone of disappointment. “It doesn’t taste like before.”  

He takes the time to taste the evolution of the beer. He continues to look at the color, as he sloshes the liquid across his palate. He sits quietly, contemplating the flavors. In this moment, Yen drifts, nothing else really seems to exist, and I have to ask my next question twice.

Asking why the beer isn’t out yet, he tells me simply, because he’s a busy man. He has the aspiration of releasing a Japanese inspired beer, the one we’re drinking now, and a Vietnamese inspired beer; there’s plans for a beverage company, in addition to his restaurant. 

He’s not lying when he says he’s a busy man. Just in the month prior to our sit-down, he’s poured drinks for Dinner in the Sky, an aerial pop-up restaurant; competed in a Calvados cocktail competition in Normandy (He didn’t place in the top three, but his bartender did, the one who made my wife and my drink the other night—drinks Yen conceptualized); started a month-long partnership with Mount Gay Rum, attended bar takeovers, gin launches; not to mention dined at some of the most well known restaurants in Brussels… oh, and did I mention he has a young son? Despite all this, Yen is still here at Yi Chan as often as he can be, seating guests, handing out menus, hosting, delivering food, and forgetting sauces. 

- - -

Yen, seeing we’ve finished everything, comes tableside. 

We praise the cocktails, gush over the duck, applaud the baos, and compliment the beer. 

I recount to him having Xiao Long Bao with my wife for the first time in China, the need for the spoon to collect the soup, the burst of flavor, and how we haven’t had them since. I tell Yen that we’ve been wanting to come to Yi Chan since we first learned the Shanghainese treat was on the menu. 

“How were they?” He asks. 

“Well,” my wife interjects, “they could have used some dipping sauce.”

“I didn’t bring you the dipping sauce?” Yen asks with disbelief. “Oh no, I’m sorry!” 

He begins to apologize, but we assure him it really isn’t a problem, that we’ve enjoyed everything as it was. 

“The sauce is the best part, with the black vinegar and the shaoxing,” he continues, obviously disappointed in himself.

We assure him again, that it’s fine, and that sauce or no sauce, we’ve thoroughly enjoyed every bite and every sip, and that we look forward to returning in the future.

- - -

“Are you tired?” I ask him. 

“No,” he lies, “I get a lot of sleep.” He cuts himself off, “Actually that’s not true, I don’t know why I said that, I got like four hours of sleep last night.”

Just one look at Yen’s Instagram stories and it’s understandable. Sure, there’s promotion, both for Yi Chan and himself, but also for the city’s other cocktail establishments, patisseries, restaurants, and friends. It’s clear the man has a love of all things food–not to mention sneakers–but most of all his family. 

He might be busy, but as he tells me, “It’s never the same thing. Every day is different. It might be the same line, but not the same story.” 

The kitchen and waitstaff have arrived, and when customers begin to be seated for lunch, I thank him for the opportunity to interview him–my first interview in years. I apologize that my estimated hour long interview has turned into nearly two hours, but he dismisses this. I also thank him for the beer.

  “It’s not good. I don’t like it,” he says with a chuckle. “You’re not on your best day everyday,” he says, “but this is how I work.” 

I step out of the dark, cool interior of Yi Chan, back into the midday heat. To my left, The Bourse sits under construction, the UberEats and the Deliveroos cycle down Boulevard Anspach, the pigeons hop along refusing to fly unless completely necessary. To my right, Rue Jules Van Praet is just coming alive. Shutters are being opened, tables are already set out, and soon the orders will be rolling in. 

The number of East Asian restaurants on Rue Jules Van Praet is staggering. There’s multiple Vietnamese and Thai spots within the span of the block–Ăn Ngon, Rêve d'Asie, Fanny Thaï, Perle de Siam, Au Lotus Thaï, and around the corner on Rue du Pont de la Carpe you’ll find more. There are family businesses all along Rue Jules Van Praet, and it was Yen’s parents who were influential in making it what it is today. “When my parents opened this business, we had all the Asian community in here.” Yen explains that this is how Chinatowns/Asiantowns work around the world: work in the restaurant, gain enough knowledge, and open another business next door. 

“A lot of people, when they came to this street, they were like, ‘oh my God, these are all the same restaurants,’ Yeah, but there’s this tiny restaurant, in the middle of the street, who’s a light in the darkness again, and they provide good stuff, it’s called Yi Chan,” he chuckles, “...and they also have cocktails. It’s us.”