Tiramisu? Avocado? Blood Orange? Or walnut? We couldn’t make up our minds.

My cousin Sabrina and I were in a tiny, dim room, done up in dark wood like a pensioner’s living room. The furniture was a melange of armchairs, bar stools and not much room. On the brick walls antique clocks and vintage posters similarly vied for space. These walls were lined with bottles, in particular a bottle of the bar’s specialty – flavoured Jenever (a juniper-flavoured liquor from which gin evolved).

We still couldn’t decide. Of the 200 choices on offer, at €2 per shot, we picked the modest Cherry and Coconut. Determinedly adventurous, we then picked another four. Then another four. Eventually, two young patrons stationed in our corner introduced us to Cactus.

Apparently that’s what happens in Dreupelkot, a small bar in Ghent, Brussels, that serves nothing but sexy, wicked Jenever shots. That January night, discussions raged between Bernie Sanders supporters (politics) and an art student and his best friend dissecting their long-standing friendship.

Other than the potent shots and the rather amiable, cheeky owner Pol, the best thing about a place like this is the patrons. An elderly Belgian poet was busy online, checking on his chats and hits. “People here may not think my poetry is great, but if a big, black housewife somewhere in America does, then I’m happy.” One of the owner’s neighbours dropped in to see if Pol needed help, as many of his friends often do. “Malaysia? I have a book on Malaysian fish at home. I used to import them many years ago.”

Then the two Dutchmen, the artist and his best friend, decided to treat us to a few more shots. Though we tried, in the end we lost count. Finally, we decided that Cactus was actually rather good.