Minerva stands on storied ground, where Belgium’s legendary luxury automobiles were once meticulously tended. Today, the building’s industrial skeleton is discreetly refined, revealing a warm, stylish dining room that glows with quiet confidence. It’s a setting that understands contrast: steel softened by linen, heritage tempered by modern lines, and the hum of a well-drilled team that moves with the ease of a seasoned orchestra.

The kitchen speaks the language of classic gastronomy fluently, delivering beloved dishes with a clarity that feels both nostalgic and thrillingly alive. Turbot arrives cooked on the bone, its flesh pearlescent and just set, napped in a feather-light mustard froth that lifts rather than masks. Sauces are lucid, stocks profound, and every garnish feels essential—never ornamental. There’s an elegance to the restraint, a sense that each element has earned its place on the plate.

At Minerva, service is theater of the most civilized sort. The carving trolley glides to your table; knives flash; aromas rise. Barbary duck is sliced with reverence, then anointed with a sauce coaxed from blood and bone marrow using a gleaming press—a ritual that’s both heroic and supremely refined. This interplay of technique and ceremony invites guests to linger, to watch, to savor the continuum between kitchen and table.

Wine pairings reflect the menu’s pedigree, weaving grand maisons with thoughtful discoveries. The room hums with convivial sophistication—soft lighting, impeccable pacing, a hush that never feels stern. Above all, Minerva embodies an ethos: quality as a way of life. For the discerning traveler seeking culinary heritage executed with contemporary polish, this is a destination where craft is not displayed, but quietly lived, course by exquisite course.