What a hoopla this new Eurostar terminal has caused. Paris just got 20 minutes closer! Hooray for Paris! Hooray for the Eiffel Tower! Hooray for steak frites and graffiti and dog poo! Let’s all go and order a pain au chocolat from a grumpy waiter tout de suite!

This annoys me for two reasons. First, I live in a town conveniently situated for Waterloo. So Paris just got an hour (or two, given the Northern Line) further away. Second, who really wants Paris 20 minutes closer? I’ve seen it, I’ve done it, I’ve slipped in the merde. I was quite happy with Paris where it was, thank you very much.

But in the spirit of this inspirational travel section, I’m not here purely to be negative. I’m here to offer a thrilling alternative. I’d like to propose a place designed with the weekend-break-on-the-Continent-loving reader in mind, a place that is also liberally coated in croissant and graffiti, but where the croissant is better and the graffiti far more arty. And it, too, just got 20 minutes closer. It’s called Brussels.

Did someone say Brussels? Cue everyone looking aghast, grannies choking on false teeth, children bursting into tears. Brussels? Oh, how simply horrid. I JUST don’t understand our aversion to this Belgian beauty, with its cobbled streets, its civilised cafe culture, its relentless multiculturalism and its elegant fur-coated women with their delinquent, fur-coated chihuahuas. Is it because it’s in Belgium, and Belgium mainly exists as an after-dinner party game? Or that the city gave its name to a flatulence-inducing winter brassica? No, I know the real reason: it’s because it’s the capital of the European Union and we’re all wannabe members of UKIP, who fear and loathe those crazy Eurocrats. And who can blame us after what they tried to do to our weighing scales?

But there’s an element of nose-cutting, face-spiting silliness here. Because Brussels is wonderful. Let me talk you through a Brussels weekend, and then you can decide for yourselves which fork to take on Eurostar.

We’d start off on a Saturday morning. We could have started on a Friday night, but that’s rush hour and you’re tired, and Brussels is just a blink away now, so just chill out and take a nice morning train instead.

It’s probably about elevenish, time for coffee and croissant, so head for the Grand Place, which Victor Hugo described as the most beautiful square in the world. He obviously hadn’t been to Venice or Rome or Madrid or Newcastle when he said it, but the Grand Place is pretty special. I won’t tell anyone if you have a demi-glass of Grimbergen beer instead. It’s the sort of place in which you should drink proper drinks.

Next, lunch. For me to prove that Belgian cooking can be as good as French, I need you to have booked a table at Comme Chez Soi (00 32-2 512 2921) on Place Rouppe. Because of a change of chef, it lost a Michelin star this year (it now has a mere two), and people tend to whinge about how cramped the tables are. I loved it. Amazing service, truffles and foie gras all over the place, and a great view of the disproportionately high amount of work going into each dish.

It will be about 4pm now, maybe five, and you’ll be wondering what on earth happened to the day (you sat in a charming restaurant stuffing your face, that’s what happened). You could race around looking at cathedrals and museums, but you’re probably feeling a bit warm and fuzzy. And this is a small city, so we can do enough justice to the place when we’re all bright and bushy tomorrow. Either check in for a nap or do what I did: point your beloved wife in the direction of glamorous shops and point yourself in the direction of a bar. Both are perfectly justifiable ways of getting to know Brussels.

Compared with clone-town Britain, the shops in Brussels are refreshingly eclectic. Any spree should begin with the chocolate shops on Place du Grand Sablon: Wittamer, established 1910, is the classic option; Pierre Marcolini, established 1996, looks like a Bond Street jeweller. The boutiques on Rue Antoine Dansaert will spruce up the wardrobe nicely, and the print shops on Boulevard Anspach will furnish you with all the Tintin artwork you will never need (caution: Tintin prints are like ouzo and wooden giraffes – great in situ, not so great in your home).

The bars are pretty eclectic too. I’m not going to name any names because serendipity is the best strategy on a bar crawl. But don’t walk past A La Mort Subite on Rue des Montagnes aux Herbes Potagères (famous for its lethal fruit beers), Goupil le Fol on Rue de la Violette (touristy but unique) or La Fleur en Papier Doré on Rue des Alexiens (Magritte’s haunt but not touristy at all). Okay, so I named some names.

We got the Michelin stars out of the way at lunch. Phew. So dinner should be in a clinking, clanking, flambéing type of place. The obvious choice is Restaurant Vincent (2 511 2303). And this is what I really like about Brussels: in Paris, you can never be sure that you’re not walking into a gastronomic horror show; here, it’s the opposite. The closest you get to the hard sell is on Rue de Bouchers – one street – so just avoid it. Vincent is 50 yards away, up Rue des Dominicains. Book a table in the tiled dining room and order the fish of the day... nice and light before beddie-byes.

WELL, IT’S Sunday and we wasted yesterday on booze and food. Typical Brits abroad. So we must be very conscientiously cultural this morning. First, back to the Place du Grand Sablon to mooch around the antiques market (my goodness, the Belgians keep a lot of things in their attics). After that, the city’s two big-name art galleries – the Musée d’Art Ancien and the Musée d’Art Moderne – are a hop away and helpfully linked by a tunnel on Place Royale. There’s a Bosch, a brace of Rubens and a murder of Bruegels in the old bit, and, in the not-so-old bit, a new six-floor space devoted to the life of Magritte (opening shortly, so don’t blame me if it’s rubbish).

Lunch? You would be very on the pulse if you went to M’Alain Tradition on Rue de Flandre for ox cheek, but it isn’t open on a Sunday. Maybe it’s time for moules frites at Le Pré Salé (2 513 6545) on the same street? Or L’Esprit de Sel (2 230 6040) which isn’t (it’s on Place Jourdan).

And all done. Off goes the train. The only things we didn’t do were the EU quarter (which is fine because we’ve already established that we don’t like their banana-bending tricks) or the peeing boy, the city’s urinary mascot (also fine because it’s just a peeing boy). If we were in Paris, would we have had this much fun? Of course we might not have done.

Getting there: Eurostar (0870 518 6186, www.eurostar.com ), imminently from blooming St Pancras to Brussels Midi, costs from £59, from where you can hop on a train into the centre (included in the price of your ticket) or take a cab for £7. Airlines flying to Brussels include British Airways (0870 850 9850, www.ba.com ), Brussels Airlines (0905 609 5609, www.brusselsairlines.co.uk ) and Aer Lingus (0818 365000, www.aerlingus.com ).

Where to stay: Hotel Amigo (2 547 4747, www.hotelamigo.com ) is Rocco Forte’s plush five-star, just one street down from the Grand Place. During the week, it’s pricey, but you can get a weekend double for as little as £145. Ask for a sixth-floor double – they come with balconies. Or there’s Le Dixseptième (2 517 1717, www.ledixseptieme.be), a 17th-century ambassador’s residence turned stylish boutique retreat. Doubles normally start at £135, but you can expect to get 30% off this price at weekends.

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