Cafe Helmers

Having walked by Café Helmers several times throughout my stay in Amsterdam, I saw it’s place in the neighborhood as a popular local’s joint. Going on the name «Café» Helmers and noticing it was much quieter during one afternoon, I decided to head in on the whim that they might be serving brunch as I walked along Huygensstr (say that 10x fast!) with a hunger pang as fierce as I’ve ever had.
And then I walked in the place and realized it was a dive bar. It was dingy in terms of seating, tiny bar area, and the sort of dark interior that was meant to conceal any blemishes (i.e. nasty stains) in it’s décor. The bathroom fit the stereotype, with a stench so foul that had I remained in there one minute longer everything that was sitting in my (empty) stomach probably would’ve come up. And though it would be defined as a dive bar by me, in most parts of Europe, this is really just considered a pub.
As the bartender greeted me in his warm, Dutch heavy accent, I decided to give the place a whirl and parked myself at the only decent looking table near a window. I scoured the menu, which was a simple sheet full of the usual pub choices choices: sandwiches (meh), soups (wait, here?), salads (no spanks), and breakfast (oh YES).
The loss of energy triggered by my unusual spike from hunger was evident by the bartender and he asked me if I was hungover. I told him no and proceeded to order a Stella, while I continued to peruse the menu some more. Eventually he asked me straight up, «This is a simple menu, are you looking for something more specific?» And I told him in plain words, «I just want something hearty and delicious.» He seemed to understand this and pointed at an option in the menu that looked nothing out of the ordinary, which read «three eggs with ham and toast.» I was already thinking of a sad 3 egg scramble with a thin slice of ham and some crappy toast, but the bartender assured me that he’d take care of me, and my apparent American appetite.
If for some reason I thought he was going to take my order to the chef, I was surprised to see him walk into a back room, which looked something like a closet. Wait, it was a closet. A closet that had clothes, used bottles, some miscellaneous storage and what appeared to be a mini stove. And then it dawned on me: there is no kitchen. He’s not just the bartender, he’s also the chef. What in the world am I doing here?
As he fired up the pan on this tiny little stove, I watch as he lazily butters up the bread and throws it in the pan. This guy doesn’t even have a toaster and then he cracks and egg and throws it in there too. This is already looking really bad and I am practically downing my Stella in hopes of making a dash for the door, save for a few Euro coins left as a momento of my gratitude for the beer.
But it was too late. He was already on his way back with a monstrous concoction of what appeared to be more of a pizza than an omelette, let alone a scramble. I stared blankly all while kept reciting the rules of hunger in my head, which are simple: eat all that is on your plate. Your eyes are bigger than your stomach. This is going to taste good no matter what.
As it turns out, this wasn’t any kind of eggs and ham, this was a local delicacy I had yet to appreciate. It was the pub grub that most of Netherlands’ finest love to eat and probably made for killer hangover food. More importantly, this was a national breakfast staple of sunnyside up eggs, cheese, and ham fried together to create an egg blanket over a bed of toast, resulting in something like an open faced grilled cheese with egg and ham.
This was «uitsmijter,» the Dutch slang for a «bouncer» and was the last meal pub patrons would often get before they were booted out as it was explained to me. No matter, the dish was interesting — a kind of sloppy execution that made my fascination with the dish all the more apparent. The eggs were soft, with runny yolks that when combined with the crisp of the toast and the molten cheese made for a nice bite. The ham was obviously canned, a rule that can be overlooked due to the rules of hunger (see above), and dare I say was a pleasant addition to the meal.
In the end, I was famished. The beer + heaviness of the uitsmijter didn’t have me keeled over from overeating, but certainly on the path to a wild food coma. If I was ever hungover in Amsterdam (a very plausible scenario), this is the kind of food that was almost certainly worth feasting. And I have Café Helmers to thank for this, good morning eats that were paid off with my instinct for food like an animal on the hunt.
And when I return to Amsterdam, I’ll be sure to drink here at Café Helmers to my heart’s content and end the night with a uitsmijter, the way it was supposed to be.