Arnold Van Puymbroeck, Chicago’s Belgian “glue,” dies at 95

Arnold Van Puymbroeck, a beloved fixture in Chicago’s Belgian community and a familiar face at Toons, died May 31 at 95, just days shy of turning 96. Friends and longtime bar regulars remembered his constant smile, his Flemish accent, and the way he drew peopl

When Arnold Van Puymbroeck walked into Toons in Wrigleyville, the room seemed to brighten before he even reached the bar. He wore the same permanent smile, spoke with a thick Flemish accent shaped by early years spent in Belgium, and—at 95—kept up his ritual of watching “Jeopardy!” there.

Ajay Graham, a bartender at Toons, said Mr. Van Puymbroeck loved to yell out answers even though, “99% of the time his answers would be incorrect,” before laughing, throwing his hands in the air, and smiling.

“He never stayed long,” Graham said. He would order and then make his rounds—stopping at other go-tos including Hopleaf Bar and The Piggery—because the point, for him, was seeing the people he considered family, “extended family, really.”

Mr. Van Puymbroeck died May 31 of what was described as natural causes. He was 12 days short of turning 96.

At Toons, staff built the routine around him. Bartenders like Graham and Aly Zavitz looked out for Mr. Van Puymbroeck and brought his drinks in a tumbler marked “Arnold’s Cup.” His visits were matched with a kind of knowing humor: one of his “Arnoldisms” meant exactly what he wanted. “I would like my doctor’s prescription,” Graham recalled, was Mr. Van Puymbroeck’s code for a drink of Jim Beam with ginger ale and club soda. “There’s a hole in this glass” meant his drink was empty and he wanted another. And “I didn’t come here to buy the place” meant his tab was more than he wanted it to be.

Ben Gosselin, a former bartender at Toons who considered Mr. Van Puymbroeck one of his best friends, said their sports nights came with the same predictable spark. If they watched baseball and someone made a bad call, Mr. Van Puymbroeck would yell. “That umpire needs to go to Pearl Vision!” Gosselin said the regulars knew his lines well enough to beat him to them.

Those who spent enough time near him learned the long story behind the easy warmth. Mr. Van Puymbroeck grew up on a farm in Belgium. During World War II, occupying Nazi soldiers stole the family harvest and left much of the country in ruins. In 1952, he left for America with his childhood sweetheart, Lea Verhulst, hoping an ocean would shield them from disapproving parents. In Belgium. he had worked as a dental technician making dentures. but he couldn’t find that kind of work in Chicago.

So he went to work as a janitor and joined the janitors union, which was dominated by Belgian immigrants.

In 1967, Mr. Van Puymbroeck bought an apartment building about a block from what’s now Toons and then—one unit later becoming his forever home—became part of the neighborhood’s Belgian rhythm. One of the two-bedroom units became his long-term residence. By then. Belgians across Chicago knew him well. and he grew into a pillar of a tightknit community of about 10. 000 immigrants who called Chicago home in the 1950s.

That community was largely centered around Logan Square and St. John Berchmans Catholic Church, where Mass was said in Flemish, according to those who knew him.

David Baeckelandt, who wrote a biography of Mr. Van Puymbroeck, said Arnold was “the glue that held us all together.” Mr. Van Puymbroeck led multiple Belgian cultural organizations. including the Belgian American Club of Chicago. and he helped pave the way for hundreds of Belgians to come to Chicago to work as janitors.

Baeckelandt described how he served as a bridge in practical life, too. “For most Chicagoans, you go to your alderman with concerns or needs,” he said. “For us, we’d go to Arnold, and he’d get things done.”

His influence reached beyond Chicago. In 1958, when Mr. Van Puymbroeck was 28. he organized a charter flight from Chicago to Brussels so Belgians in Chicago could affordably travel to see the World’s Fair being held in the Belgian capital and connect with loved ones back home. The flight turned memorable in ways no one planned: an engine on the plane—previously used to carry cattle and smelling of manure—caught fire. forcing an impromptu landing in Iceland. Bart Ryckbosch. head of the Belgian American Club. said that while the women stayed in a hotel overnight. the men spent the night at a bar.

In 1974, Mr. Van Puymbroeck was knighted, receiving the Order of Leopold II—one of Belgium’s most distinguished civilian honors.

Even as Chicago’s Belgian population spread out over time and assimilated, Mr. Van Puymbroeck remained a fixed point for those who remembered where they came from. The Belgian American Club’s yearly picnics, once drawing more than 1,000 people, now attract only dozens.

In later years. friends described how he moved through the world—short-statured and weighing just 135 pounds. with a slight stoop and a quick shuffle “a bit like Groucho Marx. ” according to Mike Roper. who owns Hopleaf. Roper said Mr. Van Puymbroeck was so central to Belgians in Chicago holding onto their heritage and language that the bar itself seemed to center around him. Roper said Hopleaf serves more than 100 kinds of Belgian beer.

For Mr. Van Puymbroeck, the routine was simple: his brand was De Koninck, along with some steamed muscles. Roper said if someone saw him coming in and there was a long list of people waiting for a patio table, “well, that list goes out the window until Arnold gets a seat.”

“He was happy, happy guy, who wanted to be around people,” Roper said. “And he was loved by people his age and young people. He had Mexican friends, Black friends, gay and lesbian friends. Everyone liked Arnold. And Arnold liked everybody.”

Roper said the roots of his outlook ran deep into history. “He was 10 when the Nazis arrived on his doorstep and 15 when they were driven out,” he said. “I think that impacted him. He saw hatred and fascism and what they did to people. and I think it made him want to be the opposite of all that. He was proud he made something of himself in America. And he was very grateful for his life.”.

That gratitude showed up in how he connected across roles—tenant, visitor, friend. A group of about 12 tenants who lived in his building would always invite Mr. Van Puymbroeck and his family to their parties, considering him a friend.

Longtime tenant Gillian Hemme said Mr. Van Puymbroeck had relationships that might have started as one-dimensional but turned into friendships because of who he was. Hemme also said another building resident regularly volunteered as Mr. Van Puymbroeck’s driver.

On Sundays during football season. people working at The Piggery reserved a bar stool with a crown on it for Mr. Van Puymbroeck, according to Kenny Pospiech, who co-owns the restaurant. Pospiech described the staff’s good-natured tradition: everybody on staff gave him a scoop of free ice cream with chocolate sauce. and he’d tease him by insisting. “No. no. no. He gets no ice cream today!”.

Two weeks before he died, Pospiech said he visited Mr. Van Puymbroeck near the end of his life and Mr. Van Puymbroeck asked, “Kenny, did you bring me any ice cream?”

At The Piggery, Mr. Van Puymbroeck was also the only non-Chicago celebrity to be “Piggified”—an honor in which a likeness of someone’s face on a cartoon pig is framed and hung on a wall.

Pospiech also golfed with Mr. Van Puymbroeck every Tuesday morning during warmer months at Robert A. Black Golf Course. He said Mr. Van Puymbroeck would tee off from the junior tees. and he’d give him strokes. bet on rounds. and “barely ever” won. Pospiech said that once. he did win a dollar. and he wrote the date and the words “Arnold pays Kenny!” on the bill. then put it behind the bar. He said Mr. Van Puymbroeck saw it and asked. “Kenny. why can’t I put the money I win from you on the wall?”.

Pospiech told him, “You know what, Arnold? You buy your own damn bar, and you can put up as many dollars as you want.” Pospiech put the dollar bill in Mr. Van Puymbroeck’s pocket before he was buried in Graceland Cemetery a week ago.

After the burial and funeral services at St. Ita Catholic Church, a memorial at Toons followed. Guests were served food from Portillo’s, a member of the Irish Rovers played bagpipes, and a Belgian flag was hung from his regular bar stool. Attendants wore Belgian scarves.

Mr. Van Puymbroeck is survived by his partner Irene Donash, son Gene, two grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. His greatest love was for his family, according to his son, who said having his family together and playing with his great-grandchildren was “his happy place.”

The story of Mr. Van Puymbroeck is stitched together from the same places he kept returning to—bars with familiar cups. a community anchored by Flemish Mass at St. John Berchmans Catholic Church, and gestures that turned strangers into regulars. For people who knew him. the loss wasn’t just the end of a life at 95; it was the quiet stopping of a daily rhythm that made belonging feel ordinary.

Arnold Van Puymbroeck Chicago news Belgian community Wrigleyville Toons Hopleaf The Piggery Graceland Cemetery St. Ita Catholic Church Jeopardy