On a crisp Sunday afternoon, unusually quiet for Kensington Market, a mother wrapped in sensible grey sits at a tiny kindergarten table surrounded by three little blond girls of descending size, eating waffles. The sky is cloudless, none of the local shops are yet pumping out ear-shattering reggae, and even the deadbeat coffee klatch nearby is keeping idyllically sedate.

The warm scent of vanilla and sugar pours out of open French doors marked Goed Eten, tickling the nostrils with wanton boldness. Inside we find the source of all this feel-goodery: two waffle irons – dual press grills with indented grid patterns that cook batter to resemble a pre-game Go or Tron board. The chef/owner, Johan Maes, is hugging a wide mixing bowl, folding egg whites – whipped to soft peaks – into a batter of organic flour and free-range eggs.

Maes' waffles are made in two styles: Brussels and Liege. The Brussels waffle – also known as the Belgian waffle thanks to huckster Belgian Maurice Vermersch who thought, correctly, that Americans at the '64 World's Fair wouldn't know the difference – is the rectangle familiar to us. It's crispy and browned outside, moist and fluffy in, and kissed by a light snowfall of powdered sugar. It's a superb version of the style that has long vexed OCD kids trying to portion out equal amounts of maple syrup into each uniform square of the waffle's surface, served whole ($5) or half ($3.50) with a parade of hyperactivity-inducing toppings: whipped cream and fresh fruit, a scoop of chocolate, vanilla, or lavender blueberry ice cream ($2) produced by Brad Kurtenbach's Kensington Market Organic Ice Cream, butterscotch or chocolate sauce and, of course, maple syrup.

The Liege (pronounced lee-aje) waffles are the whole reason we're there ($1.25 each, $10 for 9).

Stubby and octagonal, they have an exterior crunch that's followed through with a complex, gritty interior; honey licks the tongue as cinnamon nestles in the back of the throat while vanilla sneaks up the nasal cavity. The grit is achieved with parelsuiker (or pearl sugar), insoluble rocks of polysaccharide that Maes imports from Belgium. They don't break down when cooked, infusing the Liege waffles with an otherworldly Pop Rocks-like sensation and leaving scorched globules on the cooking surface, necessitating a waffle iron scrub-down between each batch.

Maes' waffles are in need of no accoutrement and are meant to be eaten on the street or taken home, popped in the toaster and cuddled with. Several comfy armchairs but no tables add to the Pee-wee's Playhouse food-as-toy vibe. Maes, a native of Brouge, opened his waffle bar just to showcase the Belgian street treats and distance our association with Eggo waffles.

Waffles have always been the weird cousin of pancakes and French toast. Maes, who also co-owns the popular Le Petit Dejeuner (with his wife, Tonya Reid), gives them a makeover using cinnamon and vanilla for lipstick and blush, revealing them to be, à la Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club, the prettiest girl in school. And he keeps the griddle going with savoury snacks to give regulars another reason to pop in. Stuffed between thick challah and grilled inside the waffle iron like panini, thinly sliced peameal bacon is smartly paired with zesty pesto ($4.50), and a curried chickpea and caramelized carrot mix is bound by cheddar, Swiss and goat cheese ($4.50). And, yes, the grill does an iron maiden number on the bread, too.

The waffle bar is, in typically frustrating European fashion, only open Thursday to Sunday. But that's prime time in this city to wander aimlessly, hold hands and sip coffee. Here's how to integrate waffles into the mix. Instead of two cups, get one large coffee to share. One person holds the coffee, the other holds a bag of Liege waffles; two hands are still free for being demonstratively affectionate and making everyone else sick.

*PRICES INCLUDE DRINKS, TAXES AND TIP

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