People loved Arnold Van Puymbroeck because, well, because he's Arnold.He wore a permanent smile, spoke with a thick, Flemish accent from early years spent in Belgium and, at 95, maintained his long-held tradition of watching "Jeopardy!" at Toons, a bar around the corner from his Wrigleyville home."H e loved to yell out all the answers even though 99% of the time his answers would be incorrect, and then he'd laugh and throw his hands in the air and smile," said Ajay Graham, a bartender there.His entrance would be met with hearty greetings not only at Toons but also his other go-tos, including Hopleaf Bar and The Piggery. He never stayed long. One drink, maybe two. He had to make his rounds to see his friends — extended family, really.Toons bartenders like Graham and Aly Zavitz looked out for Mr. Van Puymbroeck and brought his drinks in a tumbler marked "Arnold's Cup.""Nine years ago, at my wedding, I looked over during the reception and noticed my entire bridal party and now guests had broken out into dance, in the form of a conga line," Graham said. "Making their way around, I noticed in the very front, the one who started it, leading the way was Arnold."Mr. Van Puymbroeck died May 31 of what was described as natural causes. He was 12 days short of turning 96. The cup that Arnold Van Puymbroeck drank from at ToonsProvided Those who knew him understood his many "Arnoldisms.""I would like my doctor's prescription," for instance, meant: Pour me a Jim Beam with ginger ale and club soda. "There's a hole in this glass" meant: My drink is empty, and I'd like another. "I didn't come here to buy the place" meant: My tab is more than I'd like it to be."If we were watching baseball, and there was a bad call, he'd yell, 'That umpire needs to go to Pearl Vision!'" said Ben Gosselin, a former bartender at Toons who considered Mr. Van Puymbroeck one of his best friends. "And we all knew his lines, so we'd beat him to it."If you sat at an adjacent bar stool long enough, you'd learn his story. He grew up on a farm in Belgium. Occupying Nazi soldiers stole the family harvest during World War II and left much of the country in ruins. In 1952, Mr. Van Puymbroeck took off for America with his childhood sweetheart, Lea Verhulst, in hopes an ocean would buffer them from disapproving parents. In Belgium, he'd worked as a dental technician, making dentures, but he couldn't find such work in Chicago. So he went to work as a janitor and joined the janitors union, which was dominated by Belgian immigrants. Arnold Van Puymbroeck at his 89th birthday party at The Piggery that included a cake with a Belgian flagProvided In 1967, he bought an apartment building about a block from what's now Toons and then was Doninger's Tavern. One of the two-bedroom units became his forever home. Belgians across Chicago knew Mr. Van Puymbroeck. He became a pillar in the tightknit community of about 10,000 immigrants who called Chicago home in the 1950s. The group was largely centered around Logan Square and St. John Berchmans Catholic Church, where Mass was said in Flemish."Arnold was the glue that held us all together," said David Baeckelandt, who wrote a biography of Mr. Van Puymbroeck.Mr. Van Puymbroeck, whose wife died after 37 years of marriage, led multiple Belgian cultural organizations, including the Belgian American Club of Chicago, and paved the way for hundreds of Belgians to come to Chicago and work as janitors."For most Chicagoans, you go to your alderman with concerns or needs," Baeckelandt said. "For us, we'd go to Arnold, and he'd get things done."In 1958, when he was 28, Mr. Van Puymbroeck organized a charter flight from Chicago to Brussels to make it affordable for Belgians in Chicago to see the World's Fair being held in the Belgian capital and connect with loved ones. It was a memorable flight. An engine on the plane, which had previously carried cattle and smelled of manure, caught fire, forcing an impromptu landing in Iceland. While waiting overnight for a needed part to arrive, the women stayed in a hotel. And the men spent the night at a bar, said Bart Ryckbosch, head of the Belgian American Club.In 1974, Mr. Van Puymbroeck was knighted, receiving the Order of Leopold II — one of Belgium's most distinguished civilian honors.Chicago's Belgian community has largely assimilated and spread out. The Belgian American Club's yearly picnics that used to draw more than 1,000 people now attract only dozens.Mr. Van Puymbroeck was short-statured and weighed just 135 pounds. In his later years, he'd walk with a slight stoop and a quick shuffle, "a bit like Groucho Marx," said Mike Roper, who owns Hopleaf."He is so central to Belgians in Chicago hanging on to their heritage and their language," said Roper, a longtime friend whose bar serves more than 100 kinds of Belgian beer.For Mr. Van Puymbroeck, a creature of habit, the brand he'd order was De Koninck, along with some steamed muscles."If you saw him come in, and you had a long list of people waiting for a table on the patio, well, that list goes out the window until Arnold gets a seat," Roper said. "He was happy, happy guy, who wanted to be around people. 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."He was 10 when the Nazis arrived on his doorstep and 15 when they were driven out. 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."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."He had so many relationships that might be one-dimensional — like with tenants or people he saw out and about — that turned into friendships because of who he was," said longtime tenant Gillian Hemme, who said another building resident regularly volunteered as Mr. Van Puymbroeck's driver.On Sundays during football season, people working at The Piggery would reserve a bar stool with a crown on it for Mr. Van Puymbroeck, according to Kenny Pospiech, who co-owned the restaurant and would trade good-natured jibes with him. "Everybody on staff gave him a scoop of free ice cream with chocolate sauce, and I'd see it and go, 'No, no, no. He gets no ice cream today!' " Pospiech said. "Well, two weeks ago, I went to visit him toward the end, and he goes, 'Kenny, did you bring me any ice cream?' "Mr. Van Puymbroeck was 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 at The Piggery.Pospiech golfed with Mr. Van Puymbroeck every Tuesday morning during warmer months at Robert A. Black Golf Course. "He'd tee off from the junior tees, and I'd give him strokes, and we'd bet, and I barely ever won," Pospiech said. "But one time I won a dollar, and I wrote the on the bill the date and the words 'Arnold pays Kenny!' and put it up behind the bar, and he sees it and goes, 'Kenny, why can't I put the money I win from you on the wall?' And I 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.At a memorial at Toons following the burial and funeral services at St. Ita Catholic Church, guests were served food from Portillo's, a member of the Irish Rovers played bagpipes, a Belgian flag was hung from his regular bar stool, and 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." ...read more read less