Having lived for over six months within spitting distance of one of Brussels' best chip stalls, I had to do it. On my wobbly and unsuccessful search for a doctor's surgery (I will rant about the overrated Belgian health service on another occasion) I felt the need for a sit down. Martin's fritkot was within my sights. So I did what a woman had to do. I went and queued up for a portion of allegedly the best chips in Brussels.
I stood behind two young men who put in an order for something exotic sounding. I heard the word "andalouse". Spicy. Oriental. They were discussing the football while they waited. I stood on tiptoe to see over their shoulders. Martin was busying himself with great half-baguettes, and taking his time about it. Would this be some kind of Belgian kebab he was putting together? What kind of spicy sausage would be going between the halves of French loaf? During the good five-minute wait, I noticed with approval that his chips were being cooked lovingly in time honoured fashion, in two separate vats of oil. The first to cook the potato, the second to crisp. The penalty, I learned from the lads, was a diabolical liberty.
I was intrigued when I saw Martin slathering pink sauce onto the bread, and then gobsmacked when I saw him pile chips into the two halves of baguette, and serving the boys three massive chip butties. A Frenchman would have fainted dead away.
I stepped up and ordered my small frites for 2 euros. Martin took a scoop full from the pre-fried batch and double-fried one portion of chips especially for me. Well you can't complain they're not fresh. They were served in a paper cone, with a dusting of salt. I did not wish to adulterate them with mayonnaise, sauce "andalouse" or otherwise. (Funny that they never have vinegar in Belgian chip shops. The continentals threw the baby out with the bathwater when they dismissed British cuisine thirty-odd years ago. Between the wobbly jelly and the overcooked Sunday roast, there are still a few gems of British cooking, and Sarson's malt vinegar on chips is one of them).
I sat on a bench in the Place St Josse and ate some. They were good. They tasted of potato. They were golden and crispy. But, as someone once said (I think it was Oscar Wilde): a chip is a chip is a chip. As an accompaniment to a nice haddock fillet in breadcrumbs, with some brown bread and butter and a nice cup of tea, they would have been fab. But to be honest, when you've got the tail end of flu, sitting on a public bench in February eating chips is not really where you ought to be. I ignored the poster inviting me to take my snack into a scrotty bar across the road to eat whilst being ogled by a bunch of lumpen riff-raff, wrapped the remainder of my chips carefully, and finished them off at home with a good dollop of tomato ketchup.
Some Belgians will tell you that the only way to eat Belgian fries is outside in the open air, out of paper. There really is a gap in the market for a fish and chip restaurant in Brussels, I feel. Where is Harry Ramsden when you need him?
I stood behind two young men who put in an order for something exotic sounding. I heard the word "andalouse". Spicy. Oriental. They were discussing the football while they waited. I stood on tiptoe to see over their shoulders. Martin was busying himself with great half-baguettes, and taking his time about it. Would this be some kind of Belgian kebab he was putting together? What kind of spicy sausage would be going between the halves of French loaf? During the good five-minute wait, I noticed with approval that his chips were being cooked lovingly in time honoured fashion, in two separate vats of oil. The first to cook the potato, the second to crisp. The penalty, I learned from the lads, was a diabolical liberty.
I was intrigued when I saw Martin slathering pink sauce onto the bread, and then gobsmacked when I saw him pile chips into the two halves of baguette, and serving the boys three massive chip butties. A Frenchman would have fainted dead away.
I stepped up and ordered my small frites for 2 euros. Martin took a scoop full from the pre-fried batch and double-fried one portion of chips especially for me. Well you can't complain they're not fresh. They were served in a paper cone, with a dusting of salt. I did not wish to adulterate them with mayonnaise, sauce "andalouse" or otherwise. (Funny that they never have vinegar in Belgian chip shops. The continentals threw the baby out with the bathwater when they dismissed British cuisine thirty-odd years ago. Between the wobbly jelly and the overcooked Sunday roast, there are still a few gems of British cooking, and Sarson's malt vinegar on chips is one of them).
I sat on a bench in the Place St Josse and ate some. They were good. They tasted of potato. They were golden and crispy. But, as someone once said (I think it was Oscar Wilde): a chip is a chip is a chip. As an accompaniment to a nice haddock fillet in breadcrumbs, with some brown bread and butter and a nice cup of tea, they would have been fab. But to be honest, when you've got the tail end of flu, sitting on a public bench in February eating chips is not really where you ought to be. I ignored the poster inviting me to take my snack into a scrotty bar across the road to eat whilst being ogled by a bunch of lumpen riff-raff, wrapped the remainder of my chips carefully, and finished them off at home with a good dollop of tomato ketchup.
Some Belgians will tell you that the only way to eat Belgian fries is outside in the open air, out of paper. There really is a gap in the market for a fish and chip restaurant in Brussels, I feel. Where is Harry Ramsden when you need him?