BRASSERIE GRIMBERGEN

 

CAFE BRASSERIE GRIMBERGEN

Brasserie Grimbergen has been there for as long as I can remember, sitting on a prominent corner of the Sainte Catherine district.  It is on the ground floor of a very attractive old Flemish red-brick building with smallish windows and so looks more like a pub, and the name does not indicate that it serves much other than beer.  So I was quite surprised when I found it housed a pleasant spacious restaurant inside, thanks to Zed and Mike Da Hat who were celebrating her (cough)th birthday in Brussels.

A bit of history.  Zed is largely responsible for my online presence.  Back in 2005 when I had just pitched up in this fair city I was looking for a way to continue my restaurant reviews and life lessons.   In the Sunday Times I read an article about women bloggers, and one of those featured was “My Boyfriend is a Twat”, which, if nothing else, catches your attention.  This blog had already won an award and was written by a British woman who, it turned out, lived in Brussels.  

 

So I left a comment on her blog, she left a comment on mine (that was bloggers’ etiquette back in the day) and we exchanged phone numbers.  She phoned me out of the blue one night.  We met up, she introduced me to other Brussels bloggers and before we knew it there was a whole gang of us.    We even went out for a Brussels Bloggers’ Christmas Dinner.  

 

The title of her blog was the result of a bet between her and her then fella, known as Quarsan for reasons best left unsaid.  He was not remotely a Twat to be honest.    She wrote about him and his slightly idiosyncratic northern comments, and their life with her three teenage kids, in a witty and comical way.  Her blog won the Best European Blog award (the “Bloggies”)  three times in a row.  She even published a book of their conversations.  The Guardian did a piece on her.  Blogging was the new rock ‘n’ roll for about a year or two.  Some female bloggers such as Petite Anglaise, Girl with a One Track Mind and Belle de Jour, became internet sensations.  There were some blogs that were inspired, such as Gorilla Bananas (male), who stayed in character as a gorilla commenting on human behaviour, or Guyana Gyal who blogged in Guyanese patois.  Many of us adopted a “persona” through which to blog. (Spoiler: I am not really a posh English widow in a flowery dress). Some got published, some self-published.  A blogger called Mike Atkinson compiled a book of blog posts for Comic Relief in which I was flattered to be featured with one of my best blog posts if I say so myself.   I was a prolific blogger and dare I modestly say it some of my posts were quite funny, poking gentle fun at my employer, my soon to be ex husband, my friends, and the Belgians, all under whimsical pseudonyms.  I also wrote a regular restaurant review in a Brussels monthly freesheet. 

 

But as is the way of fads, people ran out of things to say, others had busy lives,  years went by, blogging gave way to Facebook and Twitter, and we all drifted apart, although many of us are still friends on Facebook to this day.   Zed and the Twat split up, the Twat moved back to his native Cumbria,  Zed later moved to England too, and started up a new blog called “Learning English Again”.  The Twat sadly got cancer and died. 

 

Zed was often back in Brussels to visit her three kids and then her grandchildren but apart from a brief encounter at the Christmas market a few years back, we never managed to hook up, until yesterday, when by a fortuitous alignment of the stars, we managed to rendezvous in a bar downtown.  After a few jars we decided to go and eat together.  Zed had her sights set on Brasserie Grimbergen, which I knew vaguely from outside but thought it was just a cafe-bar. It turns out it’s quite a smart restaurant with an extensive, very Belgian menu.  Nothing innovative but some good old Belgian staples which hit Zed’s nostalgia button. It seemed fitting that I should write a blog restaurant review in the presence of my mentor. Although this has turned out to be more about blogging than about the restaurant. 

 

 

 

Unfortunately we were nattering so much that I clean forgot to take photographs of the food, so I’m using stock photos here.  Zed and Mike had carbonnades flamandes with chips.  I ordered “fish and chips” which turned out to be large cod fillets in a sauce with mashed potato. Nothing like fish and chips, and we had to order extra chips.  Belgian surrealism at its best.  Not the cheapest place in town - we were shocked to see under the heading “snacks” a portion of cheese or charcuterie at 17,50 euros, almost the price of a main dish.  Wine was expensive by the bottle but they do a house wine in carafes.  This is a restaurant aimed at tourists in my opinion but is always a pleasant place to drink an Abbaye beer on the terrace in summer.

FEED THE WORKERS

BOUILLON BRUXELLES

In my former life as an exotic dancer at the Folies Bergère (see Chocs Away! Old Girl passim) I was a regular diner at Chartier, a very old canteen type restaurant or “bouillon” that was established in the 19th century to enable the working classes to eat out within their limited budget. At one time there were more than 250 bouillons in Paris. The decor at Chartier has not changed in over 100 years - tables seating at least six which are filled up so you end up talking to your neighbours. I once sat next to an old man who said he’d been eating there since the 1920s. There were hat racks and serviette drawers and a Madame who rang up every dish as it came out of the kitchen, which the waiters had to tally up at the end of the sitting. The food was simple - egg mayonnaise or a slice of brawn, for example, as starters, or a main course of steak & chips, tripe or lentils with bacon, and all at unbeatable prices. The wine came in jugs and was cheap as chips. The waiters had been there forever and could remember dozens of orders without writing anything down, or just by scribbling numbers on the paper tablecloth. Many a jolly evening was spent there and at its erstwhile sister restaurant in rue du Commerce, which has now been sold and gone upmarket.

With the changes in culinary fashions and the increased sophistication of the erstwhile working class, the "bouillon" went out of fashion, the ornate dining halls were sold off and when I was there in the 1980s there were only a few left.  However, perhaps as a counteroffensive to the already offensive O'Tacos and their ilk, the cheap & cheerful wholesome canteen is making a comeback.  Thanks to featuring in “Europe on $5 a day” and other dog-eared backpacker classics, Chartier has now got too popular for its own good and has had to buy out the café next door just to put the queue, which runs to about an hour and a half on an average night. It has set up two more restaurants at Montparnasse and the Gare de l’Est. There are other, smaller bouillons still running in Paris, which serve the same type of fare in a somewhat less frenetic atmosphere, and a new chain called simply “Bouillon” which has picked up the formula and run with it. Bouillon have now opened up in Brussels.


In Brussels the nearest we have to a bouillon is Chez Léon, which specializes in mussels, but serves many other dishes with the same bustle and apparent chaos of its Parisian counterparts. It even has a Madame with a gimlet eye who patrols the labyrinthine premises spotting immediately if the wrong cutlery has been used.

During lockdown a number of old established Brussels eateries went under, including, sadly, the famous Scheltema on rue des Dominicains. Bouillon Bruxelles has freshened up the classic wood-panelled interior with its green leather benches and art-deco ceiling, which is the perfect decor for a turn-of-the-century bouillon. This required a try-out so Cracklin’ Rosie and Mr Greenfingers won a draw for a guest slot on Daphne’s Dinners, largely by being the only bidders. Rosie got her monicker because she makes the best Sunday roast dinner this side of the Channel, particularly her roast pork with crackling. Mr G is a keen gardener and is the Adam Frost of Woluwe St Pierre, with a nice line in tomato plants.



Rosie had done her back in lifting a particularly heavy duty tray of crackling out of the oven which she was donating to the Ukraine as tank armour, and was walking with great difficulty, but bravely soldiering on in the name of gustatory research. Mr G was sporting a new coat which he thought made him look like Luther (we wish!) but put me more in mind of Arthur Daley. Younger readers may have to google that.


The booking system at Bouillon is tortuous. No matter how far in advance you book, the website will tell you there are no places available and invite you to put yourself down on the waiting list. About three days before your booking you will receive a confirmation. A day before the booking they will ask YOU to reconfirm. And the day of the booking they send you another reminder. It’s not as if they are half empty, on a Saturday night it was heaving and they were turning away people at the door. It is a lot of hassle, and I only wish I could say it was worth it.

Despite the paper tablecloths, Bouillon still feels a bit too upmarket for a real bouillon.  The front of house staff are very young, and clearly benefiting from the post-pandemic recruitment boom in the hospitality industry. The paper menus in red and white recall Chartier in Paris, as do some of the dishes. The seafood is displayed just inside the entrance. Mr Greenfingers had eaten in the old Scheltema and said they had done a good job on the renovation, maintaining the old-school look.

Mr G ordered oysters, which arrived a good ten minutes before everyone else’s starter. Rosie ordered a croquette of minced pig’s trotter (!) and I went for an old favourite from Chartier, celery remoulade - grated celeriac in a remoulade sauce. Main courses were, well, a bit disappointing. Rosie had Liège style meatballs with fries, which came in a rich dark sauce (made with sirop de Liège if I’m not mistaken) but looked a bit dry. I had a vol au vent with fries which was basically two squares of puff pastry waving desperately for help from a bowl of pulled chicken in watery insipid flavourless sauce. A bit of cream might have saved it, and a chicken stock cube. Disappointing. Didn’t finish it. Mr G made the most sensible choice, a simple steak-frites.

(Photo credit:  Mostly Crackling Rosie, some mine)

We had noticed on our walk up to rue des Dominicains a new branch of La Fleur du Pain, the superb French bakery that already has six branches in Brussels. Bouillon charges for bread and butter which is not very French, but I suppose the low prices of the dishes won’t butter any parsnips so they have to make it up on drinks (which are not cheap) and vegetable sides. At least the bread from Fleur de Pain is worth paying for and fresh every day.

Rosie and I shared a bottle of Touraine Sauvignon at 32 euros and Mr G had a very large bottle of Petrus Grande Réserve beer. At 20 euros for 70 cl this works out pretty expensive by the glass, but see previous paragraph. They did at least put the wine in an ice bucket, unlike Chartier where the - admittedly much cheaper - house wine comes in Duralex jugs and is plonked unceremoniously on the table.



The atmosphere is not what you come to expect in a bouillon. Although full, the restaurant was quiet - and this was a Saturday night. The service was prompt and polite but the very young staff lacked the nonchalance of an old unbowed bouillon waiter who deigns to honour you with his attention. At a guess the bill worked out to about 40 euros a head, without dessert, almost "proper" restaurant prices. We all agreed that it was worth investigating but not worth a second visit.

We passed on desserts, which were not very exciting, and went across to La Mort Subite for an after-dinner snifter. An ancient beer hall, it is a little on the stark side but mercifully free of television monitors or music. After that we repaired to the terrace of the Café Métropole for Irish & French coffees and brandy and cigarettes, before rolling onto the metro in a homeward direction.

Bouillon Bruxelles

Rue des Dominicains 7-9

Tel:  02 512 2084

Closed Monday & Tuesday, Sunday evening

THE LAST METRO

Metro, our urbanite hipster metrosexual friend from London, came on the Eurostar to Brussels to escape the madness of the Platinum Jubilee weekend

He was staying at the Zoom Hotel in trendy Ixelles, which is described as "cosy industrial style".  His room was big and he loved the district.  He pays for stuff by just waving his phone vaguely in the direction of the waiter, and hops from e-scooter to Uber with ease. He has All The Apps.

On a warm post-pandemic Thursday evening, most watering holes I passed on my way to Ixelles were rammed - place Lux, place Jourdan - but St Boniface was relatively calm and there were still free tables on the huge terrasse of Le Clan Des Belges opposite the church.  Across the street is the St Boniface restaurant, which had popped up more than once when I was searching for cassoulet.  It is run by a lovely young Belgo-Portuguese couple - Vincent cooks, Ana does front of house - and is modelled on a typical "bouchon" Lyonnais, with its red checked tablecloths and old fashioned French posters on the walls.  There are as many tables outside as inside but it was starting to cloud over so we sat inside.  Ana welcomed us warmly, and took our order.  Gorbals and I ordered the cassoulet, which did not disappoint.  It is listed as the real Castelnaudary cassoulet, and came sizzling from the oven, loaded with sausage, duck leg and pork.  Metro ordered the rognons et ris de veau (calf's kidneys and sweetbreads).  We had two half-litre carafes of the house wine - one Beaujolais, one Cotes-du-Rhône.  We reluctantly passed on starters in hopes of leaving room for dessert, but couldn't even manage that.  A very pleasant evening and we left with the firm intention of returning to sample more of their menu in the future.  That's a keeper.

 

A late snifter is hard to find on a Thursday when there's not a platinum jubilee in town, and after a coffee at l'Ultime Atome we ended up in l'Archipel, one of the many African bars on the edges of Matongé.  It was quiet, just a couple of tables where Congolese patrons were engaged in quiet conversation.  The barman was tall dark and handsome.  The music on the sound system was ... Abba.  I asked if he had any Fela Kuti.  He feigned ignorance with a fairly non apologetic smile.  My gaydar started beeping.  Either that, or this is what Africans listen to when there are no white people around. 

Two lowlifes stumbled in.  Think Jesse Pinkman's mates from early "Breaking Bad".  Our muscular barman went to serve them and soon persuaded them they were in the wrong bar.  They left, but soon returned.  After a second conversation with the barman, we heard him raise his voice in a quite forceful "Non!" and escorted them off the premises.  Gay perhaps, but no pushover.

 

On Saturday I took Metro to see the new revamp of the old customs halls at Tour & Taxis, a renovation project which London would give its eye teeth for.  The food court in the Gare Maritime is super high tech, no cash, all contact-free Covid-safe payment. You do the rounds of the food outlets then order on the app, or at the central bar, and give your first name and mobile number.  So far so Starbucks.  You then find a seat, and you get a text when your order is ready.  Not exactly service with a smile, but it's fast and efficient.  We had smashed baby potatoes with bacon and sauce, a new one on me.  Not stoemp and not baked potato, it's boiled new potatoes roughly smashed then fried and served with toppings.  All the rage in that London apparently.   Outside the food market is a open sided tropical themed platform - formerly a loading bay I imagine - with bamboo hanging chairs and a general tiki vibe, overlooking an artificial beach and play area, so hipster parents can sip their non-alcoholic mai-tais while keeping an eye on little Morgane and Thibault. 

It was a hot and sunny afternoon so on the way back we stopped at Parc Josaphat for a refreshment at La Guinguette Populeir.  I love a pub in a park, me.





On Saturday night Metro screeched up on a trottinette (e-scooter to you) at the terrasse of the revamped Grand Café, next to the Bourse, which is once again en travaux, as if the concrete wasteland all around is not bad enough.  By the way, the paving used for the whole of the piétonnier (pedestrianized zone) which now comprises the Brussels Ramblas is not Belgian bluestone.  It is from Kilkenny!  We saw the pallets of slabs when it was being laid.  So I always make a point of riverdancing down the boulevard Anspach.

 

After an apérol spritz or two, the plan was to head for St Géry in search of live music bars but it was getting late and we ended up in nearby Sainte Catherine, where restaurants were either full or closing.  Le Pré Salé on rue de Flandre was out of mussels but everything else was on the menu. It may look like a urinal on the inside with its white tiles, but the food and the welcome were excellent. The walls are hung with photos of Belgian celebs - Johnny Hallyday, Justine Henin, Annie Cordy, Frédéric Francois,  Benoit Poelvoorde, and other luminaries you may never have heard of.  Arno is not yet in their pantheon, despite living in the quartier, maybe in the same street, until his sad demise only a month ago, and I suggested to the young gel that they might like to honour him, which she duly noted.

Gorbals and Metro at Le Pré Salé

This time Gorbals and I had the kidneys in mustard sauce and Metro had a very pink filet mignon, with a carafe of house red and dainty bowls of fries on the side.  All very delicious.  The atmosphere was jolly and they ramped up the music towards the end of the night, Whitney Houston and Britney Spears, what's not to like?

Le Monk is an echt Brusseleir bar. Metro and I ordered cocktails.  I wanted something sweet and sticky.  The barman suggested an Apple Pie Martini, made with a mysterious Spanish concoction called Licor 43, apple juice, cinnamon and whipped egg white.  It was quite delicious, and in future I will have a sticky instead of dessert. Metro was a bit disappointed with his whisky sour however.

Apple Pie Martini

Metro is a 24-hour party person, so we repaired to Le Cirio for last orders, a good old fashioned Brussels stalwart with its waiters in long aprons.  And that's where we found ourselves held hostage to Belgian skies, which opened around midnight and caused us to be trapped in the bar.  It was a deluge of biblical proportions.  As a result we just missed the last metro.  Luckily the rain stopped and a passing taxi did likewise so we got home and, remarkably, dry.  And I spent Sunday watching the Platinum Jubilee on playback.

Zoom Hotel, rue de la Concorde 59
Le Clan Des Belges, 20 rue de la Paix
Le Saint Boniface, 9 rue St Boniface
L'Archipel, 29 rue de la Paix

Gare Maritime, Tour&Taxis
La Guinguette Populeir, Parc Josaphat

Le Grand Café, 78 boulevard Anspach
Le Pré Salé, 20 rue de Flandre
Le Monk, 42 rue Sainte-Catherine
Le Cirio, 18 rue de la Bourse

DAPHNE'S DINNER DATES (RESUMED) - PIZZERIA SALVARINO and HEYDENBERG BRASSERIE

Phase 4 of the "deconfinement" arrived in Belgium on 8th June, and although I didn't rush out to bag my spot at the local pub, I have been out for two carefully planned lunches since then.  Lunch is a safe option as although I can drink many people under the table in the evening, I don't drink wine or alcohol at lunchtime.  

So on 11 June I ventured, masked and sanitized, to Pizzeria Salvarino on Place Meiser, with my French friend la Duchesse de Médeux.  They had installed perspex partitions between tables, and the owner/waiter was masked up.  (You could still tell he was handsome though, it's all in the eyes).   

Salvarino do great pizzas, but also great classical Italian dishes.  I had a favourite lunchtime standard, the mozzarella bufala and tomato salad.  It was certainly more than a salad, with a whole bufala cheese perched on a bed of grilled aubergine, lightly boiled carrots and green beans, red lettuce and grilled datterino tomatoes.  The Duchess went for the orecchietti pasta in an arrabbiata sauce.  Both dishes were attractively presented and delicious.  My only complaint was the dessert, I asked if the panna cotta was home made and the charming masked seducer confirmed it was.  When it arrived it was a little congealed, as if it had been sitting around for a few days.  I had this problem once in the Dordogne and I sent it back and got an apology from the Chef.  However, this was not quite so old, so I ate it.  Panna cotta has to be eaten within 12 hours or it starts to turn into something else.

I checked Trip Advisor afterwards and Salvarino has got a few dreadful reviews.  Most of the bad reviews related to being told there was no English menu, or getting the dish wrong, which can happen anywhere.  Many good reviews however.  Perhaps stick to the pizza next time.

Last Sunday I went with Aunty Marianne and The Bloke to an local haunt of theirs, the Heydenberg brasserie.  It used to be charmingly olde worlde and full of pensioners, but it has had a makeover and a change of management and is a lovely modern brasserie now (though still frequented by pensoners, viz moiself).   

I love to go out with Aunty M and the Bloke (aka Mr Brexit) as they are so charmingly olde-worlde about Going Out to Eat.  They DRESS UP.  Aunty was wearing a lovely red and black frock with big roses on.  The Bloke had put his spats on specially.  I had made an effort and put on makeup for the first time in over a month, earrings and a decent pair of elasticated-waist trousers instead of the rancid old trackie bottoms I spent most days in.  It does make you feel different, a bit more alive.  The Bloke complimented me on my appearance.  He really can't help schmoozing, bless him.   They are certainly the power couple of the Brussels British expat community.




Before we went out, we had an apéritif at their place.  As I was driving, and as mentioned above am not a great lunchtime drinker, Aunty broke out the non-alcoholic gin.  Yes, you heard me.  NON-ALCOHOLIC GIN.  And tonic.  And do you know what, it was surprisingly pleasant.  I might even buy some.  At least it'll be safe from Gorbals. 




Aunty M and The Bloke are regulars at the Heydenberg, as you could tell from the socially-distanced warm welcome and the length of time it took to get from front door to table.  The Bloke had booked us a nicely safe corner table behind a perspex screen, so we could safely take our masks off.   

We ordered our starters and main courses.  Even before the starters were served, Aunty M was presented with her piece of cow in its raw state.  Not, as in the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, by the cow itself, but by the charmingly tattooed waitress.  I managed to get this shot just before Aunty M's fangs appeared.









Aunty was certainly in the mood for raw things, as she ordered six oysters to start.  The Bloke, who is apparently notoriously unadventurous in what he eats, ordered "scampi sauce diabolique" which he'd had before.  Scampi in Belgium is not the same as scampi in the UK.  It is large prawns.  "Crevettes", the classic French word for prawns, refers to the tiny grey ones that they use in croquettes and stuffed tomatoes. 

I find I can't manage a full meal with starter and main course any more, makes me feel really uncomfortable afterwards.  Another side effect of ageing, and yet another handicap for a food writer.  So if everyone is going for two courses I take two starters, usually the first cold, the second hot.  Add to this, I am on doctor's orders to lose weight, and am on a low-carb diet.  Why do I bother continuing to write about food, one may ask, given that the gods of the kitchen seem to be conspiring against me?   Let's say I like a challenge.

Mozzarella and tomato salad is always reliable choice.  This one was as pretty as a picture and the size of a pizza.  The tomatoes were sweet and juicy, and the mozzarella was creamy and copious.    Quite, quite different from the one at Salvarino.  Light and refreshing. 

So to our mains.  Aunty's slice of cow was brought back cooked to perfection, nice and pink in the middle, with a gratin dauphinois.  She set to with gusto.  The Bloke had lost his shit in a moment of madness no doubt brought on by the non-alcoholic gin and gone for something different to his usual choice - CHICKEN with Archiduc sauce!  I had garlic prawns. 

The Bloke's chicken arrived with decorative bits of broccoli and beetroot, which made him squirm a bit.  He has a visceral distrust of vegetables, as befits a British man from north of the M25.  I helped him out with the broccoli and also with some of his red wine, which comes from a vegetal source but he seems to be able to manage it. We were terribly reasonable on the booze front, and even then the volume of conversation went to 11 on occasion.  (UNLESS someone* had sneaked one or two in before i even arrived). 

Ther thing about having lunch with Aunty M and The Bloke is, we never stop talking.  Often all at the same time.  We spark off each other, jumping from one topic to another and never at a loss for a subject.  After months of lockdown, you could have wound this up to the power of 12 last Sunday.    It must have sounded like playing Newsnight back at 78 rpm. 



Tarte Julie serves quiche.  Just quiche. And salads and soups.  It's a handy lunch place when I was working at Spart Towers.  I met up with my German colleague who had popped into the office to pick up something. 



Although I have adapted well to lockdown, being fundamentally antisocial and ever so slightly lazy, it was great to get out and see people again. 






SALVARINO
Place Meiser
Schaerbeek
Tel:  02 734 5806

BRASSERIE HEYDENBERG
Avenue Heydenberg 17
Woluwe St Lambert
Tel:  02 771 7929

TARTE JULIE
Boulevard Emile Jacqmain 56
Brussels
Tel:  218 5389



*No names no pack drill.  

A TOUCH OF CLASS: BRASSERIES GEORGES, UCCLE

It has been a long time since I reviewed a single restaurant.  Mainly because I have not found one worth reviewing in Brussels.    How can this be, I hear you cry, in a country that is reputed to have more Michelin stars per square kilometer than Paris?   The simple answer is, I really should get out more. 

As everywhere, Brussels is falling prey to the whims of the young hipsters.  And where food is concerned, spotty yoof knows nothing.  "Gourmet" burger bars are springing up all over the place.  Cooked mince beef sandwiches, pfffftttt.    This is not fine dining and unworthy of my attention.  I am a laydee of a certain age and standing, and I demand a proper restaurant with the proper cutlery and a handsome young waiter.

I have been on the lookout for new dining companions.  Chiquita Banana recently accompanied me to local favourite the dear old Heydenberg, where our presence brought the the average age of the clientele down to about 80.  Aunty Marianne is a reliable dinner or lunch partner and introduced me to trendy cocktail the Apérol Spritz, or "Irn Bru on the rocks" as I call it.  

My latest victim was long-time Brussels denizen Woodbine Kitty, who mixes the dazzling smile and dress sense of Bet Lynch from Corrie with the cutglass accent and health consciousness of Patsy from Ab Fab.   She'd recently had a Big Birthday (I am sworn to secrecy on numbers, but suffice it to say her membership to 18-40 night at the bingo club has been revoked for quite a while now). 

In July many restaurants in Brussels close for the holidays.  I was really at a loss to know where to take her.  At the eleventh hour I remembered a restaurant I have driven past on many occasions and tucked away in my mental filing cabinet.  Brasseries Georges (why is it plural?) is a Brussels institution, situated on the edge of the Bois de la Cambre on the posh Uccle side.   There is even valet parking, that's how posh it is.  In view of the furry dice and the leopardskin steering wheel cover in Kitty's car, I suggested she park it herself in the street.

Brasseries Georges is also an "écailler", meaning it has a fresh seafood counter and a man in wellies whose sole job is to select and prepare the shellfish.   Unfortunately I have an aversion to molluscs verging on allergy, which has resulted in some spectacular projectile vomiting, once from the top of the grand staircase in Geneva station, so we stuck to the regular menu - which is considerable, and includes fish and meat. The wine list alone reads like War and Peace.   The terrasse was full, despite it being holiday season when many Bruxellois are away, and we were lucky to get a table without a reservation.

 

The young waiter was very charming and professional, in a long white apron.  I was immediately impressed. The bread was real crunchy French baguette, and the butter was in a little dish with a paper lid on, which I think always sets the right tone. 

We both had the champignons farcis au pistou to start.  Pistou is a southern French version of pesto, without the pine nuts, but with double garlic.  They arrived piping hot, and you had to be careful how you cut into them, or a squirt of hot garlicky pesto could take your eye out.  We were already dodging projectiles from the adjoining table, where a young lady was attacking her lobster with an axe.  

I chose a bottle of Alsace white to accompany our food.  I have quite a fondness for Alsatian wines.  Dry, crisp, and served chilled they are the perfect accompaniment for meat, fish or seafood.  Go for the Gewurztraminer if your budget will stretch to it, unfortunately mine didn't so we had a bottle of Pinot Blanc which was perfect.

Kitty ordered the pain de viande, or meatloaf.  This might seem a humble choice given the wide range of the menu, but her few remaining teeth were giving her gyp.  In any case, it looked home-made and quite delicious, served with a rich gravy and a creamy potato mash.

I was nearly lost for choice, with a vast range of my favourite dishes on offer, and dithered between the kidneys in port and the magret of duck, but eventually plumped for the jarret d'agneau, or lamb shank.  This was slow-cooked to perfection and glazed with a sumptuous gravy, served with a delicious gratin dauphinois and crisp green beans.  Perfection in simplicity.   The lamb fell off the bone, it was so perfect. 

Woodbine Kitty is an interesting character, and it was clear she has lived an interesting life, if her tattoos are anything to go by.   We were nattering nineteen to the dozen, it was a miracle I managed to make some mental notes on the food and remembered to take photos.  Anyway, she has a healthy appetite which did not seem diminished by frequent intercourse smoking breaks.

A couple of extra glasses of wine were required before we arrived at the dessert course.   All your Franco-Belgian favourites  -  Dame Blanche, Tarte Tatin, and Moelleux au chocolat.  In the end I couldn't resist the all-you-can-eat chocolate mousse.  It arrived in a soup bowl, and I had to push myself like Chris Froome in the mountain stages of the Tour de France to finish it.   But I ended up with the polka dot jersey, allbeit rather tight around the midships by that stage.   Kitty had the millefeuille au caramel salé, made with perfect crunchy pastry.  I had such an excellent meal that I quite forgot myself and had a double expresso to finish, and a dreadfully sleepless night.

Brasseries Georges is a delightful restaurant, quite huge with several interior spaces, and a vast terrace protected from the traffic by hedges, giving an impression of a French country brasserie.  It's upmarket, but the prices are reasonable for the high quality of food and service.  I have paid as much for far lesser dining experiences.  The downstairs lavatories all in marble are a credit to the establishment.   The clientele is a mix of well-heeled Uccle ladies in Chanel suits and young trustafarians with limited shellfish dissection skills.    This is the sort of place I imagine myself frequenting on a regular basis in retirement, maybe for a monthly Sunday lunch, dressed in my little Chanel suit and pearls,  where I will have my regular table and my regular waiter, hopefully young and muscular to help me down the steps, where I will tuck a 10-euro note in his breast pocket with a lascivious wink.   

 With its impressive wine list, its skilled chefs and especially its team of super professional waiting staff, I finally feel I have found a restaurant worthy of my highest accolade.  Brasseries Georges is now officially Daphne Wayne-Bough Five Stars approved.  

Brasseries Georges
Avenue Winston Churchill 259
1180 Uccle 
Tel:  02 347 2100

GOOD GAME, GOOD GAME

After the extraordinarily long mild and dry spell,  mid November it turned chill and damp, and it was time for a long overdue ladies' lunch and catch-up with Aunty Marianne.  I like going for lunch with Aunty as I get to walk down the lovely Avenue Lambeau, ablaze with colour as the dying cherry trees made their last hurrah for the year.  Aunty greeted me with a choice of gin and tonics - Hendrick's, or Gordon's Crisp Cucumber.  I sipped a bit of each, and decided on the Gordon's which really did taste of cucumber.  We watched with some amusement Othello the cat watching the telly for a while, before heading out to eat.  Aunty used to rather favour Le Lido at the bottom of Avenue Georges Henri by the park gates, but was mortified to find on her last visit that the new management had installed TV SCREENS.   The horror, the horror.  When you dine out with Aunty, you know you'll be going somewhere Proper.    She told me we were going to the Heisenberg, which rather threw me, having recently watched "Breaking Bad".   

The Heydenberg, as it turned out to be called, is a rather staid looking Belgian/French brasserie on the corner of Avenue Heydenberg and rue de Décembre, opposite the De Baere bakery.  On a Sunday lunchtime in November a few tables were occupied by ancients, average age about 95.  Our arrival brought the average age down to about 75.   Aunty was greeted effusively by the nice lady manageress, who is used to seeing Aunty with The Bloke, but was happy to accept me as a substitute, even though I don't flirt as much as he does apparently.

Croustillant de Brie

For starters we both had Croustillant de Brie (Brie deep-fried in filo pastry) drizzled with honey and sprinkled with pine nuts and walnuts. I was delighted to see from the specials blackboard outside the restaurant that the game season had arrived, and the weekend special was Steak de Chevreuil (roe deer steak) with girolle mushrooms and fruits of the forest.    Aunty went for the marcassin (baby wild boar) with similar edible decoration.   Both dishes were served on a white rectangular plates with a quite delicious gamey gravy and liberally sprinkled with redcurrants, raspberries  prunes and figs.   Which reminded me we were nearly out of loo roll. 


The meat was beautifully cooked and quite tender, which surprised me, as my earlier experiences with game, during my time with the late Major, convinced me that venison can be quite tough.  Of course back then we used to buy our Christmas meat from a bloke round the back of the pub who would only take cash, which may have had something to do with it.

Wild boar in seasonal garnish

Roe deer steak with similar seasonal garnish

A half-litre of the house white with the starter didn't last long, and was swiftly followed by a half-litre of the house red.  For pudding I had the individual home-made Tarte Tatin with chantilly and vanilla ice cream (I know - give me a break, it was Sunday) and Aunty had the crepes with vanilla ice cream.   Her Atkins regime has fallen by the wayside recently, and I was lucky to catch her in between bouts of self-discipline.      
Besides the specials, The Heydenberg also does a standard menu of meat, fish, pasta and light dishes such as omelette and croque monsieur, as well as desserts, and children's dishes.  It has big plate glass windows on two sides through which to survey the denizens of Woluwe St Lambert going about their Sunday constitutional to the bakery or the park.

The bill came to almost exactly 100 euros for two.   Not cheap, but not beyond the price range of two Grandes Dames either.   And it's not often you can hand over fifty smackers without a twinge of regret.  It was altogether the most tasty, satisfying meal I have had in a long time (and I can't fault the company either).  The ladies toilets are nothing to write home about, but clean and the lock on the door works.  It is an entirely unpretentious, down-home, quiet family restaurant, with no tellies.  

Those old crones know a good deal when they see one. 

I give the Heisenberg four stars:  like Walter White*, I'll be back.

Brasserie Heydenberg
Avenue Heydenberg 17
1200 Woluwe St Lambert
Open 7 days a week, lunchtime and evenings




*I think that's who I mean.  I'm afraid I fell asleep on the sofa before the end.
 

PUB CRAWLING IN BRUSSELS

When it comes to Brussels pubs I have an aversion to the British style pubs around the Commission and the Parliament which are full of suits during the week and unshaven blokes watching football at weekends.  I much prefer Belgian bars, where each beer has its own glass and you don't have to shout to make yourself heard.  Of course, this is because I am a laydee.  In England I sit in the snug and drink a sweet sherry, and only on Sundays.

It was Gorbals' birthday last week so we ventured out for a midweek libation.  We kicked off at the Muntpunt Grand Café, the spiffy new bar attached to the newly revamped Muntpunt Flemish library (which also incidentally has a good English section). Only in Belgium would a library have a bar.  The area around the Munt/Monnaie opera house (where the Belgian revolution kicked off resulting in Belgium's independence in 1830) has undergone some regeneration recently and from Place Brouckère you cross a wide open concourse with ground-level fountains, past the ambitiously named Champagnothek (formerly the theatre bar) and turn right into Rue Leopold opposite the trendy new Dominican Hotel.  

I got there first and settled in with a Leffe Blonde and a copy of Flanders Today.  It took Gorbals a while to find the door, and after some pawing at the window he disappeared for five minutes and ended up coming in through the library.  He hadn't started celebrating early, it was the fault of the door, which is huge, swings on a central axis and looks like a big plateglass window.  Look for the name of the cafe stencilled with opening times and feel around for the handle.   

The cafe inside is predominantly black, and Cuban rhythms merengué quietly in the background.  So far, so trendy.  The clientele is predominantly Flemish hipsters, and the attachment to the library/cultural centre means occasional live music or a DJ.   The staff are young and efficient, and speak Flemish, English and French. Food is available, a fair selection of well known Belgian beers, hip cocktails such as mojitos, and trendy tea and coffee. One reviewer complained that the "chai" lacked ginger.  Oooh get you.  Wi-fi is of course available, which allowed Gorbals to show off with his new tablet computer.  I was most impressed by the toilets.  This part of the building being less than two months old, the basement loos are spotless, and even smell brand new.  I have to give them the award of Cleanest Bogs in Belgium.    How long they stay that way is another matter.

 Hoppy Loft, Delirium Café

 Jeanneke Pis, Impasse de la Fidelité

We gave Churchill's a miss and moved off down Rue de la Fourche in the direction of the Ilot Sacré, the maze of bars and restaurants just off the Grand’Place.  The mecca of beer lovers is the Delirium Village, a cul de sac where every door leads to a different part of the Delirium franchise.  As it was a Wednesday, the village was merely busy and not overflowing as is the case on weekends.   The absinthe, vodka, tequila and rum bars were empty, but the basement Delirium Cafe and ground floor Tap House were pretty busy and noisy, so after paying our respects to the Jeanneke Pis, we went upstairs to the Hoppy Loft which is where serious beer lovers congregate.  It was quieter and more manly.  The beer menu is worth a  good perusal, but most of the beers on it I had never heard of.  The barman asked us what we liked, to help identify what we should try.  When I said Leffe Blonde or Barbar, he said “Sweet beers, huh?  We don’t sell them here.  This is a bitter bar.”  He recommended a Witkap Pater Tripel for me, and Gorbals had already decided on a Duvel Tripel.  These beers are not cheap – between 3.50 and 5.00 euros a pop – so we just had the one and amused ourselves reading the beer signs all over the walls.  

 La Réserve

Our third and final stop was La Réserve, a discreet (male) gay bar in Petite Rue au Beurre, behind St Nicholas’ Church, the polar opposite of the Hoppy Loft.  The tinted lead-paned windows give the place an air of an ancient estaminet.  Inside it is cosy and warm, and most importantly safe and unexposed to the street.  I was the only woman, but that doesn’t bother me at my time of life, and patently didn’t bother the punters.  We had a couple of Jupilers in there before heading off to the metro via the chip shop.

Other favourite watering holes: 

 Au Laboureur

Au Laboureur is a traditional bar down in the Sainte-Catherine district where the clientele is predominantly francophone, a nice mixture of age groups, and visibly regulars.  In summer the terrace is always full.  

                                                              Le Monk - before

                                                                          Le Monk - after

 Le Monk in rue Sainte Catherine has reopened but is nothing like its former bustling, smoky incarnation.  On the up side, you can now get served within an hour.   Orval costs 4 euros which is a bit steep. The huge smoking room at the back has been turned into a restaurant serving only SPAGHETTI (??), and smokers must now go outside.  Still has live music, and a spiffy website, but has lost some atmosphere in the process.

New Plasky  on Square Eugène Plasky in Schaerbeek is one of my new locals.  It's quiet, has a fair selection of beers and an impressive selection of whiskies, and has a nice local vibe.  Never packed, you're always served within two minutes of sitting down.   There's an impressive selection of magazines (many of them petrolhead oriented) and French BD's for the kids (and Gorbals).  The sort of place a laydee like moiself can go in on her own and not feel out of place or be molested.   Unlike some places around Schuman I could name.