ASHES TO ASHES

Monday is not a usual night for going out and tying one on.  However, this Monday was a bit special.  We had just said a sad farewell to our friend Woodbine Kitty, snatched away in the prime of life, and in that way you do when you have just emerged from a funeral, started knocking the booze back like there was no tomorrow.  It's what she would have wanted. 

Aunty M split off after the funeral to take Shanghai Lil to the airport, so I drove Ozzy Eastbourne and his good lady Mavis, as well as Gorbals, through tempestuous rain and wind to Kitty's house where a full-scale rock & roll wake was already under way.  We stayed long enough to pay our respects and have a beer but not long enough to become intoxicated by the ritual aromatic smoke being emitted by Kitty's friends and family, and repaired to the Cuve à Bière pub near Aunty M's house.  The Eastbournes have recently retired to the south of France and hit the pastis like two steel pétanque balls crashing into the cochonnet simultaneously from opposite directions.

When Aunty M and The Bloke arrived we downed a few more of Belgium's finest, which was the cue for the enterprising Mamadou, a charming itinerant entrepreneur with the sales skills of whoever first sold fridges to eskimos, to home in on our table like a particularly determined wasp.  Out of his copious carrier bags he pulled an endless stream of merchandise starting with warm cashmere-looking scarves.  Aunty M knows him of old, in fact I think she does most of her shopping from him in the pub.  She was already fingering the scarves when he produced a tray of bling, a raft of branded watches from the noble houses of Cucci, Channel and Relox, and a battery-powered desk lamp, the better to see what we were going to buy, which was also for sale.  The bar staff did not bat an eyelid, Mamadou had probably done his preparatory palm-greasing there.

I recalled a Christmas Eve, possibly only just over a year before, in another nearby drinking establishment, where I had purchased from just such an African gentleman a last-minute present for Woodbine Kitty, which was a portable disco lamp.  She totally loved it and took it to music festivals for illuminating her tent.  I wondered if it was Mamadou who sold it to me.  Quite possible.  The man would ace "Dragon's Den" and the Dragons would all go home with warm scarves and new watches, and possibly a disco lamp. He has the most lovely smile and manners, shakes hands with all his customers on arrival and on departure and ignores your protestations with a charming but practised insouciance.  He is also hard as nails, once he's told you the price he will permit you to beat him down by a maximum of two euros.   Once the bling appeared I was like a magpie hypnotized by the shiny things.  We ended up with new scarves and two sparkly rings.  I think Aunty Em and I are now engaged, The Bloke didn't seem to mind despite her already sporting his (real diamonds) engagement ring. 

Having finally persuaded Mamadou we were not in the market for sweatshirts or watches, we then repaired to a local Italian eatery, "Mare e Monti".   A continuous stream of red and white wine was ordered.  At this point photographing the food was out of the question, steady camera hands were not in abundance and there was too much chatting and reminiscing (and drinking) going on.  Gorbals ordered his standby Carbonara and ate half of it.  I ordered the pizza of the day and ate half of it.  Aunty M and the Eastbournes had starters followed by main courses.  Don't ask me what.  I'm afraid as restaurant reviews go I am going to have to rely on hazy memories of jokey waiters and nice bread rolls.  I think it was all very good.  I'd have to go back and not drink so much next time.  The only reason I know Mavis had Vitello tonnato was because she left half of it and we took all the doggy bags home. 

I am sad that I won't have any more raucous nights out like that with Kitty.  But on the other hand, if it requires someone to leave the building in order to generate such merriment, I'd rather keep my friends in this world and laugh a bit more quietly.  

Some of Mamadou's wares

Mare & Monti

Woodbine Kitty, as featured in my review of Brasseries Georges from July 2017

• Ristorante Pizzeria Mare e Monti
  Avenue des Cerisiers 198
  1200 Woluwe-St-Lambert
• +32 2 772 67 33

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.  

LA TRUFFE NOIRE

In these apocalyptic times of economic meltdown when we are facing a recession alongside which the Great Depression of 1928 will look like a momentary shortage of cash, it is courageous - some would even say reckless - to set off to eat truffles in a Michelin-starred restaurant. But someone's got to do it, so Scouse Doris and I dusted off the chauffeur and set off for dinner at La Truffe Noire.

Just entering La Truffe Noire is a special experience, ascending the steps of the elegant old townhouse through the imposing cast iron gates, into a world of sheer opulent luxury. The tables in the sumptuously carpeted ground floor dining room are well spaced and beautifully dressed. Not a glass or a spoon out of place. The colours are neutral - beige, cream, dark brown, the colours of truffles in fact. We had a table in the middle of the room where we could observe everything, and were well impressed by the provision of a small table for our handbags. It's such attention to detail which makes the difference between a good restaurant and a really special one, and every detail at La Truffe Noire has been carefully considered and beautifully executed.

Luigi Ciciriello, owner and "Maitre de maison", gave us a potted history of the restaurant which he opened in 1988 and has run single handedly ever since with his small team of highly trained staff. He sources his truffles from Italy, Croatia and the south of France, where the precious tuber melanosporum is traded with as much drama and excitement as oil or diamonds. At the present time, white truffles are trading at around 3,000 euros a kilo. Luigi, like many top class restaurateurs, negotiates the price with his supplier at the beginning of the season for the large amount of truffles he purchases throughout the year. The customers inhale the voluptuous fumes with reverence.

A flight of amuse-bouches, or appetizers, was placed in front of us, consisting of a miniature pumpkin teacake, a chiffony espuma de perdreau et cèpes au riz soufflé, and a bijou crème brulée salé-sucré de foie gras aux pignons de pin, to whet our appetites while we perused the menu. The "menu privilège" which was our choice costs a stonking 225 euros a head, but trust me, you'll remember everything you ate. There is a more reasonable 50-euro menu available at lunch and dinner, although you will have to pay extra for truffles (10 to 20 euros per shaving), and with wine, you'll be lucky to get out for less than 120 euros a head. But if luxury came cheap, it wouldn't be luxury now, would it?

On the wine list is a Chateau Pétrus Cru Hors Classe 1982 at 3,700 euros which made our eyes water a bit. But there are a number of affordable wines on the two impressive wine lists – one French, one not - starting at around the 40 euro mark. We opted for a different wine with each dish, and the sommelier, who clearly knows his stuff, rose to the challenge admirably. He appeared, smiling, with the first of our wines, a glass of something very crisp and white from the Ile de Porquerolles in the south of France. The wine married perfectly with our first course, which was a beef carpaccio dressed at the table by Luigi himself. Two rectangular plates covered with paper thin slices of almost translucent Belgian Bleu des Prés beef were bathed in a truffle oil dressing, mixed by hand for each table, finished off by a generous shaving of aged parmesan and fresh white truffles, and presented with a flourish in a heady waft of truffle aroma.

Luigi presents the truffles to each client on arrival, and one is invited to poke one's nose into the glass jars and breathe deeply. The perfume of truffles is unique. I cannot describe it. Peter Mayle has said it is somewhere between meat and mushroom. If you have never tasted truffles, it is one of those 101 things to do before you die. The flavour is all in the aroma, you taste it through your nose ; the texture is firmer than a mushroom but softer than a nut, somewhat akin to a pistachio. Truffles cannot be farmed, hence their rarity and astronomic price, but the chemical ingredients have been identified and the aroma can be reproduced synthetically in truffle oil. A valuable bit of advice: buy truffle oil in the smallest possible quantity, since the aroma will disappear after a while.

Next followed a ravioli farci de truffes aux 3 céléris. Three wafer-thin ravioli containing slivers of black truffle, basking in a nage or soup made from duck stock and fresh cream, decorated with a few ultra thin sticks of lightly-poached baby celery heart. The marriage of flavours worked perfectly. Doris said the nage tasted like the best mushroom soup in the world. The sommelier brought us a glass of Slovenian Renski Rizling, which was surprisingly good. Slightly fruitier than the Porquerolles, it set the ravioli off to perfection. I was impressed to see that wines from "New Europe" are finally being treated seriously.

Sound a fanfare for for the signature dish - "La Croque au Sel" - a whole 40g Périgord truffle (about the size of a small Brussels sprout) cooked in a rich sauce périgourdine, which sat in its own small detachable bowl in the middle of a specially handmade terracotta dish commissioned specially for the restaurant from a local potter, on which were laid out a row of tiny slices of melba toast, a small bowl of fleur de sel and a quenelle of creamy white truffle butter. Luigi demonstrated how to eat it, placing a sliver of butter on a piece of toast, then adding a tiny piece of truffle in its unctuous sauce, and sprinkling a few grains of fleur de sel on top before popping it into your mouth, closing your eyes and ascending to heaven. The wine served with this was a Tuscan Montechiaro which again went perfectly with the dish. All the wines are selected personally by Luigi and supplied direct from the growers. The rich Périgourdine sauce with a hint of Madeira was positively sinful.

Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, God save the cheese. Swiss Tete de Moine shaved paper-thin and fashioned into exquisite flowers, drizzled with honey and – I kid you not - flakes of Cohiba tobacco (Doris had just given up the weed but made an exception for this) with some truffled Brillat-Savarin. A witty touch, since it was the great French food writer Brillat-Savarin who dubbed the knobbly black fungi "Diamonds of the kitchen".

We tried to keep the orgasmic moaning down as we ate, and watched the Maestro work the room. In between dressing carpaccios of beef or salmon, thrusting customers' noses into the jars of truffles, meeting and greeting and keeping a gimlet eye on his irreproachable staff, he found time to stop and chat at length with each table in English, French, Italian or Japanese. No wonder he has "The Magician" inscribed on his office door.

On the first floor is a cool smoking room, well ventilated and furnished with masculine leather sofas, and next door a private dining room for up to 20 guests. If you're in charge of the office Christmas party this year, bear in mind that group menus start at 139 euros a head including wine. This is where the likes of Prince Felipe of Spain, Prince Charles, President Barroso, and the great and the good have dined. It is also where Luigi keeps his "museum" of leather-bound wine lists dating back to the restaurant's beginnings in 1988, each one decorated by hand by a different artist. Luigi is a discerning patron of the arts as can be seen from the various paintings and sculptures dotted throughout the restaurant, many of them on a truffle theme. This is obviously so much more than a restaurant to him.

The two chefs Aziz Bhatti and Erik Lindelauf have been with Luigi almost since the beginning. Even if you choose to pass on truffles, the cuisine stands on merit alone and would still richly deserve the Michelin star which was awarded last year. Everything is made by hand, down to the mini bread rolls flavoured with tomato and rosemary. The waiting staff of three charming young men (most appreciated by two ladies of a certain age) are faultless, discreet, appearing just at the right moment and melting back into the carpet like ghosts. They discreetly watch every table, ready to spring to your assistance if you require anything.

Dessert was a duo of apple crème brulée studded with truffles, and a scoop of home made vanilla ice cream also containing truffles. I can't in all honesty say the truffles added anything to the dessert beyond novelty value, but they are the whole raison d'etre of the restaurant and Luigi would put them in the coffee if he could. Petits fours were served with jasmine tea and a glass of Frangelico, Doris's favourite liqueur, from the well stocked bar.

L'Atelier de la Truffe Noire is the more democratically priced concept store and restaurant at 300 avenue Louise, where you can sample 3, 4 or 5 courses for between 35 and 95 euros, or even have the chef come round and prepare your meal at home. On the restaurant's smart trilingual website Luigi runs competitions for his regular customers, with fabulous prizes, ranging from a weekend in a Tuscan vineyard or in champagne country at the wheel of a Maserati, to a week's holiday in Slovenia or Croatia.

From the truffle-themed napkins to the unique tableware, La Truffe Noire bears testimony to the passion and dedication of Luigi Ciciriello. Each evening's service is a performance. I imagine his shoulders drooping when the last customer has gone. To quote the Maestro: "It's not a restaurant, it's a theatre. And a love affair."

Indulge yourself while you still can. The end is nigh.

La Truffe Noire

Boulevard de la Cambre 12

1000 Brussels

Tel : 02 640 44 22

http :www.truffenoire.com

IL PICCOLO PADRINO

Il Piccolo Padrino and its listed wall

There are a number of Italian pizza joints down avenue Georges Henri, and I thought I'd tried them all, but it turned out I was wrong. Il Piccolo Padrino on the corner of rue Prekelinden is a cut above the others. You can't miss it, it's the one with the very old original advert painted on the wall, which dates from 1925 and used to alert passers-by to the pharmacy underneath. The advertisement was listed in 2004.

The seasonal menu boasted that "la saison des cèpes" had arrived. "Oooooh cèpes!" cried Scouse Doris and Rupert Posh-Geordie in unison. Cèpes, as you will know, are a type of mushroom, known variously as porcini, boletus edulis, penny buns or, in remoter parts of the north-east "squirrel's bread". The specials board boasted "escalope aux cèpes" and some other dishes featuring the famed fungus.

I often order veal in Italian restaurants as you can't find it anywhere else. Rupert, an exiled Prince of Northumbria, shares my love of the tender calf meat. Despite having grown up in various royal palaces across Europe, he is not squeamish about eating the dear little calves with their big eyes. In perfectly slurred Italian he ordered "escalope di vitello ai porcini", and I ordered a classic escalope milanese. His came swimming in rich gravy adorned with the prized fungus and roasted cherry tomatoes, and mine was lightly fried in golden breadcrumbs and served with the traditional lemon and a bit of salad on the side, with a separate bowl of spaghetti in tomato sauce. Doris went for tagliolini aux cèpes, and we washed it all down with a litre carafe of house red. The cèpes were delicious, quite sweet and tender. The mushroom season is starting, and I resolved to dig out my favourite mushroom recipes for the colder weather.

Squirrel's bread - boletus - porcini - cèpes - penny buns

The Padrino is quite a smart modern restaurant, no murals of Vesuvius or Venetian gondolas here thank you very much. I would only mark it down on two things: (a) the toilets, which were clean but very basic; and (b) the panna cotta. I did ask - as I always do - if the panna cotta is home made, and they replied - as they always do - "of course!" I do believe their panna cotta was home made, however it was not really a panna cotta. The chef had mixed stiffened egg whites in and turned it into a panna cotta flavoured mousse. It was very nice, but it wasn't a panna cotta, which should have a consistency somewhere between jelly and blancmange. Next time I'll go for the tiramisu.

They offer a wide selection of pizza, to eat in or take away.

Damage, around 30 euro a head, without starters.

Il Piccolo Padrino
350 avenue Georges Henri
1200 Woluwe St LambertTél: 02 736 50 01

BREAKFAST IN AMERICA

Consistently good: Margaritas

A friend of mine once gave me his analysis on why Americans were all neurotic.

"You go to a restaurant, and they give you a great big laminated menu with colour photographs. Every item on it has a whole paragraph of descriptive along the lines of: try our succulent quarter-pounder, freshly made with a generous four ounces of prime ground beef from Angus cattle fed on the lush grasslands of North Dakota, seasoned with Tahitian rock salt and cracked black pepper from the slopes of Mount Popocatapetl, lovingly barbecued over a hickory-wood charcoal fire and laid on a bed of shredded iceberg lettuce and shavings of white salad onion fresh from our organic kitchen garden, layered with thin slices of juicy plum tomato flown in this morning from Italy, and lightly drizzled with homemade low-cholesterol mayonnaise made personally by our Chef , all of this encased in a warm sesame bun and served to you courteously by our staff."


"It takes you 20 minutes to read the menu, and another 20 minutes to decide what you want.


"And when you get your food, it's just a burger.


"That's why Americans are all in therapy - they're all suffering from chronic disappointment."

---------------------------------------------------------------------



I have spent most of last month travelling in America, and did my best to eat American wherever possible. This only involved a burger once, not counting the MuckDonalds I had one night because everything else was closed (in Vegas! 24/7 my eye).

Farmers Market in LA, early morning

I have always wanted to say the immortal words: "Pastrami on rye and hold the mayo!" I finally got my chance in Los Angeles, not at one of the famous Jewish delis down on West Pico but at Phil's Deli in the Farmers Market. The "small" size had "only" 400 grammes of beef - that's about a pound. I'd always thought pastrami was an Italian speciality but it is in fact Jewish, a prime side of beef seasoned in brine and then steamed until the meat is so tender it melts in your mouth. Also known as a salt beef sandwich, in Jewish delis it is often served with a large dill pickle. Mine was relatively unadorned, served in plain white rye bread and washed down with a Martinelli's apple juice in an apple-shaped bottle.

San Francisco was the only place where I chose to eat "foreign" - but Chinatown is a must, and the Chinese community have been there so long that San Francisco Chinese is probably a cuisine in its own right by now, rather like Scottish-Indian. I happened upon the Far East Cafe on Grant, which is a cavernous high-ceilinged room with the full-on look of old Shanghai - red paint, gilt, ornate heavy wooden furniture, and dragons. It has been in operation since 1920. Down one side of the room are cosy little booths with carved wooden swing doors, for a tete-a-tete or a discreet opium deal. The service is brisk and unsmiling, but at least they don't interrupt you three times while you're eating with "Everything OK with you guys?". I had won ton soup, followed by Peking baby ribs with fried rice, and a pot of green tea. I could eat in there every day.

Cioppino: Italian dish invented in San Francisco

Dungeness crab down on Fisherman's Wharf is another San Francisco classic. A local speciality is cioppino, a sort of fish stew but which involves molluscs so was off limits for my delicate stomach. I had a bad cold, so maybe that's why the crab cakes didn't taste of anything. I was in one of the Italian restaurants on Jefferson Street - it could have been Alioto's, or Tarantino's, or Scoma's, I don't know, they're all Italian and all serve crab. I ordered a glass of white Zinfandel to go with my meal. The waitress served me a glass of rosé. I pointed out that I had ordered a WHITE Zinfandel. That is a White Zinfandel, she said. But it's pink, I said. She went away and the manager came back to explain to me that a White Zinfandel is in fact a rosé wine. Whatever. In Starbuck's if you want a small latte, you have to ask for a TALL latte. Honestly, sometimes it's like being in a foreign country.


The third in my trio of San Francisco culinary classics is John's Grill. This is one of the settings in Dashiell Hammett's "The Maltese Falcon" and is, fittingly, the HQ of the San Francisco Dashiell Hammett Society. The interior is classic American grill room with photos of all the famous patrons on the walls. The food is fairly ordinary - not bad, but not exciting. I had seafood cannelloni which was slightly underwhelming and not cheap.

The patio of the La Fonda

Moving on to New Mexico, this was a risky place for a dame with a delicate palate. In Santa Fe I primed my lips with a margarita at the elegant La Fonda Inn. The origins of this hotel are fascinating, it was one of the original Harvey Inns which inspired the movie "The Harvey Girls" starring Judy Garland. I was invited to taste tamales with mole sauce at Café Pasqual's in Santa Fe. I didn't like either much. Tamales are made with maize flour, and maize, as anyone who has lived in Africa will tell you, is a very tasteless cereal. Mexican food seems to be either fiery hot or completely bland, with no subtlety of flavours in between. Although it is not true, as Billy Connolly contends, that all Mexican dishes are the same, only folded differently (see photos - although if you can tell a burrito from an enchilada you must be a local). At The Alley Inn in Taos I liked the fish and chicken tacos, but the chicken tostada at the Guadalajara Grill, also in Taos, was quite blah. Back in Santa Fe, Cowgirl is a fun place to eat, and I demolished a whole side of BBQ ribs to even my surprise.

Tacos (2)

Enchilada

Burrito

American breakfasts require a whole menu to themselves, and I tried to sample every type of breakfast from bagels to eggs Benedict, leaving out waffles as I live in Belgium and knew they wouldn't be up to scratch. Starbucks was just confusing - there's a whole system there and if you don't know it you look like a twit. The girl took my order and then asked me my name. "My name??" I repeated, baffled. "Yes, you pick up your order at the other counter down there, so we call out your name when it's ready," she explained patiently, as if talking to a child.

I tried pancakes, thinking they would be something like the pancakes here, which are shop bought but then cooked gently in butter. When they arrived, there was a stack of three bogstandard Scotch pancakes, barely warmed out of the packet, stuck together with confectioner's cream and covered in icing sugar, with blueberries and strawberries and a jug of maple syrup. The maple syrup proved necessary as they were so dry. It looked pretty but was a heart attack on a plate.

Comes with a complimentary defibbrilator

In San Francisco there is a chain of diners called Lori's which are replicas of the traditional 1950's diner, with red leather bar stools, booths, lots of chrome, and staff in perky little white hats. Well at least it's not called "Happy Days". I went to one to try the "famous Lori's French toast" which sounded delicious, but when it arrived was just a thick slice of industrial brioche soaked in egg and milk and shoved under the grill, served covered in icing sugar. The Americans seem to think food is something shameful to be hidden by sauces, syrups, sugar, anything to disguise the flavour, or lack of one.

In several places I ordered just a toasted bagel or simple eggs over easy and bacon, which they do very well. They also top your coffee up as many times as you like. I had to try Eggs Benedict once, and did so in a posh hotel in Las Vegas. The eggs were fine, but once I'd scraped off the heavy layer of chilli-spiced Hollandaise sauce I found they were sitting on a thick gammon steak which itself was sitting on a couple of English muffins. With freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee it turned out to be a $30 breakfast, but as I'd been too busy to treat myself to a decent dinner in Vegas, and had a long afternoon at LAX airport in view followed by an overnight flight, it kept me going till England, where I had the first decent cup of tea I'd had in three weeks.

Eggs Benedict

Vegas is full of swanky empty restaurants. Mon Ami Gabi at the Paris always seemed to be full, and I would guess requires advance booking. But you don't need to be a high roller to get a good meal in Vegas. The Hawaiian Market has a number of places to eat, including a very pleasant open-air Mexican cantina where you can eat breakfast, lunch or dinner, or just sit and sip a frozen margarita or a Corona. The Fashion Show shopping mall has a food court on the 1st floor (sorry, 2nd floor over there) which is not top quality but you can eat quick and cheap and choose from about 10 different dining options. The Chinese wasn't bad. House of Blues in the Mandalay Bay resort has a good Southern menu, and I can recomment the chicken gumbo as well as the music.

I can also recommend the margaritas.

FINE FINNAN HADDIE

Scotland produces some of the best meat and fish in the UK, not to mention their biggest export, whisky. Haggis, Cullen skink, Athol Brose, Finnan haddie and Arbroath Smokies are all exclusively Scottish dishes, the last of which have even obtained PDO status. I remember seeing a roomfull of French food buyers reduced to silent admiration once at a Scottish food show in Paris. And yet what do they advertise to the rest of the UK? Deep-fried Mars bars, fish suppers, Scotch pies, Irn Bru. You'd think they didn't want the English to visit.

I wouldn't recommend eating on Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow. A curry house is almost a pilgrimage when you learn that chicken tikka masala was invented in this city - but The Indian Gallery was really slightly below average, despite a pleasant corner location with big windows through which I observed the young gels (barely legal some of them) going uptown for a night out in the skimpiest of outfits. If the weather hadn't been so inclement I would have ventured towards Kelvinside and the shrine of the chicken tikka masala, the Shish Mahal. Along with Andy Warhol, Ali Ahmed Aslam has used a can of soup to attain a kind of immortality.

I identified what has to be the worst Chinese restaurant in Scotland, and possibly in the UK. There was little attempt at decor, ancient or modern, and the staff barely spoke English. The waitress was a surly little thing who blew her nose loudly while waiting for a customer's order then put the snotty rag back in her waistcoat pocket where it stayed all evening. Despite the fact that only 3 of the 30-odd tables were occupied, they rushed the customers as if there were 3 coach parties coming in any minute. There was no wine by the glass, she said unapologetically. She plonked a bottle of apple juice down unopened on my table with a glass and walked away again. The poor people at the next table were trying to get her attention, but she was too busy round the corner chatting to the manageress. The crispy duck dishes were available as half or whole ducks. I asked if I could have a quarter (quite common practice in most Chinese restaurants). She shouted at me that I could have a quarter of Peking duck but not of crispy duck. If anyone would like to explain the difference, please feel free. To be fair, the quarter of duck came with a double helping of microwaved pancakes plonked on a plate which was stuck on top of a platewarmer. They had obviously never seen bamboo steamers or chopsticks. I wondered which part of China these people were from. The Chinese equivalent of Rochdale, I shouldn't wonder. I ate my meal quickly, whilst watching some young ladies smoking and drinking beer out of bottles in the doorway of a sports bar opposite. Just so that you don't make the same mistake as me, avoid the Jade Garden at 303 Sauchiehall Street, on the corner of Holland Street.

"blas" (with a small b), right opposite the Kelvingrove Art Gallery in the posh West End, is a wee gem. They serve traditional Scottish fare in a modern way. Of course I could not resist ordering the haggis. The girl didn't even burst out laughing. "Och no, we eat it too ... sometimes" she said. It was served as a timbale, with the tatties on the bottom, a layer of neeps in the middle and the haggis (from Cockburn's of Dingwall) on top, surrounded by a swirl of tasty gravy. Washed down by a glass of chilled Sauvignon, it was delicious. But the dessert was what made me nearly do a Meg Ryan. Sticky toffee pudding in caramel sauce with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. The pudding was dark and very moist, I might go so far as to say saturated, and married perfectly with the creamy luxury vanilla ice cream, made by Mackie's of Aberdeen. The sauce, moreover, was ... well, suffice it to say I told the gel to convey to Chef that he had made an old woman very happy.

The revamped East end of Glasgow has been renamed the "Merchant City", and is chock full of trendy, if not always good, restaurants and bars. It's a regeneration along the lines of London's East End, with old warehouse conversions and covered markets turned into continental style brasseries. At QUA in Ingram Street, I had one of the best pizzas I have ever eaten. The restaurant is owned by one of Glasgow's oldest Italian catering families, of which there are a fair few.

Nardini's of Largs: sky pretty accurate

Out on the Ayrshire coast in Largs, where I was staying, there is only one name. Nardini's. "Scotland's most famous ice cream parlour" has expanded into a small empire, and it is only a matter of time before the town is renamed Nardiniville. They have four outlets - the main parlour which now incorporates a cake shop and a proper pizza/pasta restaurant; The Green Shutters on the sea front by Bath Street; Nardini's at The Moorings right by the ferry, and next door to it Dolci Nardini the cakeshop. Frankly the weather was not conducive to sampling ice cream, so I did not venture into any of the Nardini establishments, but purchased a small tub of ice cream to taste. It was all right, but frankly not a patch on Berthillon of the Ile St Louis in Paris.

Rothesay - the main drag

Rothesay, the main town on the Isle of Bute, does not offer a huge choice. It is very run down and many store fronts are boarded up, as holidaymakers have abandoned the isles for the guaranteed sunshine and cheap drinks of Ayia Napa and suchlike. Shame. There are two Zavaroni establishments on the front - neither of them particularly upmarket, but the name is memorable for knowing that this is the family of Lena Zavaroni, a talented singer who succumbed to anorexia nervosa. It makes you wonder if growing up in a chip shop might have anything to do with it. In view of the tragedy of Scotland's greatest belter since Lulu, we thought a bag of chips might be tasteless, in more ways than one, so opted for the so-called "award-winning" Galley Restaurant (they never name the award do they?) in the "Discovery Centre" (formerly the winter garden) on the Esplanade with its panoramic view of the bay.

The Winter Gardens, Rothesay

It was empty, but clean and the manageress was as welcoming as she could be while sorting through her laundry. We weren't too optimistic about the quality of the food, and I played it safe with a macaroni cheese, while Maroon interrogated the waitress about the origin of the fish and chips. All local, she assured him. I cast an eye out over the harbour, visibly lacking in fishing boats or paraphernalia thereof. It was not, apparently, very good. Had we done our homework we could have eaten in one of any number of good restaurants which are hidden away on the island. The Russian Tavern at Port Bannatyne will be my choice if I ever go back, which is highly unlikely.




Edinburgh was in full festival mode and I was swanning about with Old Uncle Edinburgh himself, comedian Arthur Smith. He took me for lunch at the North Bridge Brasserie in the boutique Scotsman Hotel. Very nice.



Our waiter was French - always a good sign. I followed Arthur's lead, as behoves a celeb with a busy schedule, as I had another appointment that afternoon. We had two starters each - he went for the gazpacho, and I had the terrine of pork, which was a bit like rillettes or potted meat, with pear chutney, and we both had the duck and endive salad as well. The restaurant is secluded and expensively cushioned from all the festival madness outside. Later I went for a drink at The Dome on George Street. This former Royal Bank of Scotland building is simply choc-full of gorgeous gorgeousness. As the MC in "Cabaret" might say - even ze toilets are beoooodifull. Edinburgh is full of luxurious places, I may well return.




As for that mysterious combination, the "full Scottish breakfast", there was no sign of porridge at the Novotel. The self-service buffet was mobbed by coach parties who ate fruit salad and bacon and eggs off the same plate. Only when the various McLintocks, Murrays and Campbells of Toronto, Brisbane and Hoboken respectively had gone off on their "roots" coach tours could I get near the dregs they had left in their wake. Cereal, pastries. Eggs, bacon, sausage, beans ... so far, so generic British. Black pudding on Sunday ... big deal. No porridge. No oatcakes. No finnan haddie or kippers. Whit kinda fuell Scottish ye call thish?

The Indian Gallery
450 Sauchiehall St
Glasgow
Tel: 0141 332 3355

Shish Mahal
66-68 Park Rd
Glasgow G4 9JF
Tel: 0141 334 1057

The Jade Garden (information given only as a warning)
303 Sauchiehall Street
Glasgow
(Telephone not necessary)


blas
1397 Argyle Street
Kelvingrove
Glasgow G3 8AN
Tel: 0141 357 4328

QUA
68 Ingram Street
Glasgow G1
Tel: 0845 8338869

North Bridge Brasserie
20 North Bridge
Edinburgh EH1 1YT
Tel: +44 (0)131 556 5565

The Dome
14 George Street Edinburgh EH2 2PF
Tel: 0131 624 8624

IL VESUVIO

Whit weekend was hot and sunny and Brussels was awash with free entertainment: the Fete de l'Iris, the Etterbeek medieval market, it was all going off. Sadly I was tied up with feathering my new nest, so by the time I made it down to Etterbeek on Whit Monday it was, of course, all gone. Story of my life. Boats I have Missed, vol. 23.

Anyway, being a resilient soul who pulls victory from the jaws of defeat, I espied on my fruitless journey an agreeable Italian restaurant with a terrace that was full of happy diners basking in the sun. I decided to rest my weary Birkenstocks and Do Lunch.

Il Vesuvio is a bustling little family-run trattoria situated a stone's throw from La Chasse. That's a name that always makes me snigger, meaning "the hunt" but also "the flush", as in loo. Tirer la chasse = to pull the chain. Anyway, it's on the main drag of Avenue des Casernes but set back just enough that you don't have to breathe in exhaust fumes with your food. The generous canopy will save you from sunstroke too.

There is a fine selection of pizzas at reasonable prices, but as it was a holiday weekend I felt flush (geddit?) and ordered the grilled sole, which came served with fries and a braised endive. I washed it down with a quarter carafe of the house white and happily observed the good citizens of Etterbeek while trying to figure out where I was on the de Rouck street guide. The fish was very nicely cooked, although the fries were a tad McDonalds.

I have two criteria for judging Italian restaurants. Firstly, they must serve veal as well as pizza. And secondly, they must offer panna cotta on the dessert menu. Il Vesuvio did both. The panna cotta came with a choice of topping: I had mine with coffee liqueur. I can't tell you. It was the most sublime, creamy, heavenly thing I have had in my mouth since Christmas. (Don't ask) I would go back there just for the panna cotta.

The waiters are brisk, flirty and efficient in that way Italians are. My waiter must have been all of 17. And I think you all know how I like a young man. He had a cheeky grin, which widened still further when I told him the panna cotta was exquisite. "Home made, of course?" I added. He looked at me with arms outstretched: "Ma certamente, Signora! La mamma!"

Grilled sole doesn't come cheap, and at 19 euros it accounted for two-thirds of my total bill. But the pizzas are pretty reasonable (10-12 euros) so you could count around 25 euros for a standard pizza-wine-dessert meal.

Unfortunately Il Vesuvio is not open for weekend lunch or Sunday evening. But on a warm weekday or Saturday evening, or even a cold one (the interior looked cosy and welcoming) it is worth a visit. Or if you are lucky enough to have a day off during the week. The pizzas looked and smelled great, and the place was packed with regulars, so probably a good idea to book on a Saturday night.

But do remember to save room for the panna cotta. A little taste of heaven.





Il Vesuvio
Rue Mont-du-Chene 1
(corner of Avenue des Casernes)
1040 Etterbeek
Tel: 02 649 1640

PIZZERIA PARADISO (now ceased trading)

Last Saturday night I took the Hornblowers out for a meal, as they are finally leaving Brussels and going to vegetate in deepest Bucks. They arrived with their small grand-daughters Hermione and Hepzibah, who are very well behaved in restaurants. Most of the time. They arrived more or less on time, only because I had phoned ahead and woken Desmond up. The narcolepsy isn't getting any better. Once he fell asleep in the middle of a conversation with Harold. Mind you, who hasn't?
We met at the Pizzeria Paradiso, on Museumlaan in Tervuren, which I think is one of the best Italian restaurants in Brussels. Pity it is right out in the English ghetto on the far eastern edge of the city. The food is scrumptious, and the service is always friendly and efficient. The restaurant was packed with diners, which speaks for itself. The owner-waiters speak at least four languages fluently - French, Flemish, English and Italian - and probably a few more besides, and are brilliant with children. And with Desmond.
To start, Desmond ordered a tuna carpaccio which looked absolutely mouthwatering. I tried a little bit - it was scrumptioso, wafer-thin slivers of fresh tuna drizzled with truffle, I mean twuffle, oil. I have had beef carpaccio but will certainly try tuna carpaccio next time. Vi had calamari fritti, and I had garlic prawns - one of the nice things about being single, you can eat what you want and the pillow won't complain - and was served a dish with six huge butterfly prawns sitting in a pool of melted garlic butter. Hermione and Hepzibah had home made tomato soup which was delicious, if unadventurous. But they are only 5 and 7. For main courses, the children shared a pizza carbonara, Vi had tagliatelle in a cream sauce, Desmond had a huge thin-crust pizza, and I had Saltimbocca alla Romana, delicious veal escalopes with ham and cheese in a very tasty sauce, and a plate of chips on the side which were more for the children than for me. Oh and two litres of red wine, most of which Desmond and I managed to dispose of with ease.
The Hornblower family have the appetites of birds. Vultures. Desserts were ordered - "Dames Blanches" for Hermione and the grandparents (vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce). Hepzibah was doing an Elton, didn't like any of the desserts on offer, so the waiter-boss brought her a "surprise" which she didn't like either. I would have liked a home-made panna cotta, but the boss said I needed to order it in advance, so instead I had a chocolate mousse which, like everything at Paradiso, was fait maison. A coffee and some complimentary amarettos, and we rolled out of the restaurant sighing and patting our tummies.