BIJ DEN BOER & LA ROUE D'OR

Every year, just before Christmas, Vera Slapp and Cyril arrive for a few days on Eurostar. Apart from doing the Christmas markets, they do a commendable amount of drinking and eating. And drinking. Especially mulled wine, or vin chaud. Cyril, poor dear, is a bit hard of hearing, and doesn’t speak any French. Hence the warming libation is now known as a banjo. I did try and introduce them to flavoured genever, but gave up when Cyril kept asking me who was Jennifer. Deaf sod.

Bij den Boer is a fairly recent addition to the fish restaurants on the Quai aux Briques. The €25 four-course menu is extremely good value. The waiters are nice young men, to which Vera Slapp is also quite partial. I don’t think our waiter was used to being called “darling” before the main course, but he took it in good part and didn’t even seem to mind having his bottom pinched. Not the first time, at least.

The menu (which changes every week) consisted of a delicious home-made fish soup, followed by potted grey shrimp with cheese, then a choice of halibut on a bed of couscous with red peppers, or a perfectly-cooked tender entrecôte steak with mushrooms. We finished with a light fruit salad with a whipped cream topping, which was not too heavy. With a bottle of Muscadet at around 25 euros, the final damage came to 100 euros for the three of us, which is also not too heavy, and excellent value for a very good class of restaurant (no offense, Portia dear, but at my age one appreciates a linen tablecloth and an inside toilet).

La Roue d’Or is an old established restaurant just off the Grand’Place. This is a bit pricier – count 50 euros a head for two courses, apéritifs and wine – but well worth the expense. The room is rather masculine, with wooden benches and a slightly austere feel, no background music, no linen tablecloths. The only frivolous touches are the murals which pay tribute to René Magritte. The waiters wear long white aprons and are very knowledgeable about the food and wine, although were too old to interest Vera, who only preys upon defenceless young men. Alongside such Belgian standards as waterzooi and rabbit in Gueuze beer is a more sophisticated French style cuisine with a noticeable emphasis on olive oil.

My carpaccio de boeuf was succulent, served with shavings of real parmesan cheese and drizzled with the beneficial green nectar. Cyril discovered the delights of rillettes, or potted duck meat, which he not only enjoyed but could even pronounce, and Vera had buffalo mozzarella and tomato with a generous drizzle of the old extra-virgin. I am a great believer in olive oil. When you get to my age, internal lubrication is very important, and olive oil is so much more agreeable than All-Bran.

The daily special, Pot au Feu, was homely and warming comfort food, a mixture of beef and rabbit simmered so long it melted in the mouth, with plenty of tender vegetables. Cyril had an elegant and simple piece of cod - the new monkfish, since the North Sea variety has become officially extinct - on a bed of puréed potatoes with huile d’olive. Vera’s caramelised ham hock turned out to be the whole leg of a baby pig, glistening with a caramel glaze. She’s only a small woman, and the jambonneau was bigger than her handbag, but she did it justice, attacking it with gusto, and then with a knife and fork. We washed it all down with a nice bottle of St Nicolas de Bourgeuil, which was served slightly chilled, as befits a Beaujolais. The flavours are slowly released as the wine warms to ambient temperature. Although the speed that Vera and Cyril drink, I’m not sure it ever got to room temperature.

Only Cyril still had room for a dessert, and took a slice of the home made apple cake which he had been eyeing in the elaborate silver dessert trolley – which would look so right in my dining room. We were stuffed to the gills. The graphic French expression “my back teeth are swimming” was an apt description of how we felt after the Roue d’Or experience. Vera, however, still managed to force down a few chockies on the waddle home. I don’t know where she puts it. Still, after all that olive oil, I shouldn’t need to hit the ex-lax for another week.

Both restaurants were packed, despite it being the beginning of the week, but it was the last one before Christmas. My only – very small – criticism of both is this mania for putting the condiments on the table in their original packaging. I enjoy a bit of down-home informality as much as the next girl, but a proper cruet makes all the difference to an elegant table. And as for ketchup (Bij den Boer) – well, one should have to ask for it. Discreetly. This is not America.

Bij den Boer
60 quai aux Briques
Tel: 02 512 6122

La Roue d’Or
26 rue des Chapeliers
Tel: 02 514 2554

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.

AU VIEUX BRUXELLES - CHEZ CAMILLE

Brussels is not so much a city as a collection of villages, which I am still discovering. Long-time Brussels denizen Lolo La Clope recently introduced me to St Boniface, one of this town’s better-kept secrets. It’s in Ixelles, tucked away between the Chaussée d’Ixelles and Matongé, the African district. Matongé is Little Kinshasa, with its wig shops, wax cloth emporia and groceries selling plantain and yam. St Boniface is one street removed from Matongé, but turning off the Rue de Wavre up Rue Francart takes you into a different world. Out of Africa, you might say.

The three or four streets which make up the district sit in the shadow of the beautiful Gothic church of St Boniface. There are about 15 cafés and restaurants within the 500 metres or so radius of the church. The most popular and well-known café is L’Ultime Atome (geddit?) (it’s a French pun) whose tables cover the pavement across the corner of Rue St Boniface and Rue Ernest Solvay. The range of eateries goes from the very classic French Le St Boniface, via some ultra trendy Asian fusion places Le Deuxième Element and Citizen, trendy Italian pizza-pasta joint Mano a Mano, nouveau-Belge Belgo (any relation to the one in Covent Garden? not sure), chic minimalist wine bar Vedett, sushi bar Hana, and Greek taverna Le Syrtaki, to the downright tropical. Around the world in 80,000 calories.

Matongé spills over into St Boniface with Senegalese restaurants l’Ile de Gorée and Le Port d’Attache, and the über-trendy Au Bout du Monde where you can eat smoked antelope or boar and the interior is scattered with zebra skins and elephant heads. If Vi Hornblower went in there dressed in her trademark leopardskin print, she'd disappear into the wallpaper. Not for vegetarians, but très à la mode. I applaud this upwardly mobile ethnicity, and where West Africa is concerned, Senegal is as good as it gets. Even Peter Gabriel has a place near Dakar. On rue Ernest Solvay is atmospheric Moroccan restaurant Le Vent du Sud with its dimly-lit cushioned and lanterned interior, which Lolo rates as probably the best couscous in Brussels.

We dined at Au Vieux Bruxelles – Chez Camille at 35 rue St Boniface, which is a traditional old Brussels brasserie a bit like Chez Léon, but without the tourists. All the usual suspects on the menu – mussels, bien sur, and carbonnade, waterzooi, bunny, etc. etc. but also a good selection of fish and some slightly more elaborate dishes. Lolo had poulet a l'estragon. which was a more than generous portion, half a chicken I’d say. I had an old Flemish favourite, carbonnades à la Gueuze - do you get the irony of a Flemish dish with a French name? No? I guess that means I've been in Belgium too long. It is basically chunks of beef stewed in beer and in some less scrupulous places not much more than a tarted up beef casserole. However, I had a feeling it might be a bit special here, and I wasn’t wrong – the beef chunks were served in their own individual cooking pot, and were tender and succulent, the beer gravy was thick and unctuous, and you could actually taste the Gueuze beer, which is slightly sweet à la Newcastle Brown. Both dishes were served with chips on a side plate. (Baby new potatoes would have been more fitting. But they were crispy and golden and delicious. And - oh hang protocol – I like chips.) With a bottle of Cotes du Rhone at 23 euros, and a half bottle of water, no starter, no dessert, and no coffee, the bill came to a mere 50 euros for two. The restaurant was full, and the friendly waitress in her spotless white apron chatted away like your favourite aunty about the non-smoking law to be introduced on 1st January. She had been a 30-a-day girl, she told us, but was now using patches to help her give up the weed. "And do you feel better now?" asked Lolo hopefully, looking for encouragement to pack in the fags. "Not at all. I feel worse than I've ever felt in my life. Can't sleep, can't eat, headaches, stomach cramps ...." Lolo's face dropped, as she reached for her pack of Camel.

The atmosphere was very pleasant and cosy, homey I think our friends across the pond would say. The restaurant is family-friendly and the powder rooms are spotless. And free. Always important. So in future I will avoid taking my guests through the hordes on the rue des Bouchers, and bring them to St Boniface. Then I’ll walk them to the metro through Matongé, just for a laugh.

Au Vieux Bruxelles
35 rue St Boniface
1050 Ixelles
Tel: 02 503 31 11

CHEZ VINCENT

Chez Vincent, just off Butchers’ Alley, is a very old, established Bruxellois brasserie which is packed every night, so reserve in advance, even mid-week. The service is impeccable, and the young, handsome waiters (that twang you just heard was Vi Hornblower snapping on a thong) are so helpful. They parked Millicent Tendency’s banners in the umbrella stand and stashed her megaphone over the coat rack. We received two complimentary glasses of fizz while making our minds up. I chose Vincent because there’s very little on the menu that Millicent could object to. In fact there’s very little in general that Millicent can find to object to these days, which must make her life very difficult. It was so easy in the early 70’s – when you’d eliminated anything South African, Chilean, Greek, Portuguese, Israeli, or with lovely big sad eyes, you were basically left with chips. Since the lifting of the Iron Curtain, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the release of Nelson Mandela, the defeat of the miners and the death of socialism, there is a shortage of causes célèbres to fight. It's enough to make you want to set fire to a car.

The menu at Chez Vincent is simple and resolutely Belgian: their standard dishes are Moules in various sauces, when in season, steaks, and a limited choice of fish and meat dishes. The house style is brasserie – nothing chichi or frilly, concentrating on classic dishes prepared with perfect ingredients. Millicent approved, it smacked of solid working-class values. For starters I had the Terrine de Légumes au Saumon which was elegant simplicity, simply fresh spring vegetables (carrots, leek, beans) and pieces of salmon preserved in clear aspic and served in a tomato coulis. Millicent had the Panier à Salade de Saison. Thankfully she has not nailed her colours to the mast of vegetarianism, and went for the Rumsteak au Poivre Rouge for main course, whereas I could not resist the Rognon de Veau – usually served whole, but at my request cut into small pieces before cooking. Offally kind of them. Millicent goes ballistic at the sight of a Coca-Cola logo, so we had a bottle of Beaujolais St Amour and some fizzy water. The desserts are worth holding a space for. The Crêpe Vincent was extremely yummy, and Millicent opted for Non-Profiteroles. With a couple of coffees, the damage came to a fairly bourgeois sum, but it’s not every day you relive your youth. We laughed so much about the famous baton charge down the Boulevard St Michel that I could almost smell the CS gas.

I tipped the young waiter generously, which raised a disapproving frown from Millicent who doesn’t believe in gratuities, but a dazzling smile from the young man. You support the workers in your way, Millicent, and I’ll support them in mine.

Chez Vincent
8-10 rue des Dominicains
(off rue des Bouchers)
Tel: 02 511 2607/2303)

IL TRULLI, CHEZ LEON, AND A FEW BARS IN BETWEEN

Cynthia and Angus were in town for a Harold Pinter retrospective (Cynthia used to edit his long pauses). I met up with them in Café de BXL on the Grand’ Place where they were several glasses into the beer-tasting: five varieties of draught Belgian beer for 9 euros. They are served in small brandy glasses on a wooden platter with some cheese cubes, each glass containing 12.5 centilitres, so at £6 a pint this bar have hit on a sure fire moneymaker. However, it is a very good way of sampling Belgian beers without ending up flat on your back (although it gets you off to a good start). You start with a fairly anodine lager of the Leffe variety, and move on through a Hooegaarden type cloudy wheat beer called a Blanche de Bruges, to a very tasty dark Grimbergen then progress to a fairly strong amber-coloured Ciney, finishing up with a Kriek framboise for dessert. It’s only just over a pint, but we were certainly feeling nice and fuzzy round the edges by the time we left.

We paid the obligatory homage to the Mannequin Pis, who for the record was wearing his carnival frock. We amused ourselves by thinking up names for him. Yes, of course it had to be Free Willy. We were obliged to repair to a hostelry for some strong coffee if we were going to go the distance. Le Cirio on Place de la Bourse is an art-deco treasure, very popular with old dears (even older than us) who were getting gently hammered on “half en half”. We all had double expressos, as the beer-tasting had definitely left us slightly the worse for wear.

After a bit of a feet-up at their quite posh hotel, the Renaissance on Rue de Parnasse near the EP (very good weekend deals available) we headed for the Louise area and Brussels’ answer to Little Italy. Il Trulli on rue Jourdan is named after a kind of thatched hut where Italian shepherds have nocturnal trysts with their favourite sheep. The restaurant is elegant and tables are nicely spaced out so your conversations are not overheard. Must remember that next time I’m out with Vi. The menu is fairly fishy, and our meals were all delicious. The names of the dishes were so long that if I go into detail we’ll be here all night. The wine list was even longer than the names of the dishes. It was quite over the top, weighing in at about 35 pages and listed hundreds of Italian wines, by region.

The Ladies Room is extremely elegant, and includes one of those contraptions which makes the loo seat go round in a wobbly circle while being disinfected. When Cynthia had finally recovered her composure, I had to gently explain that you are not supposed to sit on the seat while this is going on.

The next day I took them to the newly refurbished Atomium. Cynthia and I stood at its base and admired the big shiny balls for some time. It would have been churlish not to go inside and we wound our way from one sphere to another, feeling like characters in an episode of Dr Who. Angus, who is frightfullly clever, if a bit mad, pointed out that the Atomium is in fact a cube stood on one corner. And there was me thinking it was just a load of balls.

After a snifter at the Café Metropole on place De Brouckère, where it was warm enough to sit outside and do some people-watching, Angus announced that he was hungry again. We had to stop at a waffle van and stuff a gaufre au chocolat down him to keep him quiet.

In the evening we headed to Chez Léon, that most Bruxellois of brasseries. The food is always reliable, especially if you like mussels, but I love to sit and watch the manageress in action. Madame is always immaculately coiffed and smiling serenely, but presides over the maze-like restaurant with a gimlet eye and total control. She knows exactly who’s had what and which cutlery they used. A woman after my own heart. Angus had mussels in white wine sauce, Cynthia had sole, and I had salmon. All dishes were simple, fresh and beautifully cooked. And eaten with the correct cutlery.

We finished the evening with digestifs in Le Roy d’Espagne on the Grand’ Place, that peculiar pub where the lamps have pigs’ bladders hanging off them. I didn’t dare ask why. Angus, who of course was hungry again, had a Dame Blanche. With big shiny balls squeezed between a Blonde de Bruges and a Dame Blanche, I think most chaps would call that a good weekend.

LE MONDE EST PETIT

I met up with Vi Hornblower for a GNO (Girls’ Night Out) recently. We met at Le Jardin de Nicolas, by Montgoméry metro, which is a pleasant little spot for an aperitif or a cocktail, although Nicolas’ garden wasn’t open due to the brass monkey temperatures. Vi arrived en catastrophe, reapplying Max Factor’s Harem Nights hi-gloss lippy whilst muttering about having to call Pawel out to give her hot pipes a seeing-to. I ordered her a Harvey Wallbanger, she looked as if she needed one. She was wielding a gigantic handbag recently acquired on a shopping expedition to New York. Everything’s bigger in the States.
We moved on to “Le Monde est Petit”, a discreet little place on the corner of rue des Bataves (Tel. : 02.732.44.34) just a little way down the Avenue de Tervuren towards Mérode. Non-smokers will like this place, the front room is smoke-free, but Vi was gagging for a Sobranie so we sat in the “salon” at the back, which has comfy chairs under a Moroccan canopy and is the perfect place for romantic trysts. Or conversations of the type Vi and I have. After a general overview and subsequent trashing of various gentlemen friends, we covered sex tourism for women, bra sizes, and the personal proclivities of the Liberal Democrats.
“Le Monde est Petit” has a blackboard menu, although is a fairly upmarket establishment in every other respect. The kitchen is situated between the front and back rooms and the chef is on public view, so has to keep his whites clean and not spit in the soup. The lady who took our order and served the food was in a state of permanent excitement (as well as a fairly advanced state of pregnancy), bursting into giggles after each visit to our table. She must have been listening in to our conversation.
Vi kicked off with Croquettes de Crevettes (about €9), an old Belgian favourite, although served here in a modern three-panel rectangular plate, which a large croquette at each end and a bit of arty salad in the middle. For main course Vi had the magret de canard, and I had cotelettes d’agneau (about €14 each). Le Monde was not the only thing that was Petit, the portions were fairly nouvelle, but exquisitely presented on large square white plates. My cotelettes d’agneau were arranged like the sails on a little boat made from a slice of aubergine with baby courgettes, baby tomatoes and other vegetable artfully arranged on top. We had a bottle of the house red, a perfectly respectable Vin du Pays d’Oc that wouldn’t set the world on fire but neither would it burn your wallet at 16 euros – and they charge by the centimetre, so if you don’t finish the bottle you don’t pay for it all. Fat chance of that at our table, but always useful to know.
For pudding Vi and I abandoned our overly ambitious plan to share a Crème Brulée aux Pruneaux, and had one each (about €6). It had a fruity flavour and the caramel glaze was as crisp as the ice on Ixelles ponds, and cracked beautifully when bashed with the spoon. The after-dinner coffee was served with a plateful of chocolate Neapolitans. I pretended not to see Vi shove a handful into her copious handbag. The final damage was around 90 euros for two. Not for big hungry truck-drivers, but ideal for non-smokers or people having an illicit liaison, although remember that Le Monde est Petit translates as “small world”. Your dirty little secret might end up on Daphne’s blog.

*UPDATE*   As of 2014 Le Monde est Petit has one Michelin star!!