MARTIN'S FRITKOT

Having lived for over six months within spitting distance of one of Brussels' best chip stalls, I had to do it. On my wobbly and unsuccessful search for a doctor's surgery (I will rant about the overrated Belgian health service on another occasion) I felt the need for a sit down. Martin's fritkot was within my sights. So I did what a woman had to do. I went and queued up for a portion of allegedly the best chips in Brussels.

I stood behind two young men who put in an order for something exotic sounding. I heard the word "andalouse". Spicy. Oriental. They were discussing the football while they waited. I stood on tiptoe to see over their shoulders. Martin was busying himself with great half-baguettes, and taking his time about it. Would this be some kind of Belgian kebab he was putting together? What kind of spicy sausage would be going between the halves of French loaf? During the good five-minute wait, I noticed with approval that his chips were being cooked lovingly in time honoured fashion, in two separate vats of oil. The first to cook the potato, the second to crisp. The penalty, I learned from the lads, was a diabolical liberty.

I was intrigued when I saw Martin slathering pink sauce onto the bread, and then gobsmacked when I saw him pile chips into the two halves of baguette, and serving the boys three massive chip butties. A Frenchman would have fainted dead away.

I stepped up and ordered my small frites for 2 euros. Martin took a scoop full from the pre-fried batch and double-fried one portion of chips especially for me. Well you can't complain they're not fresh. They were served in a paper cone, with a dusting of salt. I did not wish to adulterate them with mayonnaise, sauce "andalouse" or otherwise. (Funny that they never have vinegar in Belgian chip shops. The continentals threw the baby out with the bathwater when they dismissed British cuisine thirty-odd years ago. Between the wobbly jelly and the overcooked Sunday roast, there are still a few gems of British cooking, and Sarson's malt vinegar on chips is one of them).

I sat on a bench in the Place St Josse and ate some. They were good. They tasted of potato. They were golden and crispy. But, as someone once said (I think it was Oscar Wilde): a chip is a chip is a chip. As an accompaniment to a nice haddock fillet in breadcrumbs, with some brown bread and butter and a nice cup of tea, they would have been fab. But to be honest, when you've got the tail end of flu, sitting on a public bench in February eating chips is not really where you ought to be. I ignored the poster inviting me to take my snack into a scrotty bar across the road to eat whilst being ogled by a bunch of lumpen riff-raff, wrapped the remainder of my chips carefully, and finished them off at home with a good dollop of tomato ketchup.

Some Belgians will tell you that the only way to eat Belgian fries is outside in the open air, out of paper. There really is a gap in the market for a fish and chip restaurant in Brussels, I feel. Where is Harry Ramsden when you need him?

DE SKIEVEN ARCHITEK

De Skieven Architek is a term used by the people of the Marolles about the man who designed and built the Palais de Justice, or law courts. It translates as “that damn architect”, or perhaps something a bit stronger. The damn architect in question was Baron Poelaert, yes he who lends his name to the wide open and generally waste of space in front of his creation, the Palais de Justice. It took 17 years to build, and required 1,000 families to be forcibly evicted to make space for its bulk. They did not go quietly, and there were riots and even a suicide before they were persuaded to relocate. It was the largest building in Europe during the 19th century – 4,000 square metres larger than St Peter’s in Rome – and dominates the city for miles around with its grandiose cupola.

Poelaert died in a lunatic asylum in 1879 and never lived to see his creation completed. Legend has it that a witch from the Marolles district cursed him and finished him off with a form of Belgian voodoo. But before he died, he also built several more edifices, including St Catherine’s church, and a fire station on Hoogstraat, which was recently converted into a restaurant. And guess what it’s called? “De Skieven Architek” of course. It’s a very Flemish restaurant, and the schoolmistressy waitresses greet you with a firm “Goededag” (which always sounds to my untrained ear like Hooeydaah). The restaurant serves typical Flem dishes like carbonnade and rabbit, but also has an impressive list of beers, both draught and bottled, some of which are brewed by the restaurant’s own off-premises microbrewery and can be bought to take out. Some of the beers on offer had an alc.vol. content of 10.8% - I am not sure if these figures mean the same thing all over Europe, but that’s almost the alcoholic content of wine. No wonder it is served in small glasses here. The“Witte Brigittine” wheat beer was refreshing: cloudy and not very gassy, with a slightly fruity taste. I only had the one, though.

After a leisurely perusal of the menu which includes a good deal of history about the area and the building in French, Flemish and English, I ordered authentic Brussels “stoemp” which, for the uninitiated, is a sort of potato and vegetable mash involving potatoes, carrots, onions and whatever other vegetable is lying about in the larder that day. “Stoemp” is probably a fairly accurate description of the culinary process used to prepare it. It is fairly basic peasant fodder, and the vegetables are not so much mashed as just sort of stamped on with hobnailed boots. They are served piping hot with a sausage and a slice of belly pork, and hits the spot on a chilly October Sunday after a morning tramping round the flea market. I quietly congratulated myself when I spotted two hulking great Flemish market boys tucking in to the same thing at the next table. I just love to know I’ve got the local culture right.

The Architek is a pleasant restaurant, the high ceilinged main room hung with paintings. Only one complaint – it costs 50 cents to spend a penny. This is a subject that gets me into a bate, the number of restaurants in Brussels which charge customers to use the facilities. The loo was admittedly spotless. But I am a customer, for heaven’s sake. It’s their beer I’m getting rid of. It’s simply not on.

Although you won't find me following the example of the Jannekin Pis.



De Skieven Architek
Vossenplein/place du Jeu de Balle 50
Tel: 02 514 4369