STROFILIA

When I went out for a Greek meal with my Hellenic friend Tara Massalata I was expecting the usual kitsch decor with pictures of fishing boats, bouzouki music and smashed plates on the floor. Not a bit of it. 'Strofilia' means winepress, and is appropriately situated in a former 17^th century wine warehouse. The cavernous main room has been lovingly renovated, stylish modern furniture sitting well against bare brick walls with a few pieces of antique Greek art placed here and there. The focus here is on mainland Greece rather than the islands. Strofilia is not looking to recreate Faliraki or Ayia Napa, thank Zeus. This is aimed at Greek eurocrats and serious fans of real Greek food and wine.

Strofilia is more a spacious wine bar than a restaurant, since the menu only features meze. There are no main courses, no desserts, and the wine list is almost longer than the food menu. This is a pity, as a vast space like this in such a prime location could be put to a more profitable use. They have a thriving outside catering business, and I suspect the restaurant is for the moment simply a flagship for more profitable activities. There has obviously been serious investment in the decor, in an effort to avoid the kitschy image of cheaper Greek tavernas. Discreet Hellenic music plinks in the background, but nobody is going to drag you up to do the sirtaki. However, just to be on the safe side I avoided the ouzo.

The menu at first appears vast, until you realize that it is in four languages – Dutch, French, English and Greek, and in fact the choice is not that great. There are cold and warm meze, a few salads and the usual tzatziki, tarama, etc. (which I would classify as 'dips' rather than starters, but what do I know). No dolmades, sadly. I'm very partial to a dolma. They recomment 4 to 5 dishes for two people, so we chose to share a Brochette Asie Mineure (minced lamb with pine nuts and oriental spices) and an aubergine roulade stuffed with minced meat and tomato sauce, accompanied by roast baby potatoes with rosemary, and roasted Mediterranean vegetables with garlic and saffron sauce.

The prices at Strofilia are quite steep, ranging from 7,50 euros to 13 euros for dishes which were little bigger than appetizers. The food was well presented and tasty, although Tara searched in vain for any sign of the precious saffron in the vegetables. We accompanied our food with a bottle of Megapanos Nemea, a full-bodied red from the Peloponnese, which was perfectly drinkable in a southern Mediterranean sort of way, but at 28 euros was a tad overpriced. Some of the wines on the wine list were not far short of 50 euros a bottle, which, unless your name is Niarchos, is fairly outrageous. To finish off the wine we had a selection of Greek cheeses. The salty manouri and smoky kapnisto were offset nicely by the bland creamy kefalograviera, but our hunger was only just sated.

Strofilia is a pleasant place to spend a quiet evening with friends, but they could do with expanding their menu and reducing their prices. 72 euros for four starters, a bottle of wine and some cheese, is no gift from the Gods. I was tempted to smash a few plates on the way out to justify the bill. Still, they say less is more. In the case of Strofilia this is certainly true.

STROFILIA
13 rue du Marché aux Porcs
1000 Brussels

Tel: 02.512.32.93
Metro: Sainte Catherine

ANARKALI

The Brussels bloggers' Christmas dinner took place at traditional Indian restaurant Anarkali. By most UK high street tandoori house standards, it was pretty upmarket - we helped ourselves from an all-you-can-eat buffet, which was like breakfast at the Sheraton, with added curry powder. The food was great, very varied, and certainly woke up my taste buds. My usual menu choice in an Indian restaurant is cream of tomato soup, or if I'm feeling really adventurous, a chicken shahi korma. At Anarkali you can taste all sorts of different dishes, to find out what you like and what you don't like.




On leaving the restaurant it was drizzling and I was feeling a little bloated from the lentils, so after a fruitless wait in the rain for a taxi I decided to walk to the nearest taxi rank. The quickest route led through Matonge, the African district. MKWM was a little concerned for my safety, but I assured her I had survived the Third Mainland Bridge in Lagos and was not going to be beaten by a whey-faced white bread honky town like Brussels. I marched off into the night, my poinsettias perking up in the rain.

Halfway to the taxi rank, I was hailed by a couple of local ladies of the night, known in West Africa as Nightfighters.

"How now, mummy!" they greeted me in pidgin, obviously mistaking me for a genuine Ubongan makket leddy. "Wetin for disting you dey go wakkin night-time?" (meaning what is the purpose of your nocturnal perambulations?).

I did not wish to be mistaken for a competitor for business, so I sucked my teeth noisily and made a long-drawn out nasal sound which is impossible to convey in writing, but goes something like: "eaeaeaeeh ... ", and waggled my poinsettias. "Na dey go lookim taximan".

The nocturnal patrol stuck out their generous bosoms and one placed a hand on her very ample hip. "Dis no be good place fah makket leddy be wakkin, wetin gat no mastah" she informed me, meaning that the area was not a safe place for an unaccompanied woman to be wearing Christmas decorations on her head after midnight.

I adjusted my holly in a non-committal manner, and said "No dey go long time taxi man. Na gotim big brick in handbag, no be worry sistah."

The two strapping gels looked at each other and made hissing noises.

"Mummy, let us go wakkim taximan wid you," one insisted. "You could be me mam an all."

The two girls, who were called Joy and Comfort (although their professional names were Kitten and Liana - West Africans have a fine sense of humour) - walked with me all the way to the taxi rank, chatting on the way about hair weaves and where to find decent fufu, and stopping several times to sit down on their shopping bags and eat plantain. It took a while before we got there, and when we did it took another hour before they would let me go, as they had to extend greetings to my entire family, especially to Harold who has gone to sleep in the bosom of Shango, requiring reciprocal formula from myself as to the welfare of all their brothers and sisters and aunties and uncles and the peaceful sleep of their ancestors. That's the polite way in Africa. Then they foisted upon me their large tartan bags containing smoked fish, bushmeat and yams, and sent me on my way with the promise of a free "massage" any time I liked. The next time my back gives out, I'll know where to go.

Well yam will make a nice change from parsnip this Christmas. Woyayah everybody!


Anarkali
rue Longue Vie 31
Ixelles
Tel: 02 513 0205