LA BECASSE: ALL FLESH AND BLOOD

The nights are drawing in, the falling leaves drift past my window, and the prospect of another long cold winter looms. Not that you would notice much difference from the summer we've just had. Christian and pagan rituals alike at this time of year are all tied up with withering, darkness and death. At the end of this month falls All Hallows with its American commercial entity Hallowe'en, when we honour the departed to appease them from coming back and haunting us. All over the world different nationalities celebrate the arrival of the "dark side" of the earth's yearly cycle in different ways, often verging on the macabre.

In Poland, for example, the entire population heads for the cemeteries on All Hallows Eve to light candles and tidy up graves. The overall effect is rather jolly, the cemeteries are like Piccadilly Circus and the flickering multi-coloured candles creat the effect of a sort of nightclub for the departed. The late Late show, you might say. It's just as commercial as Hallowe'en in its own way: candlemakers and chrysanthemum growers can retire to the south of France for the winter on the strength of their October sales. Parents take their children to visit the ancestors and to pay homage to the many who gave their lives in defence of their country. This could explain the uniquely Polish absence of any fear of death, which you will have witnessed if you've ever been in the back of a Warsaw taxi.

Ixelles cemetery is a peaceful and tidy place, where the tombs are better kept than most people's front gardens. The section where many soldiers of the Great War are buried is particularly moving, the rows of tombstones laid out as if on parade in straight lines, separated by hedges which recall the trenches where so many of them met their deaths - mostly Belgian, but a large number of French, British, Russian and Italian soldiers too. The fact that the Armistice fell so close to All Hallows makes it all the more poignant.



The cemetery is close to the ULB campus and the large number of young people in the area is a cheering reminder that life goes on. After a pensive stroll among the tombs with Bert, musing on pre-paid funeral plans, we had worked up an appetite, and in the fading light we thought it prudent to leave the eternally slumbering to their everlasting peace and repair to the restaurant across the street for a fortifying apéritif. La Bécasse is a no-nonsense traditional brasserie in rustic style, with efficient waiters in long aprons. The menu is extensive with a lot of beef - particularly raw, in the form of carpaccio, filet américain and steak tartare. It's popular for Sunday lunch, and in fine weather you can eat outside with a cheery view of the cemetery gates. In winter a roaring log fire will keep the cold out.

After a very posh kir with a maraschino cherry in it (I'm easily impressed) a bowl of piping hot French onion soup warmed me up. Bert, who is something of a carnivore, had a plate of glistening carpaccio. I couldn't resist my favourite kidneys in an unctuous mustard sauce, which came with four perfectly formed potato croquettes - arranged in the form of a cross! And just as well. Bert's steak tartare consisted of a two-inch thick slab of raw prime minced beef with a raw egg, chopped onions, chives, side salad and chips. The cow (vegetarians look away now) was only just dead, and the meat was bright red ... Bert’s fangs flashed once, and then his face was in his plate, and all that could be heard were Teutonic chomping and slurping sounds. I started to feel a bit uneasy when he got very insistent that we be home before dark … there really is something of the night about Bert occasionally. Lucky I eat a lot of garlic. Happily, it transpired that he just wanted to catch Match of the Day! What a relief. Sometimes I let my imagination run wild.

Intimations of mortality make me want to eat heartily to stave off the reaper. I finished off my meal with a Dame Blanche, an appropriate ghostly dessert for the time of year, and a coffee. Count around 30-35 euros a head with wine.

La Bécasse

Chaussee de Boondael 476

1050 Ixelles / Elsene

Tel: 02 649 0641

http://www.labecasse.net

KANTJIL & DE TIJGER, Amsterdam

The Netherlands produce many comestibles of note, not all of which are ingested via the stomach. "Grow your own" in Amsterdam does NOT mean strawberries. Dutch cheese, fruit and vegetables, and chocolate are exported all over the world. However, unless you have a weakness for raw herring, you will probably find Dutch cuisine pretty bland and non-specific, and, as in Britain, the local cuisine is considered something for preparing at home and not for eating out. However, Amsterdam has a vast selection of foreign restaurants, and if you love meat, more "Argentinian" steak houses than any city this side of Buenos Aires.

Rijsttafel is the Indonesian cuisine which has become to Holland what Indian cuisine is to Britain, and for the same reasons: The Dutch were the colonial masters in the East Indies, and adapted the local food to suit their tastes. There are more Indonesian restaurants in Amsterdam there than you can shake a shadow puppet at. On a Saturday evening we must have got the last free table at Kantjil & de Tijger, so I would recommend booking in advance. It is a smart, modern restaurant with no kitsch Indonesian decor. Not having the faintest idea what we were ordering, we picked out a selection of meat and vegetarian dishes, two kinds of rice and one bowl of noodles. The Dutch and Indonesian waiting staff speak perfect English and can advise on all the dishes. Be careful, some of them such as ajam smoor chicken make a Vindaloo look mild, and there's nothing on the menu to warn you.

The dishes that arrived were very diverse, ranging from fresh fruit to blow-your-head-off chicken, but on the whole very tasty with more diverse flavours than a curry meal. I particularly liked the gado gado, which is a dish of lightly steamed vegetables with a peanut sauce, as well as staple dishes such as nasi goreng (fried rice) and bami goreng (fried noodles). With three beers and a bottle of house white, we came out for just under 25 euros a head, bellies full. A full rijsttafel menu can be had here for 22 to 28 euros a head, without wine, and if you can run to it, I'd recommend going for the full monty and getting a wider view of what Indonesian cuisine has to offer.

Kantjil & De Tijger
Spuistraat 291-293
1012 VS Amsterdam
Tel: 020 620 0994
www.kantjil.nl

NICOLAS AND MARTIN

Denizens of the Woluwe/Montgomery areas will know one or both of these pretty restaurants, noticeable by their attractive tropical terrasses which are constantly busy in the warmer months. Vi Hornblower and I often meet for lunch at Le Jardin de Nicolas, where my favourite dish is the "salade folle", or "crazy salad". It is a bit of a unorthodox mixture, with smoked salmon, prawns, foie gras and parma ham sitting side by side on a huge plate with a delicious mixed salad involving both fruit and vegetables. If you didn't want to fanny about with starters, main course and dessert, you could just eat everything off the plate in the right order and call it a 3-course meal.

Le Jardin de Nicolas is also popular for its wide range of cocktails at a very reasonable 7.50 euros a throw, although one criticism is that the tables are a little too close together. However, this is a good excuse to chat to any nice young men who might be dining alone alongside you. Especially when you've had a couple of cocktails. The poor lad who was accosted by Violet and me has probably crossed "gigolo" off his list of career options. But if you are partial to the sophisticated older woman with a taste for fine dining, Nicolas' Garden is the place for you, young man! (The editor has my details).

Salade Folle at Le Jardin de Nicolas

I recently took guests to dinner at Le Martin-Pecheur, sister restaurant to Le Jardin de Nicolas, which has more of a brasserie style. Its attractive terrace was already full, so we were given a table inside, by an open window, which afforded us a little shelter from the noise and pollution of the Boulevard Brand Whitlock.

The menu is - as you might expect from a restaurant named after a kingfisher - largely fish-oriented. The starters, with a few exceptions, are fishy or vegetarian, and the croquettes de scampis are exceptionally generous. I had to explain to my Australian visitors that "scampi" here is not actually scampi, but shrimp, although what we call shrimp they would probably call wichety grubs. An English menu is available, on request.

Main courses offer some meat options - a 250g Belgian fillet steak was served perfectly cooked, with an attractive garnish of salad and frites, and a choice of sauces. My fillets of Dover sole in breadcrumbs were equally delicious, and portions are generous. Lamb kebabs are another meat dish, and the chicken curry, which we spotted someone wolfing down as we walked in, looked and smelled delicious. Be sure to check the blackboards for the day's specials, too. Both Martin's and Nicolas' offer a "lite" option, which is roughly the same dishes without the chips and sauce. Such flexibility is refreshing after the gastro-fascism of some French restaurants, and the busy tables bear testimony to good service.

The desserts are divine: my guests had a simple Dame Blanche and a fresh fruit salad, while I went the whole hog and ordered the Tarte Tatin with vanilla ice cream, drizzled in caramel and Calvados. That certainly hit the spot, and I nearly did a Meg Ryan. The serving staff were efficient, professional and elegant, especially the absolutely charming restaurant manager in a lovely crushed raspberry shirt, all spoke very good English and went out of their way to accommodate my Aussie guests' slightly unorthodox dining etiquette. The waitress didn't even bat an eyelid at being called "mate".

We had a bottle of Bandol rosé, which was kept chilled in an ice bucket (always makes the wine look more expensive, don't you think?). The total bill for one starter, two main courses and three desserts with wine came to 90 euros -- not the cheapest place in town, but good value nonetheless.

Neither Nicolas or Martin take reservations, so be sure to get there in time to bag a good table. They both offer, in addition to the main menu, a selection of snacky dishes, such as different kinds of Croque Monsieur, salads and stir-fries, which makes them ideal for a quick lunch. There is also a child's menu available at both restaurants. Parking is a bit tricky, especially at Le Martin-Pecheur, but both places are less than 5 minutes walk from Montgoméry metro.


Le Jardin de Nicolas
137 avenue de Tervuren
http://www.lejardindenicolas.be/

Le Martin Pecheur
100 boulevard Brand Whitlock
(corner of avenue Georges-Henri)
http://www.lemartinpecheur.be/

MEET MEAT

A good steak is hard to find. One hardly ever orders steak in a restaurant these days, as it's likely to be tough, stringy or chewy. And there's the lurking idea that it requires no real cooking, therefore one is more likely to order battery-farmed chicken that's been marinated in chives and Pernod and gently steamed over a charcoal brazier ... in other words, it's been treated better dead than alive. (I have not eaten chicken in a restaurant since Easter, when I saw Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's galling Channel 4 documentary about intensive chicken farming).

Argentine cows are pampa'd (see what I did there?) and consequently give meat that cuts like butter and tastes like heaven. Argentinian steak houses were all the rage in the 1980s. I remember going to one in Paris during that Falklands business, where I had a well-lubricated meal with a bunch of Brits, and on departing we sang "God Save the Queen" and annoyed the owner terribly. Oh callow youth!

"Meet Meat" on rue Stevin is in an old Bruxellois house which has been totally modernized, and the interior is all clean lines, blond wood floors, minimalist black furniture and concealed lighting, to match the simple but informative menu. It was not quite warm enough to eat outside, but when it is, there is a delightful decking terrace out back.

There are various alternatives to beef on the menu, but let's face it, you go to a steak house for a steak. And Meet Meat does steaks to die for, in a choice of weights (200g, 250g, 300g) and cuts (rump, sirloin, fillet). The young, stylish, black-clad waiting staff who take your orders are efficient and helpful. Our waiter was however unable to tell us the name of the devastatingly handsome man in the fedora hat who was the subject of a Warhol-style print on the wall. "An actor ... and singer, I think ... dead now." It was (I later discovered) Carlos Gardel, Argentine heartthrob of the 50s and dance hall singer. Anyway, our waiter looked like a young Zidane, so I forgave him.

Carlos Gardel, not the waiter

The wine list is of course South American, and we chose an Argentinian merlot with the amusing name of Tango. Which in my opinion would have been a much catchier name for the restaurant. "Meet Meat" may have non-English speakers rolling in the aisles, but sounds frankly a bit childish to Anglophones. But this is a negligible criticism of a restaurant which in all other respects gets full marks.

Our meat was cooked to perfection on the open kitchen grill, and served with a choice of fries or jacket potato, beurre Maitre-d'Hotel or chilli sauce, and salad. The meat, ladies and gentlemen, deserved a round of applause. It was divine. My five lady dining companions and myself actually stopped talking and did a fair impression of Meg Ryan in the restaurant scene of "When Harry Met Sally" for a bit, which goes to show how spectacular the meat was. Two of us had New Zealand lamb chops, and the rest of us had rump or sirloin steaks. After fifteen minutes or so there were six clean plates and six very happy tummies straining the already reinforced foundation garments. We certainly felt like we'd been Tango'ed.

We did however manage to find room for dessert, and from the list of usual suspects - Dame Blanche, Crème Brulée, etc. I chose a Speculoos ice cream, which was just the ticket to round off a delightful dinner. The bill came to about 30 euros a head, count a bit more if you have a starter.

This is no place for vegetarians or ecologists. The carbon footprint required to ship all that meat and wine in from Argentina and New Zealand would cover the entire Benelux region. But sometimes (as for example when eating foie gras) one has to suspend one's green principles in favour of one's taste buds. If you like your food simple but top quality, this is the place. To paraphrase the Rolling Stones, it's only steak and chips but I like it.

Meet Meat Rue Stevin 124 1000 Brussels Tel: 02 231 0742 www.meetmeat.be

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

KOKOB

Ethiopia has more to it than long-distance runners. Kokob on the rue des Grands Carmes was a delightful surprise, situated in Fontainas, the trendy downtown district close by the Grand’Place and St Géry.

When you enter the restaurant, your nostrils will immediately flare from the olfactory memory of old-style torrefaction shops, such as the Algerian Coffee Shop in Soho, where they roast and grind the coffee beans on the premises. The slightly burnt aroma of freshly roasted coffee wakes your senses up from the minute you set foot in Kokob. Coffee is one of Ethiopia’s most important exports – it may even be what keeps those long-distance runners going – and if your sleep patterns permit, you should aim to round off your meal with the juice of the bean.

Charming Ethiopian-born co-owner Haile Leoul Abebe has a permanent smile on his face. As well he might have. Despite being a fairly new kid on the block, (they have just celebrated their first birthday) Kokob is enjoying huge success, blessed by an early visit from President Barroso and his team, as proudly displayed on their website. “Kokob” means "Star" in Amharic, and after the rave reviews they have had in the Brussels press, they soon will be. Smiley Haile described how he and Moroccan-born business partner Nassim worked for months through nights and weekends to give Kokob its distinctive contemporary but hand-crafted atmosphere. The artworks on the walls are eclectic and all made by arty pals. One in particular caught everyone’s eye, a backlit collage of citrus slices which aroused in me a deep nostalgia for a gin and tonic.

A covered terrace at the back of the restaurant transports you temporarily into the atmosphere of an East African hotel lobby in the 1930s, where you would not be surprised to see the ghost of Lawrence Durrell in his white suit and panama hat. This sheltered spot is the ideal place to down a Belgian beer or some real coffee after an afternoon’s Christmas shopping in the trendy boutiques of the rue du Midi, and peruse one of the collection of picture books on Ethiopia. The restaurant is composed of separate spaces – bar, terrace, main dining room, function room – where afternoon tea or coffee, sundowners (as we used to call them in the colonies), lunch or dinner can be enjoyed, as well as private parties and public events. Kokob also act as a cultural centre for recitals of traditional music, storytelling or promotions. Events are advertised on their website or you can join their mailing list to keep abreast of what’s coming up. They also do outside catering.

Despite the trendy location and modern décor, Kokob does not compromise on authentic Ethiopian style. Wat is the most popular dish. No that’s not a question, wat is the name of a stew made from vegetables, pulses or meat such as lamb, beef or chicken, generously seasoned with a hot chilli sauce called berbéré. There are also fish dishes and a selection of salads. The “menu découverte” or “discovery menu”, ranging from 18 to 25 euros a head depending on how hungry you are, is the nearest thing to a typical Ethiopian meal, consisting of a selection of prepared dishes served on a tray of spongey millet pancakes called injera which serve the purpose of both plate and cutlery.

Thanks to the influence of the early Coptic Christians who did not eat meat, vegetarians are easily catered for, with a vast selection of veggie dishes on offer, including spinach with mushrooms, lentils, split peas, ratatouille, ayeb (cottage cheese), to accompany the meat dishes such as diced chicken with spinach, minced beef spiced up with berbéré, and diced lamb in a creamy yogurt sauce. All the dishes are extremely tasty, and surprisingly mild - apart from the berbéré, nothing will blow your head off. An extra bowl of rolled injera strips is provided for you to break up and use them to scoop up the food on the tray. It’s a convivial and fun way of eating in a couple or a group, and apparently the typically Ethiopian way to do it is to feed each other with the mouthfuls of filled pancake. The mad, romantic fools! If you don’t fancy other people’s fingers, or even your own, cutlery can be provided on request.

Sticking on the same continent, we chose to drink a South African Nederburg Shiraz at a most reasonable 15 euros. After the meal, we were enveloped in burnt-coffee smelling steam, as the freshly-roasted beans were waved over the table like incense. If you are one of the poor unfortunates who can’t drink coffee, you can inhale it for maximum effect. The roasted coffee beans are then taken away and ground to produce a light coffee with a delicate flavour that will not keep you tossing and turning all night. Alternatively, you can sip an Ethiopian herbal tea flavoured with ginger and cinnamon. There are no desserts on the menu, but the coffee is served with a piece of homemade cake to sweeten your dreams.

Kokob is really something new and different, and serves tasty food in a warm and friendly atmosphere. Discreet Ethiopian background music is soon drowned out by the chatter of diners, as the place is invariably full by about 9 p.m. The service was discreet, efficient and accompanied by helpful explanations of the different dishes and how to eat them. The kitchen door is permanently open to the main room so you can see the chef at work. Haile and Nassim make a point of going round chatting to all their customers, and everyone gets a warm handshake and a dazzling smile on their way out, with a genuine invitation to come again.

A gold medal for Ethiopia – this new venture should run and run.

Kokob
10 rue des Grands Carmes
1000 Bruxelles
Tel: 02 511 1950
www.kokob.be

Open: Tues-Sun 12h00 – 24h00, Mon 18h00-24h00

SHISH

Hoxton is the new Chelsea. Once home to Cockney pearly treasures such as Marie Lloyd and Alfie Doolittle, it has now been overrun by arty-farty brigade and a swathe of celebrity chefs. Jamie Oliver's original "15" restaurant-cum-social-experiment is on Hoxton Square, as is Damien Hirst's "White Cube". Given Jamie's involvement with ethical animal husbandry, it seems invidious for him to be sharing a postcode with the man who put the form in formaldehyde. Restaurants in London certainly value form over content. It's not so much about eating as about ambience. And mere suggestion, without a hint of effort. The latest fashion is for "fusion" restaurants which throw together a bunch of cuisines vaguely linked by a tenuous theme.

One such is "Shish" on Old Street, where the dishes are supposed to represent stages on the old Silk Route which stretched 5,000 miles from Shanghai to Istanbul via Samarkand and Tashkent. So far so romantic. Except that the ambience has not a scrap of oriental charm. As can be seen from the photograph, it is a bog-standard modern overcrowded canteen, with young staff who call you "guys" (somewhat offputting for two ladies in their fifties) and speak much too fast. Not a silk canopy or a Persian rug in sight. Basically an upmarket kebab house.

The menu boasts such exotic delights as Spinach Borek and Kashmiri Lamb. The portions are small, and the spices are hard to detect. Not only that, but the minced lamb in my Dushanbe Dumplings was decidedly gristly. With a bottle of red wine - sadly from Australia, quite a way off the silk route, although Turkish, Bulgarian and Georgian wines could have added some authenticity - it came to just over £50 for two starters and two mains, fairly reasonable for London I suppose, but I really don't recall much about what was in the plate.

The extremely annoying thing about London restaurants is this fashion for adding the service charge on for you in advance - no less than 12.5%! I asked the smart-ass kid who brought the bill (who was not the same smart-ass kid who had taken our order, nor the one who had served the food, nor the one who had brought the wine) what "discretionary" meant. It means you don't have to pay it, she replied. Well take it off then, I said. I left a tip of £3 which was about all the service was worth, and to make a point. Shish, indeed!

Shish
313-319 Old Street
London EC1
Tel: 0207 749 0990
www.shish.com

BELGA QUEEN

I haven't been taken out for a Valentine's dinner in about 8 years, Harold was never much for wearing his heart on the sleeve of his beige cardigan. So this year I was delighted to be invited by Bert, the last of the German Romantics (that's ironic by the way), to a long lunch at Belga Queen. The catch was, we had to take Bert's Aunty Waltraud who never stops talking. But this turned out to be a blessing in disguise. While she talked, I could sit and take in the surroundings.

Belga Queen is situated in a former bank, and the glory days of Belgian finance are proudly displayed in the marble columns and stained-glass ceiling panels. Before you get to the main restaurant you must pass on your right the cigar lounge and on your left the seafood bar. The main dining room is totally open plan, but different types of seating create different moods. Boring old farts like us were happy to sit up at a standard sized table, but for the trendy power lunches a row of lower tables with comfy armchairs runs the length of one wall. The clientele was trendy, at a guess it's popular with advertising executives and media types. It reminded me a bit of the sort of restaurants that flourished in London in the 80's. By Belgian standards, where the usual choice is 1900 art deco or spit & sawdust, it is cutting edge. The background music was unobtrusive but just loud enough to be identified as cool instrumental soul fusion. In the fashion of Momo's, Buddha Bar and company, a CD of the music selection is available to buy in the restaurant, or you can listen to some samples on their website. I began to regret not having worn a black polo-neck sweater.

It's a huge room, and obviously designed for those with a short attention span, as there are arty features dotted about all over the place to keep you amused. The desk where smart young attendants book you in is situated under a large plaque bearing the names of some 30 famous Belgians, in defiance of the old joke. All the usual suspects - Brel, Magritte, Rubens - but some took me by surprise. Haroun Tazieff, for example, the famous vulcanologist - I never knew he was Belgian. The names are repeated on a life-size silver horse wearing a crown, which stands incongruously amid the tables. In keeping with the occasion, a giant red heart was dangling from the ceiling.

Beautiful young things serve the food with a professionalism that belies their tender years. The boys wear a modern take on the old-fashioned brewery apron tied up at the back with rope, that you will only see in Belgium. An almost identical pair of young Africans with exquisite profiles moved delicately among the tables, and took our orders with beatific smiles, even when obviously flummoxed by Bert's Germanic-accented French.

The food is as much a feast for the eyes as for the palate. Aunt Waltraud guzzled a half dozen oysters, served on a bed of ice, and managed to slip them down and talk without missing a beat. Bert and I started with the Belga Salad, which is a sort of "salade folle" arrangement of pata negra ham, mango slices, smoked salmon, baby prawns, cubes of foie gras and frisee lettuce. The small portion was a perfectly respectable main course, and the large portion would be a whole meal in itself.

It was hard to pick a main course, as they were all so appetizing. Aunty had Belgian fish and chips - sole meuniere, served with a cornet of the most perfect crispy, dry, golden chips. Bert went for the fillet of pike-perch in a beer sauce with fried wild mushrooms artfully sprinkled around the edge, and I could not resist the "coucou de Malines", just so I could say I'd tried cuckoo. I was a bit disappointed to find it was actually chicken, but it appears real cuckoo is fairly inedible. The coucou is served two ways - roasted, on a slice of toasted sweet gingerbread with pear syrup and cider vinaigrette (too many flavours going on there) or in a simple waterzooi, which was my choice. The chicken was tender and succulent, swimming in a buttery juice. We washed it all down with a bottle of white Sancerre, which was a touch on the over fruity side to start with, but got better as the food went down.


We didn't really have room for dessert, but that wasn't going to stop Aunty Waltraud, so we felt obliged to keep her company. I had speculoos ice cream with intensely flavoured raspberries, Bert had the miroir of red fruits, which was a blackberry and raspberry topping on chocolate mousse, and Aunty talked her way through a whirl of egg white while I stared at a sculpture trying to decide if it was a woman's torso, a face, or a deformed tree trunk. We finished on double expressos all round to keep us awake on the journey home.

The service was a little on the slow side, perhaps because the waiting staff had trouble getting to the table with Aunty rabbiting on nineteen to the dozen and waving her napkin about. But the beautiful young things were charming, efficient and discreet as well as being nice to look at.

Oh and I mustn't forget the toilets. Well, I don't want to spoil the surprise, so I'll just say make sure you make a comfort break while you are there. It was the only thing that silenced Aunty Waltraud.

Belga Queen
Rue Fosse aux Loups 32
(metro: Brouckere)
Tel: 02 217 2187
www.belgaqueen.be

DARJEELING

Darjeeling on the Rue Stevin, close by the Oirish pubs in the foothills of the Berlaymont, is well placed for the traditional curry after a night on the Guinness. It's fairly minimalist inside and if it's not busy can feel a bit soulless, but I assure you the food makes up for the lack of atmosphere. It is rather reminiscent of an ordinary curry house in a British provincial town - no frills, no phoney orientalism, some unobtrusive sitar music and a waft of cardamom on the air.

Traditional poppadoms come free of charge, with a selection of splatters. When was it that chutney gave way to splatter? Mango chutney is one of the great things in Indian cuisine, and I think it is a shame you don't see it in more restaurants. Perhaps people in Belgium would confuse it with jam.

We eschewed the tempting and large selection of samosas, bhajis and other starters, and headed straight for the main attraction. I have a low tolerance threshold for spicy food, and when dining Indian usually order chicken or lamb shahi korma, or if I'm feeling really adventurous, butter chicken! Darjeeling's menu carries copious explanations and descriptions of dishes, some of which can be adapted to lamb, chicken or prawns, and which encourage nervous diners such as myself to try something new. However, on this night I was true to form and had a chicken muglai korma. The chicken was succulent and juicy, and bathed in a creamy sauce with almond flakes in. My dining partner Lolo La Clope (for it was she) had a chicken madras which from its colour looked decidedly more aggressive than my choice, but her taste buds are made of sterner stuff than mine. Probably deadened by thirty fags a day.

There is also a wide selection of tandoori dishes to choose from and various kinds of breads, vegetable accompaniments and rice dishes. Instead of basmati or pillau rice, we shared a vegetable biryani to accompany our meat dishes. This gives additional vegetables and the rice is more flavourful. The house wine is surprisingly drinkable and moderately priced, although I believe they do not stock Cobra or Kingfisher Indian beers. However, Belgian beers are low in gas so are perfectly suitable to drink with Indian food.

Only later on perusing the menu on their website did I notice that they offer a couple of "Thali" selections of four different dishes, enabling you to try small portions of things you may not have tried before, and I will certainly try one of these next time. Midweek lunchtimes they do an all-you-can-eat buffet, and given the proximity of the Berlaymont, I imagine they do a roaring trade, which would allow them to close at the weekends, but thankfully the only time they close is Sunday lunchtime.

I have been warned that Darjeeling are not very good at coping with large parties, and it is true that on the Saturday night we visited, there were only two people serving the few occupied tables. But if you are a party of up to four people, you should be OK. The owners serve the food themselves and the lady of the house is a charming hostess in an elegant sari.

Worth noting that Darjeeling also do a take-away service, and even deliver for a small extra charge of 9 euros. Check out their website for the full menu.

Darjeeling
106 rue Stevin
Tel: 02 230 1361
www.restodarjeeling.com