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
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
