Metro, our urbanite hipster metrosexual friend from London, came on the Eurostar to Brussels to escape the madness of the Platinum Jubilee weekend
He
was staying at the Zoom Hotel in trendy Ixelles, which is described as
"cosy industrial style". His room was big and he loved the district.
He pays for stuff by just waving his phone vaguely in the direction of
the waiter, and hops from e-scooter to Uber with ease. He has All The
Apps.
On a warm post-pandemic Thursday evening, most watering holes I
passed on my way to Ixelles were rammed - place Lux, place Jourdan - but
St Boniface was relatively calm and there were still free tables on the
huge terrasse of Le Clan Des Belges opposite the church. Across the
street is the St Boniface restaurant, which had popped up more than once when I was
searching for cassoulet. It is run by a lovely young Belgo-Portuguese
couple - Vincent cooks, Ana does front of house - and is modelled on a
typical "bouchon" Lyonnais, with its red checked tablecloths and old
fashioned French posters on the walls. There are as many tables outside
as inside but it was starting to cloud over so we sat inside. Ana
welcomed us warmly, and took our order. Gorbals and I ordered the
cassoulet, which did not disappoint. It is listed as the real Castelnaudary cassoulet, and came sizzling from the oven, loaded with sausage, duck leg and pork.
Metro ordered the rognons et ris de veau (calf's kidneys and sweetbreads). We had two half-litre carafes
of the house wine - one Beaujolais, one Cotes-du-Rhône. We reluctantly passed on
starters in hopes of leaving room for dessert, but couldn't even manage
that. A very pleasant evening and we left with the firm intention of
returning to sample more of their menu in the future. That's a keeper.
A late snifter is hard to
find on a Thursday when there's not a platinum jubilee in town, and after a coffee at l'Ultime Atome we
ended up in l'Archipel, one of the many African bars on the edges of
Matongé. It was quiet, just a couple of tables where Congolese patrons
were engaged in quiet conversation. The barman was tall dark and
handsome. The music on the sound system was ... Abba. I asked if he
had any Fela Kuti. He feigned ignorance with a fairly non apologetic
smile. My gaydar started beeping. Either that, or this is what Africans listen to when there are no white people around.
Two lowlifes stumbled in.
Think Jesse Pinkman's mates from early "Breaking Bad". Our muscular
barman went to serve them and soon persuaded them they were in the wrong
bar. They left, but soon returned. After a second conversation with
the barman, we heard him raise his voice in a quite forceful "Non!" and
escorted them off the premises. Gay perhaps, but no pushover.
On Saturday I
took Metro to see the new revamp of the old customs halls at Tour
& Taxis, a renovation project which London would give its eye teeth
for. The food court in the Gare Maritime is super high tech, no cash, all contact-free
Covid-safe payment. You do the rounds of the food outlets then order on
the app, or at the central bar, and give your first name and mobile
number. So far so Starbucks. You then find a seat, and you get a text
when your order is ready. Not exactly service with a smile, but it's
fast and efficient. We had smashed baby potatoes with bacon and sauce, a new
one on me. Not stoemp and not baked potato, it's boiled new potatoes
roughly smashed then fried and served with toppings. All the rage in
that London apparently. Outside the food market is a open sided tropical themed platform - formerly a loading bay I imagine - with bamboo hanging chairs and a general tiki vibe, overlooking an artificial beach and play area, so hipster parents can sip their non-alcoholic mai-tais while keeping an eye on little Morgane and Thibault.
It was a hot and sunny afternoon so on the way back we stopped at Parc Josaphat for a refreshment at La Guinguette Populeir. I love a pub in a park, me.
On Saturday night Metro screeched up on a trottinette (e-scooter to you) at the terrasse of the revamped Grand Café, next to the Bourse, which is once again en travaux, as if the concrete wasteland all around is not bad enough. By the way, the paving used for the whole of the piétonnier (pedestrianized zone) which now comprises the Brussels Ramblas is not Belgian bluestone. It is from Kilkenny! We saw the pallets of slabs when it was being laid. So I always make a point of riverdancing down the boulevard Anspach.
After an apérol spritz
or two, the plan was to head for St Géry in search of live music bars
but it was getting late and we ended up in nearby Sainte Catherine, where
restaurants were either full or closing. Le Pré Salé on rue de Flandre was out of mussels but everything else was on the menu. It may look like
a urinal on the inside with its white tiles, but the food and the
welcome were excellent. The walls are hung with photos of Belgian
celebs - Johnny Hallyday, Justine Henin, Annie Cordy, Frédéric
Francois, Benoit Poelvoorde, and other luminaries you may never have
heard of. Arno is not yet in their pantheon, despite living in the
quartier, maybe in the same street, until his sad demise only a month
ago, and I suggested to the young gel that they might like to honour
him, which she duly noted.
Gorbals and Metro at Le Pré Salé
This time Gorbals and I had the kidneys in
mustard sauce and Metro had a very pink filet mignon, with a carafe of house red
and dainty bowls of fries on the side. All very delicious. The
atmosphere was jolly and they ramped up the music towards the end of the
night, Whitney Houston and Britney Spears, what's not to like?
Le Monk is an echt Brusseleir bar. Metro and I ordered cocktails. I wanted something sweet and sticky. The barman
suggested an Apple Pie Martini, made with a mysterious Spanish
concoction called Licor 43, apple juice, cinnamon and whipped egg
white. It was quite delicious, and in future I will have a sticky
instead of dessert. Metro was a bit disappointed with his whisky sour
however.
Apple Pie Martini
Metro is a 24-hour party person, so we repaired to Le Cirio for last orders, a good old fashioned Brussels stalwart with its
waiters in long aprons. And that's where we found ourselves held
hostage to Belgian skies, which opened around midnight and caused us to
be trapped in the bar. It was a deluge of biblical proportions. As a
result we just missed the last metro. Luckily the rain stopped and a
passing taxi did likewise so we got home and, remarkably, dry. And I
spent Sunday watching the Platinum Jubilee on playback.
Zoom Hotel, rue de la Concorde 59
Le Clan Des Belges, 20 rue de la Paix
Le Saint Boniface, 9 rue St Boniface
L'Archipel, 29 rue de la Paix
Gare Maritime, Tour&Taxis
La Guinguette Populeir, Parc Josaphat
Le Grand Café, 78 boulevard Anspach
Le Pré Salé, 20 rue de Flandre
Le Monk, 42 rue Sainte-Catherine
Le Cirio, 18 rue de la Bourse
