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

TCHIN TCHIN

Our resident chow-downer Daphne Wayne-Bough comes over all Oriental this month. Do not try this at home...

Modern Thai restaurant Tchin Tchin jostles for business with a whole bunch of trendy eateries around the Chatelain-Bailli part of Ixelles. Scouse Doris and I were glum, having schlepped ail the way over from Woluwe on a Saturday to find that the advertised Fiesta Latina was nowhere to be seen. Place du Chatelain was silent and serving its usual purpose as a car park. To be honest, I felt a bit conspicuous in my fruit basket hat and carrying my biggest maracas. So we sneaked into Tchin Tchin because it's got a very discreet terrace at the back where Doris could sit on her sombrero. You go through the interior dining room and past the open kitchen to the small court yard which is very sheltered, with hot air blowers and - in case of a rare bout of Brussels rain - a big canopy that can be lowered.

The menu is fairly classic oriental fare, but served in an unfussy stylish manner. After chomping our way through the complimentary prawn and chilli crackers, we shared a selection of dlm sum (boulettes vapeur) which afforded us three pieces each - if you're hungry you might be better taking one for yourself, or complementing it wlth a selection of fried hors d'oeuvres. The starters Included soups, nems, loempia, as weil as a fair variety of vapeur items. My main course, sauteed beef in vegetables, was served directly in a generous bowl, with a portion of sticky rice on the side, and was delicious. The vegetables were fresh, the beef tender, with just the merest hint of perfumed spices, but no mouth-burning chilli.

Doris had ordered poulet a la citronelle and, after a few mouthfuls, decided that was not what she had been served, but as she quite liked it anyway, decided not to say anything. 1 tasted it, and reserved judgment. The flavours are very subtle, if you're not a great fan of kick-ass chilli you have nothing to fear at Tchin Tchin. Asterisks indicate which dishes are spicy (*) or very spicy (**). We accompanied our meal with a bottle of Cotes de Provence rosé, and a half-bottle of sparkling water. The total damage was somewhere in the region of 60 euro for two.

At Tchin Tchln, the waiting staff are young, male and refreshingly lacking ln oriental deference. Oriental restaurants can be much of a muchness, but Tchln-Tchin has definitely asserted its own modern identlty. Not a tasselled lantern, a chopstick or a cheong-sam in sight. The background music was unobtrusive and western. No cheesy orientalism to detract from the quality of the food.

The terrace is a little cramped, because It's so popular with smokers - it was packed, whereas the two or three tables of diners in the main dining rooms had the place to themselves. The Fiesta, as it turned out, was the following weekend, by which time my bananas had gone quite black. You can't really believe everything you read on the Internet.

Tchin Tchin
89 rue Americaine
1050 Ixelles
Tel: 02 534 0073

GREENES, CORK CITY

The inhabitants of Cork appear quite comfortably off, the number of smart shops, 4x4 cars, and East European immigrant workers testifying to the reality of the Celtic Tiger economy. There was the occasional swaying Irishman talking lovingly to his can of Caffrey's in the street, but the beggars were quite obviously not Irish. The locals were instead dining out in style in the many smart restaurants, the smartest of which is perhaps Greene's on MacCurtain Street, where I dined on my last evening in Ireland. I took a pre-prandial on the deck overlooking a 40' high waterfall before proceeding into one of the spacious dining rooms where the efficient (and mostly French) staff looked after me royally.

I used to be a little self-conscious about dining alone, in the early days after Harold's demise, but now I'm quite adept, and I would even say I prefer it. Dining solo gives one the opportunity to read, text or ogle the waiter's bottom without feeling obliged to entertain or pretend to be entertained, and one can appreciate the food without any distractions. In fact, I am heartily glad that I don't have to put up with Harold's silliness at the table any more. For those of you who may still find it a little difficult facing a roomfull of diners, I offer you a couple of tips. Firstly, if you are lucky enough to be short sighted, take off your glasses - you should still be able to see what you are eating, but you can't see all the other diners sniggering and pointing at you. Secondly, take a notebook and pen, and make notes during your meal, occasionally peering at the menu. The staff will assume you are a distinguished food writer and you will get right royal treatment.

This trick worked a treat at Greene's where the young waitress presented me with a quite unsolicited appetizer while I perused the menu. I thought she said it was a "chilled red pepper and tomato Bloody Mary", but after a couple of mouthfuls it became obvious that she had said "chilli" not "chilled". I pondered the pan seared loin of rabbit wrapped in Serrano ham with parsnips and honey mash, caramelized figs, beetroot jus and sage and parmesan tuile, but decided there was far too much going on in that plate, and chose a simple dish of medium-rare duck breast on saute potatoes, shallot and girolle mushrooms timbale, melted foie gras and Rossini sauce. It was beautfully presented and quite delicious, with a glass of Merlot. The restaurant manager came over to check that everything was to my liking, and, having inspected his trim French derriere earlier on, I assured him it was. Instead of a dessert I took a delicious Irish coffee well laced with whiskey, and after paying the very reasonable bill I wandered out into the soft evening drizzle through a pleasant alcoholic haze, feeling quite at one with my heritage. I sang "Danny Boy" softly to my can of Murphy's, and knew I had come home.

Greenes
(Behind Isaacs Hotel)
48 MacCurtain Street
Cork
Tel: +353 21 455 2279
www.isaacs.ie

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

BIJ DEN BOER & LA ROUE D'OR

Every year, just before Christmas, Vera Slapp and Cyril arrive for a few days on Eurostar. Apart from doing the Christmas markets, they do a commendable amount of drinking and eating. And drinking. Especially mulled wine, or vin chaud. Cyril, poor dear, is a bit hard of hearing, and doesn’t speak any French. Hence the warming libation is now known as a banjo. I did try and introduce them to flavoured genever, but gave up when Cyril kept asking me who was Jennifer. Deaf sod.

Bij den Boer is a fairly recent addition to the fish restaurants on the Quai aux Briques. The €25 four-course menu is extremely good value. The waiters are nice young men, to which Vera Slapp is also quite partial. I don’t think our waiter was used to being called “darling” before the main course, but he took it in good part and didn’t even seem to mind having his bottom pinched. Not the first time, at least.

The menu (which changes every week) consisted of a delicious home-made fish soup, followed by potted grey shrimp with cheese, then a choice of halibut on a bed of couscous with red peppers, or a perfectly-cooked tender entrecôte steak with mushrooms. We finished with a light fruit salad with a whipped cream topping, which was not too heavy. With a bottle of Muscadet at around 25 euros, the final damage came to 100 euros for the three of us, which is also not too heavy, and excellent value for a very good class of restaurant (no offense, Portia dear, but at my age one appreciates a linen tablecloth and an inside toilet).

La Roue d’Or is an old established restaurant just off the Grand’Place. This is a bit pricier – count 50 euros a head for two courses, apéritifs and wine – but well worth the expense. The room is rather masculine, with wooden benches and a slightly austere feel, no background music, no linen tablecloths. The only frivolous touches are the murals which pay tribute to René Magritte. The waiters wear long white aprons and are very knowledgeable about the food and wine, although were too old to interest Vera, who only preys upon defenceless young men. Alongside such Belgian standards as waterzooi and rabbit in Gueuze beer is a more sophisticated French style cuisine with a noticeable emphasis on olive oil.

My carpaccio de boeuf was succulent, served with shavings of real parmesan cheese and drizzled with the beneficial green nectar. Cyril discovered the delights of rillettes, or potted duck meat, which he not only enjoyed but could even pronounce, and Vera had buffalo mozzarella and tomato with a generous drizzle of the old extra-virgin. I am a great believer in olive oil. When you get to my age, internal lubrication is very important, and olive oil is so much more agreeable than All-Bran.

The daily special, Pot au Feu, was homely and warming comfort food, a mixture of beef and rabbit simmered so long it melted in the mouth, with plenty of tender vegetables. Cyril had an elegant and simple piece of cod - the new monkfish, since the North Sea variety has become officially extinct - on a bed of puréed potatoes with huile d’olive. Vera’s caramelised ham hock turned out to be the whole leg of a baby pig, glistening with a caramel glaze. She’s only a small woman, and the jambonneau was bigger than her handbag, but she did it justice, attacking it with gusto, and then with a knife and fork. We washed it all down with a nice bottle of St Nicolas de Bourgeuil, which was served slightly chilled, as befits a Beaujolais. The flavours are slowly released as the wine warms to ambient temperature. Although the speed that Vera and Cyril drink, I’m not sure it ever got to room temperature.

Only Cyril still had room for a dessert, and took a slice of the home made apple cake which he had been eyeing in the elaborate silver dessert trolley – which would look so right in my dining room. We were stuffed to the gills. The graphic French expression “my back teeth are swimming” was an apt description of how we felt after the Roue d’Or experience. Vera, however, still managed to force down a few chockies on the waddle home. I don’t know where she puts it. Still, after all that olive oil, I shouldn’t need to hit the ex-lax for another week.

Both restaurants were packed, despite it being the beginning of the week, but it was the last one before Christmas. My only – very small – criticism of both is this mania for putting the condiments on the table in their original packaging. I enjoy a bit of down-home informality as much as the next girl, but a proper cruet makes all the difference to an elegant table. And as for ketchup (Bij den Boer) – well, one should have to ask for it. Discreetly. This is not America.

Bij den Boer
60 quai aux Briques
Tel: 02 512 6122

La Roue d’Or
26 rue des Chapeliers
Tel: 02 514 2554