CHEZ VINCENT

Chez Vincent, just off Butchers’ Alley, is a very old, established Bruxellois brasserie which is packed every night, so reserve in advance, even mid-week. The service is impeccable, and the young, handsome waiters (that twang you just heard was Vi Hornblower snapping on a thong) are so helpful. They parked Millicent Tendency’s banners in the umbrella stand and stashed her megaphone over the coat rack. We received two complimentary glasses of fizz while making our minds up. I chose Vincent because there’s very little on the menu that Millicent could object to. In fact there’s very little in general that Millicent can find to object to these days, which must make her life very difficult. It was so easy in the early 70’s – when you’d eliminated anything South African, Chilean, Greek, Portuguese, Israeli, or with lovely big sad eyes, you were basically left with chips. Since the lifting of the Iron Curtain, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the release of Nelson Mandela, the defeat of the miners and the death of socialism, there is a shortage of causes célèbres to fight. It's enough to make you want to set fire to a car.

The menu at Chez Vincent is simple and resolutely Belgian: their standard dishes are Moules in various sauces, when in season, steaks, and a limited choice of fish and meat dishes. The house style is brasserie – nothing chichi or frilly, concentrating on classic dishes prepared with perfect ingredients. Millicent approved, it smacked of solid working-class values. For starters I had the Terrine de Légumes au Saumon which was elegant simplicity, simply fresh spring vegetables (carrots, leek, beans) and pieces of salmon preserved in clear aspic and served in a tomato coulis. Millicent had the Panier à Salade de Saison. Thankfully she has not nailed her colours to the mast of vegetarianism, and went for the Rumsteak au Poivre Rouge for main course, whereas I could not resist the Rognon de Veau – usually served whole, but at my request cut into small pieces before cooking. Offally kind of them. Millicent goes ballistic at the sight of a Coca-Cola logo, so we had a bottle of Beaujolais St Amour and some fizzy water. The desserts are worth holding a space for. The Crêpe Vincent was extremely yummy, and Millicent opted for Non-Profiteroles. With a couple of coffees, the damage came to a fairly bourgeois sum, but it’s not every day you relive your youth. We laughed so much about the famous baton charge down the Boulevard St Michel that I could almost smell the CS gas.

I tipped the young waiter generously, which raised a disapproving frown from Millicent who doesn’t believe in gratuities, but a dazzling smile from the young man. You support the workers in your way, Millicent, and I’ll support them in mine.

Chez Vincent
8-10 rue des Dominicains
(off rue des Bouchers)
Tel: 02 511 2607/2303)

IL TRULLI, CHEZ LEON, AND A FEW BARS IN BETWEEN

Cynthia and Angus were in town for a Harold Pinter retrospective (Cynthia used to edit his long pauses). I met up with them in Café de BXL on the Grand’ Place where they were several glasses into the beer-tasting: five varieties of draught Belgian beer for 9 euros. They are served in small brandy glasses on a wooden platter with some cheese cubes, each glass containing 12.5 centilitres, so at £6 a pint this bar have hit on a sure fire moneymaker. However, it is a very good way of sampling Belgian beers without ending up flat on your back (although it gets you off to a good start). You start with a fairly anodine lager of the Leffe variety, and move on through a Hooegaarden type cloudy wheat beer called a Blanche de Bruges, to a very tasty dark Grimbergen then progress to a fairly strong amber-coloured Ciney, finishing up with a Kriek framboise for dessert. It’s only just over a pint, but we were certainly feeling nice and fuzzy round the edges by the time we left.

We paid the obligatory homage to the Mannequin Pis, who for the record was wearing his carnival frock. We amused ourselves by thinking up names for him. Yes, of course it had to be Free Willy. We were obliged to repair to a hostelry for some strong coffee if we were going to go the distance. Le Cirio on Place de la Bourse is an art-deco treasure, very popular with old dears (even older than us) who were getting gently hammered on “half en half”. We all had double expressos, as the beer-tasting had definitely left us slightly the worse for wear.

After a bit of a feet-up at their quite posh hotel, the Renaissance on Rue de Parnasse near the EP (very good weekend deals available) we headed for the Louise area and Brussels’ answer to Little Italy. Il Trulli on rue Jourdan is named after a kind of thatched hut where Italian shepherds have nocturnal trysts with their favourite sheep. The restaurant is elegant and tables are nicely spaced out so your conversations are not overheard. Must remember that next time I’m out with Vi. The menu is fairly fishy, and our meals were all delicious. The names of the dishes were so long that if I go into detail we’ll be here all night. The wine list was even longer than the names of the dishes. It was quite over the top, weighing in at about 35 pages and listed hundreds of Italian wines, by region.

The Ladies Room is extremely elegant, and includes one of those contraptions which makes the loo seat go round in a wobbly circle while being disinfected. When Cynthia had finally recovered her composure, I had to gently explain that you are not supposed to sit on the seat while this is going on.

The next day I took them to the newly refurbished Atomium. Cynthia and I stood at its base and admired the big shiny balls for some time. It would have been churlish not to go inside and we wound our way from one sphere to another, feeling like characters in an episode of Dr Who. Angus, who is frightfullly clever, if a bit mad, pointed out that the Atomium is in fact a cube stood on one corner. And there was me thinking it was just a load of balls.

After a snifter at the Café Metropole on place De Brouckère, where it was warm enough to sit outside and do some people-watching, Angus announced that he was hungry again. We had to stop at a waffle van and stuff a gaufre au chocolat down him to keep him quiet.

In the evening we headed to Chez Léon, that most Bruxellois of brasseries. The food is always reliable, especially if you like mussels, but I love to sit and watch the manageress in action. Madame is always immaculately coiffed and smiling serenely, but presides over the maze-like restaurant with a gimlet eye and total control. She knows exactly who’s had what and which cutlery they used. A woman after my own heart. Angus had mussels in white wine sauce, Cynthia had sole, and I had salmon. All dishes were simple, fresh and beautifully cooked. And eaten with the correct cutlery.

We finished the evening with digestifs in Le Roy d’Espagne on the Grand’ Place, that peculiar pub where the lamps have pigs’ bladders hanging off them. I didn’t dare ask why. Angus, who of course was hungry again, had a Dame Blanche. With big shiny balls squeezed between a Blonde de Bruges and a Dame Blanche, I think most chaps would call that a good weekend.

LE MONDE EST PETIT

I met up with Vi Hornblower for a GNO (Girls’ Night Out) recently. We met at Le Jardin de Nicolas, by Montgoméry metro, which is a pleasant little spot for an aperitif or a cocktail, although Nicolas’ garden wasn’t open due to the brass monkey temperatures. Vi arrived en catastrophe, reapplying Max Factor’s Harem Nights hi-gloss lippy whilst muttering about having to call Pawel out to give her hot pipes a seeing-to. I ordered her a Harvey Wallbanger, she looked as if she needed one. She was wielding a gigantic handbag recently acquired on a shopping expedition to New York. Everything’s bigger in the States.
We moved on to “Le Monde est Petit”, a discreet little place on the corner of rue des Bataves (Tel. : 02.732.44.34) just a little way down the Avenue de Tervuren towards Mérode. Non-smokers will like this place, the front room is smoke-free, but Vi was gagging for a Sobranie so we sat in the “salon” at the back, which has comfy chairs under a Moroccan canopy and is the perfect place for romantic trysts. Or conversations of the type Vi and I have. After a general overview and subsequent trashing of various gentlemen friends, we covered sex tourism for women, bra sizes, and the personal proclivities of the Liberal Democrats.
“Le Monde est Petit” has a blackboard menu, although is a fairly upmarket establishment in every other respect. The kitchen is situated between the front and back rooms and the chef is on public view, so has to keep his whites clean and not spit in the soup. The lady who took our order and served the food was in a state of permanent excitement (as well as a fairly advanced state of pregnancy), bursting into giggles after each visit to our table. She must have been listening in to our conversation.
Vi kicked off with Croquettes de Crevettes (about €9), an old Belgian favourite, although served here in a modern three-panel rectangular plate, which a large croquette at each end and a bit of arty salad in the middle. For main course Vi had the magret de canard, and I had cotelettes d’agneau (about €14 each). Le Monde was not the only thing that was Petit, the portions were fairly nouvelle, but exquisitely presented on large square white plates. My cotelettes d’agneau were arranged like the sails on a little boat made from a slice of aubergine with baby courgettes, baby tomatoes and other vegetable artfully arranged on top. We had a bottle of the house red, a perfectly respectable Vin du Pays d’Oc that wouldn’t set the world on fire but neither would it burn your wallet at 16 euros – and they charge by the centimetre, so if you don’t finish the bottle you don’t pay for it all. Fat chance of that at our table, but always useful to know.
For pudding Vi and I abandoned our overly ambitious plan to share a Crème Brulée aux Pruneaux, and had one each (about €6). It had a fruity flavour and the caramel glaze was as crisp as the ice on Ixelles ponds, and cracked beautifully when bashed with the spoon. The after-dinner coffee was served with a plateful of chocolate Neapolitans. I pretended not to see Vi shove a handful into her copious handbag. The final damage was around 90 euros for two. Not for big hungry truck-drivers, but ideal for non-smokers or people having an illicit liaison, although remember that Le Monde est Petit translates as “small world”. Your dirty little secret might end up on Daphne’s blog.

*UPDATE*   As of 2014 Le Monde est Petit has one Michelin star!!