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

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