DAPHNE'S DINNERS

ALL GREEK TO ME

2011-11-26T10:00:00.000-08:00

I'm not a big fan of Greek food, to be honest. The best Greek meal I ever had was in Paris, in a restaurant in the 14th arrondissement which I think was called Odyssee, and was taken there by a Greek called Pericles. So that's the key. Get a recommendation from a Greek with a name straight out of the classics (but establish that the restaurant is not owned by a member of his or her family). I remember that I had a delicious lamb dish called kleftiko, made with tender baby lamb and yoghurt, which I have never been able to find again, even in Cyprus where they tried to serve me mutton and thought I wouldn't notice. I am now persona non grata in Ayia Napa.

In May I was in Athens for the Euroompah championships, which involved a number of visits to Greek tavernas and other eating establishments. Many of them were chosen at random whilst wandering aimlessly through the Plaka. The only one that stands out is a taverna called Hermion in a courtyard off Pandrossou, where I had a Greek sausage omelette and a beer for lunch. There are some pretty restaurants on the slopes of the Acropolis, but I could not distinguish one from another in terms of food. Not one of them offered kleftiko. There was a fair bit of bouzouki music although to be fair, I didn't hear one smashing plate. I suppose in the current economic climate, they can't afford to be as extravagant as they used to be.

There is one restaurant in the Plaka which is reputed to be one of the best in Athens. Mais bien sur, she blushed modestly. Sadly I did not get a chance to eat at Daphne's since we were so busy with the championships, but if you find yourself in Athens do drop in. I do hope it hasn't been attacked by protesters.

On the last night we had booked a large table for what was meant to be a celebratory dinner in the Thissio district, which is where what's left of Athenian cafe society is to be found. Filistron is known for having the best view of the Acropolis in the whole city. The roof terrace was packed. As we had ended up with "nul points" we were not exactly cheerful, and the thought of another plate of moussaka was depressing us even further. The set meal was a seemingly endless series of plates of food to share. I have to say that, although I'm sure the grub is better than you'll get down by the Plaka, it's a bit like Lebanese food in that there are a limited number of dishes. Stuffed vine leaves, olives, feta cheese, calamari, meatballs, souvlaki, aubergines, when you've worked your way through one lot of meze you've tasted all Greek food has to offer.

However, the view made up for everything. As the sun slowly went down and the sky darkened from duck-egg blue to azure to dark blue to black, the lights on the Parthenon came up, and by the time darkness fell the ancient ruin seemed to hover in the night sky. Magical. No wonder I can't remember anything about the food.

We almost forgot our misery about the competition result. But not quite. Manfred and the boys started singing mournful tunes. We got some very unpleasant looks from couples who were trying to have a romantic evening and whose mood was not being enhanced by Germans singing Leonard Cohen. As if the Greeks didn't have enough to be miserable about.

LA TRUFFE NOIRE

2011-11-05T16:00:00.000-07:00

In these apocalyptic times of economic meltdown when we are facing a recession alongside which the Great Depression of 1928 will look like a momentary shortage of cash, it is courageous - some would even say reckless - to set off to eat truffles in a Michelin-starred restaurant. But someone's got to do it, so Scouse Doris and I dusted off the chauffeur and set off for dinner at La Truffe Noire.

Just entering La Truffe Noire is a special experience, ascending the steps of the elegant old townhouse through the imposing cast iron gates, into a world of sheer opulent luxury. The tables in the sumptuously carpeted ground floor dining room are well spaced and beautifully dressed. Not a glass or a spoon out of place. The colours are neutral - beige, cream, dark brown, the colours of truffles in fact. We had a table in the middle of the room where we could observe everything, and were well impressed by the provision of a small table for our handbags. It's such attention to detail which makes the difference between a good restaurant and a really special one, and every detail at La Truffe Noire has been carefully considered and beautifully executed.

Luigi Ciciriello, owner and "Maitre de maison", gave us a potted history of the restaurant which he opened in 1988 and has run single handedly ever since with his small team of highly trained staff. He sources his truffles from Italy, Croatia and the south of France, where the precious tuber melanosporum is traded with as much drama and excitement as oil or diamonds. At the present time, white truffles are trading at around 3,000 euros a kilo. Luigi, like many top class restaurateurs, negotiates the price with his supplier at the beginning of the season for the large amount of truffles he purchases throughout the year. The customers inhale the voluptuous fumes with reverence.

A flight of amuse-bouches, or appetizers, was placed in front of us, consisting of a miniature pumpkin teacake, a chiffony espuma de perdreau et cèpes au riz soufflé, and a bijou crème brulée salé-sucré de foie gras aux pignons de pin, to whet our appetites while we perused the menu. The "menu privilège" which was our choice costs a stonking 225 euros a head, but trust me, you'll remember everything you ate. There is a more reasonable 50-euro menu available at lunch and dinner, although you will have to pay extra for truffles (10 to 20 euros per shaving), and with wine, you'll be lucky to get out for less than 120 euros a head. But if luxury came cheap, it wouldn't be luxury now, would it?

On the wine list is a Chateau Pétrus Cru Hors Classe 1982 at 3,700 euros which made our eyes water a bit. But there are a number of affordable wines on the two impressive wine lists – one French, one not - starting at around the 40 euro mark. We opted for a different wine with each dish, and the sommelier, who clearly knows his stuff, rose to the challenge admirably. He appeared, smiling, with the first of our wines, a glass of something very crisp and white from the Ile de Porquerolles in the south of France. The wine married perfectly with our first course, which was a beef carpaccio dressed at the table by Luigi himself. Two rectangular plates covered with paper thin slices of almost translucent Belgian Bleu des Prés beef were bathed in a truffle oil dressing, mixed by hand for each table, finished off by a generous shaving of aged parmesan and fresh white truffles, and presented with a flourish in a heady waft of truffle aroma.

Luigi presents the truffles to each client on arrival, and one is invited to poke one's nose into the glass jars and breathe deeply. The perfume of truffles is unique. I cannot describe it. Peter Mayle has said it is somewhere between meat and mushroom. If you have never tasted truffles, it is one of those 101 things to do before you die. The flavour is all in the aroma, you taste it through your nose ; the texture is firmer than a mushroom but softer than a nut, somewhat akin to a pistachio. Truffles cannot be farmed, hence their rarity and astronomic price, but the chemical ingredients have been identified and the aroma can be reproduced synthetically in truffle oil. A valuable bit of advice: buy truffle oil in the smallest possible quantity, since the aroma will disappear after a while.

Next followed a ravioli farci de truffes aux 3 céléris. Three wafer-thin ravioli containing slivers of black truffle, basking in a nage or soup made from duck stock and fresh cream, decorated with a few ultra thin sticks of lightly-poached baby celery heart. The marriage of flavours worked perfectly. Doris said the nage tasted like the best mushroom soup in the world. The sommelier brought us a glass of Slovenian Renski Rizling, which was surprisingly good. Slightly fruitier than the Porquerolles, it set the ravioli off to perfection. I was impressed to see that wines from "New Europe" are finally being treated seriously.

Sound a fanfare for for the signature dish - "La Croque au Sel" - a whole 40g Périgord truffle (about the size of a small Brussels sprout) cooked in a rich sauce périgourdine, which sat in its own small detachable bowl in the middle of a specially handmade terracotta dish commissioned specially for the restaurant from a local potter, on which were laid out a row of tiny slices of melba toast, a small bowl of fleur de sel and a quenelle of creamy white truffle butter. Luigi demonstrated how to eat it, placing a sliver of butter on a piece of toast, then adding a tiny piece of truffle in its unctuous sauce, and sprinkling a few grains of fleur de sel on top before popping it into your mouth, closing your eyes and ascending to heaven. The wine served with this was a Tuscan Montechiaro which again went perfectly with the dish. All the wines are selected personally by Luigi and supplied direct from the growers. The rich Périgourdine sauce with a hint of Madeira was positively sinful.

Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, God save the cheese. Swiss Tete de Moine shaved paper-thin and fashioned into exquisite flowers, drizzled with honey and – I kid you not - flakes of Cohiba tobacco (Doris had just given up the weed but made an exception for this) with some truffled Brillat-Savarin. A witty touch, since it was the great French food writer Brillat-Savarin who dubbed the knobbly black fungi "Diamonds of the kitchen".

We tried to keep the orgasmic moaning down as we ate, and watched the Maestro work the room. In between dressing carpaccios of beef or salmon, thrusting customers' noses into the jars of truffles, meeting and greeting and keeping a gimlet eye on his irreproachable staff, he found time to stop and chat at length with each table in English, French, Italian or Japanese. No wonder he has "The Magician" inscribed on his office door.

On the first floor is a cool smoking room, well ventilated and furnished with masculine leather sofas, and next door a private dining room for up to 20 guests. If you're in charge of the office Christmas party this year, bear in mind that group menus start at 139 euros a head including wine. This is where the likes of Prince Felipe of Spain, Prince Charles, President Barroso, and the great and the good have dined. It is also where Luigi keeps his "museum" of leather-bound wine lists dating back to the restaurant's beginnings in 1988, each one decorated by hand by a different artist. Luigi is a discerning patron of the arts as can be seen from the various paintings and sculptures dotted throughout the restaurant, many of them on a truffle theme. This is obviously so much more than a restaurant to him.

The two chefs Aziz Bhatti and Erik Lindelauf have been with Luigi almost since the beginning. Even if you choose to pass on truffles, the cuisine stands on merit alone and would still richly deserve the Michelin star which was awarded last year. Everything is made by hand, down to the mini bread rolls flavoured with tomato and rosemary. The waiting staff of three charming young men (most appreciated by two ladies of a certain age) are faultless, discreet, appearing just at the right moment and melting back into the carpet like ghosts. They discreetly watch every table, ready to spring to your assistance if you require anything.

Dessert was a duo of apple crème brulée studded with truffles, and a scoop of home made vanilla ice cream also containing truffles. I can't in all honesty say the truffles added anything to the dessert beyond novelty value, but they are the whole raison d'etre of the restaurant and Luigi would put them in the coffee if he could. Petits fours were served with jasmine tea and a glass of Frangelico, Doris's favourite liqueur, from the well stocked bar.

L'Atelier de la Truffe Noire is the more democratically priced concept store and restaurant at 300 avenue Louise, where you can sample 3, 4 or 5 courses for between 35 and 95 euros, or even have the chef come round and prepare your meal at home. On the restaurant's smart trilingual website Luigi runs competitions for his regular customers, with fabulous prizes, ranging from a weekend in a Tuscan vineyard or in champagne country at the wheel of a Maserati, to a week's holiday in Slovenia or Croatia.

From the truffle-themed napkins to the unique tableware, La Truffe Noire bears testimony to the passion and dedication of Luigi Ciciriello. Each evening's service is a performance. I imagine his shoulders drooping when the last customer has gone. To quote the Maestro: "It's not a restaurant, it's a theatre. And a love affair."

Indulge yourself while you still can. The end is nigh.

La Truffe Noire

Boulevard de la Cambre 12

1000 Brussels

Tel : 02 640 44 22

http :www.truffenoire.com

IN A RIGHT TIZI

2011-09-24T11:00:00.000-07:00

Couscous (as you all know) is the staple dish of the Maghreb, i.e. Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco. Basically it involves a bowl of steamed cracked wheat accompanied by root vegetables cooked in a soup, plus some meat, spicy mutton sausages called merguez, or (in Tunisia only) fish. The soup includes five basic vegetables: carrots, celery, turnips, onions, and courgettes. You can also add tomatoes or tomato paste, broad beans, chick peas, or capsicum peppers.

I am an expert on couscous, having criss-crossed the Sahara on a camel with my very own Berber tribe, and can tell you there is a world of difference between the insipid Moroccan style couscous you will get at fancy-ass places like Kasbah or Le Petit Chouia and a real Berber couscous. I actually make my own in time-honoured fashion, rolling the dampened and oiled cracked wheat gently under my armpit whilst ululating wildly, then steaming it in a traditional stainless steel couscoussiere over the meat and vegetables in their sauce.

Squatting improves the flavour

If you are making it at home, let me give you a couple of tips: whatever it says on the packet, do NOT prepare the cracked wheat by pouring boiling water over it and leaving it for five minutes! The warm salted water has to be added a little at a time and allowed to swell the grain which is then gently sifted with the fingers (or a fork) to separate them. A little olive oil at some point in the preparation can help lift and separate. When an equal amount of water (i.e. one cup for one cup of grain) has been added in stages, then the grain is steamed for 20 minutes or so, if possible over the soup and vegetables in which you may also cook the lamb or the chicken to add flavour. If you don't have a couscous steamer, you can use a regular vegetable steamer with a layer of clean cotton or muslin in the bottom to stop the grains trickling through. The prepared couscous should be pale yellow and fluffy, with the grains moist but separate. My second tip is, don't buy your merguez at a supermarket. Only a halal butcher (plenty around St Josse or Anderlecht) will supply authentic spicy mutton sausages as well as mutton and lamb.

You may have tried couscous for the first time here in Brussels and been somewhat underwhelmed. There are not many couscous restaurants which get a star rating from me, and those that do will likely be in Marrakesh or Paris rather than Brussels. Real natives (of North Africa, not Belgium) will tell you the best are to be found in St Gilles, all of them on the Rue de Moscou. It's a small street, with four restaurants in it, ALL of which are couscous joints! With some relief I located the perfect Berber couscous at one of them, Le Tizi Ouzou, which is Algerian, as opposed to Moroccan. This does matter, believe me. Tizi Ouzou, or “Tizi” as it is known to its denizens, is the capital of Kabylie, the predominantly Berber coastal region between Algiers and the Tunisian border whence hail Zinedine Zidan, and the fathers of actors Isabelle Adjani and Dany Boon. The restaurant was the first couscous house to open in Brussels over 40 years ago, and despite the competition that has opened up in the street, is still going strong.

Le Tizi Ouzou is an unpretentious little place offering a selection of couscous and tagine dishes as well as classic starters such as “brik à l'oeuf” (a kind of egg roll, make with a type of filo pastry called “brik” in Algeria and “warka” in Morocco), “pastilla” (pigeon pie) and chorba spicy soup Don't bother with a starter before a couscous as it usually comes as an “All you can eat” deal, and they will top up your bowl on request. The grain is light yellow, devoid of raisins or any of that Tunisian frippery, and perfectly fluffy. The sauce is a full-bodied soup with plenty of colour and flavour. The vegetables are not overcooked, and the kick-ass hot paste known as harissa is served in a little pot on the side. The "couscous maison" is served with stewed mutton, which you may never have tasted and is worth a try – it is succulent and melts in the mouth, at a most reasonable 17 euros. The wine list includes such Algerian specialities as Médéa, Mascara and Cuvée du Président, as well as house wines. The restaurant is simple and clean, with typical North African blue and white tiles on the walls. The waitress is a jolly motherly type who pours a mean mint tea, serving it in the traditional silver teapot with a shaker of orange flower water. If you've got any room left after your epic couscous you could accompany your mint tea with an oriental pastry or some fresh dates.

The eyes follow you round the room

We came out, stuffed, having spent 25 euros a head, including wine, mint tea, a tip and a visit to Chef in his kitchen. As I departed I had an overwhelming urge to ululate.

Le Tizi Ouzou
Rue de Moscou 36
1060 St Gilles
Tel: 02 538 1533

IL PICCOLO PADRINO

2011-09-04T10:00:00.000-07:00

Il Piccolo Padrino and its listed wall

There are a number of Italian pizza joints down avenue Georges Henri, and I thought I'd tried them all, but it turned out I was wrong. Il Piccolo Padrino on the corner of rue Prekelinden is a cut above the others. You can't miss it, it's the one with the very old original advert painted on the wall, which dates from 1925 and used to alert passers-by to the pharmacy underneath. The advertisement was listed in 2004.

The seasonal menu boasted that "la saison des cèpes" had arrived. "Oooooh cèpes!" cried Scouse Doris and Rupert Posh-Geordie in unison. Cèpes, as you will know, are a type of mushroom, known variously as porcini, boletus edulis, penny buns or, in remoter parts of the north-east "squirrel's bread". The specials board boasted "escalope aux cèpes" and some other dishes featuring the famed fungus.

I often order veal in Italian restaurants as you can't find it anywhere else. Rupert, an exiled Prince of Northumbria, shares my love of the tender calf meat. Despite having grown up in various royal palaces across Europe, he is not squeamish about eating the dear little calves with their big eyes. In perfectly slurred Italian he ordered "escalope di vitello ai porcini", and I ordered a classic escalope milanese. His came swimming in rich gravy adorned with the prized fungus and roasted cherry tomatoes, and mine was lightly fried in golden breadcrumbs and served with the traditional lemon and a bit of salad on the side, with a separate bowl of spaghetti in tomato sauce. Doris went for tagliolini aux cèpes, and we washed it all down with a litre carafe of house red. The cèpes were delicious, quite sweet and tender. The mushroom season is starting, and I resolved to dig out my favourite mushroom recipes for the colder weather.

Squirrel's bread - boletus - porcini - cèpes - penny buns

The Padrino is quite a smart modern restaurant, no murals of Vesuvius or Venetian gondolas here thank you very much. I would only mark it down on two things: (a) the toilets, which were clean but very basic; and (b) the panna cotta. I did ask - as I always do - if the panna cotta is home made, and they replied - as they always do - "of course!" I do believe their panna cotta was home made, however it was not really a panna cotta. The chef had mixed stiffened egg whites in and turned it into a panna cotta flavoured mousse. It was very nice, but it wasn't a panna cotta, which should have a consistency somewhere between jelly and blancmange. Next time I'll go for the tiramisu.

They offer a wide selection of pizza, to eat in or take away.

Damage, around 30 euro a head, without starters.

Il Piccolo Padrino
350 avenue Georges Henri
1200 Woluwe St Lambert
Tél: 02 736 50 01

BRITANNIA FIGHTS BACK

2011-08-23T04:02:00.000-07:00

After my ranting rage about Larousse's treacherous slander of British cuisine, I have just completed a visit to Albion's shores and have visited a series of excellent eateries from central London to the wilds of Oxfordshire via the bracing beaches of Sussex. All I can say to Monsieur Larousse is: ah speet on yeur overpriced French foreign meuck, and yeur muzzair was a 'amster!!

London:

Gourmet Burger Kitchen (GBK), Baker Street and elsewhere
Chain of simple burger restaurants, burgers are made from ground beef and cooked to order. Various options, food is fresh and reasonably priced.

Regency Cafe
The uncontested star of greasy spoons, this spotless corner caff has featured in the film "Layer Cake", as well as Masterchef 2011 and Andrew Neill on Class. The menu is standard British caff fare - all-day breakfasts, sausage & mash, etc. - and the place is always packed with builders, taxi drivers and office workers during the week. Nuff said.

The Betjeman Arms, St Pancras International Station
I always arrange to get the 14.35 Eurostar back from London so that I can have lunch here. Their fish & chips are stonkingly good - and that's from someone who lives in Belgium.

Pompidou
Another simple caff situated on the Pentonville Road between York Way and Caledonian Road, a couple of minutes' walk from St Pancras. Miles better than all those chain coffee shops like Costa Packet or Caffe Zero that abound in the area. I had a simple toasted bagel with butter and jam and a latte, but my nose was twitching at some huge salads two tables down which were emanating freshness.

Berks, Bucks & Oxon

The Shoulder of Mutton, Playhatch, Berks
Lovely olde-worlde country gastropub with superior bar food. There's also The Crown in the same village if there's no room at this inn.

The London Street Brasserie, Reading, Berks
If you're having a day's retail therapy in the Oracle, the LSB is a great place to set your bags down for a couple of hours. Classier than the chain restaurants on the riverside, less flashy than the Jamie Oliver place, the food is good, fresh, beautifully presented and served with a smile. The staff are professional and know about the food and wines. Extremely reasonable prices for such high quality.

The Bird in Hand, Sonning Common, Berks
Another country gastropub, pleasant environment, fresh chunky sandwiches and cider. No such thing as a ploughman's lunch any more, I was told by the barman. Shame. I am going to start a movement to bring it back.

The Kingswell Hotel, Harwell, Oxon
Superb 3-course meal for half the price you would pay for similar quality in London. (About 30 quid a head). The hotel is in the pretty village of Harwell.

The Barge, Woolstone, Milton Keynes
Charming olde-worlde pub with an airy conservatory restaurant, or you can eat in the bar or at a table outside in the garden.

Sussex
The Crown & Anchor, Shoreham By Sea
Nothing much to look at from the street, but a charming conservatory restaurant at the back and a terrace overlooking the river Adur. Selection of chunky club sandwiches, salads or hot dishes.

Carats, Southwick Beach, Portslade
The beachside greasy spoon is a popular Sunday brunch venue for locals and a few celebs - Chris Evans is rumoured to have been spotted here tucking into a bacon sarnie. You'll have to queue for 20 minutes or so if you come between 11 and 12 on a Sunday, but it's worth it. The Carats Breakfast at 5.65 will set you up for a long walk along the beach.

So, Monsieur Larousse, put zat in your peep and smirk it.

LE COQ EN PATE

2011-06-02T00:08:00.001-07:00

I may have not been chosen for The Rapture, but there are certain restaurants that make you want to stay on earth. Brussels' Le Coq en Pate is one of them. Tucked away in a quiet road behind a park in Woluwé-St Lambert, I had long wanted to try this restaurant which has been awarded one "couvert" (knife and fork - honourable mention) in the Benelux Michelin Guide, and which doesn't take walk-ins (I've tried). As Scouse Doris and I had birthdays fairly close together, it seemed like the ideal opportunity for a leisurely Sunday outing for Ladies Who Lunch. The restaurant, which is discreet enough that you may have passed it several times without even noticing it is there, is fairly small and decorated in a clean 1980's style with leather banquettes and Venetian blinds. There were two tables against the wall occupied by single ladies of a certain age having lunch in solitary splendour. Most of the diners were even older than myself, which I take to be a sign of a good restaurant.

We sat by the window and perused the menu. There is an à la carte menu, and two tasting menus, one at 30 euros and one at 45 euros. We went for the 45 euros tasting menu, and ordered two glasses of chilled prosecco with peach liqueur - a kir royale with a difference - to kick start our gastronomic adventure. While we were sipping our apéritifs, we amused ourselves with the pipettes of olive oil supplied on the table.

The "mise en bouche" arrived almost immediately, a large square slate on which five items sat: these were not on the menu, but I do remember they were a "cappuccino de mortadelle", a gazpacho and a pea soup, all served in glasses, and two of them topped with whipped sour cream. All three were tiny, beautiful and packed with flavour. I believe in the trade this sort of presentation is known as a "flight" of dishes. To accompany these, a tiny cheese scone and a tiny piece of cornbread completed the composition.The taste of garden peas just exploded in my mouth. The mortadelle cappuccino was pure froth, tasting of ham. Doris was enamoured of the gazpacho, which looked like a tiny serving of strawberries and cream but the flavours of tomato and cucumber were intense. It was all a bit Heston Blumenthal, our eyes seeing one thing and our taste buds experiencing another, but a great introduction to what was to follow.

First starter: three asparagus sticks in a egg pesto dressing, served with scallops (St Jacques) and salami chips, a spinach (?) sauce and a test-tube of Vichysoisse. And a nice shot of Doris' cleavage.

Second starter: half a pacchero (pasta tube, a bit like cannelloni) with a mortadelle and salami stuffing, with a tiny egg of buffalo mozzarella and a sliver of Spanish cured ham, served on a hubcap.

Main course: one tiny, perfectly slow-cooked spare rib of pork in a honey-spicy glaze, served with a glazed lettuce leaf and something else, damned if I know, I was off with the fairies by this time. Each of the three savoury courses came with a glass of suitably matched wine - two whites and a red.

The dessert(s): the pièce de résistance. A flight of five mini-desserts on a slate: melon sorbet; skewer of fresh pineapple chunks with cinnamon; lemon meringue; strawberries with cream; fresh sweet orange and pineapple juice with pulp. All TOTALLY delicious.

To finish: coffee, served with mini Madeleines and a box of the lightest, whitest, crispest meringues you have ever tasted. I ate about half the box, and normally I wouldn't touch a meringue.

We drifted out of the restaurant on a cloud of what I can only compare to post-coital afterglow. Doris said it was a shame those two ladies never spoke to each other throughout their meal. But I sort of understood why they didn't. You don't want to talk to the neighbours while you're having sex, do you?

Le Coq en Pate
Tomberg 279
1200 Woluwe St Lambert
Tel: 02 762 1971

O BIFANAS (CHEZ SEBASTIAO)

2011-01-14T03:40:00.000-08:00

Gonzo claimed it was the best Portuguese restaurant in Brussels, so one rainy January night after a few Kwaks with Scouse Doris and her new paramour Rupert Posh-Geordie, we staggered up the rue de l'Ecuyer and swung a right into the Ilot Sacré, as that restaurant-jammed part of the old town is known. O Bifanas on the rue des Dominicains is tiny but has been recently refurbished – Roopers remembered it as a tiny oilcloth-tabled cantina in the old days.

Sebastiao Garcia, the boss, has the most fabulous Hercule Poirot style moustache, sadly I didn’t have my camera with me or I would have taken a picture of me fondling it. The menu encompasses meat and fish dishes, as we were sat by the tropical fishtank we opted for the latter. The fish in the tank eyed us with disdain, if not downright hatred.

I have no clue about Portuguese food, except a vague memory of a New Year with Harold in Lisbon a number of years ago when I recall eating very well, although no idea what. I know that Bacalao, or salt cod, is very, well, salty. As it was a bit late, we skipped the starter and ordered main courses directly. I opted for the caldeirada de peixe which is a big fish stew. Roopers knew a bit about Portuguese food and ordered the roasted cod for himself and the “bar” or sea bass for Scouse Doris. We ordered a pitcher of house white to go with it, which came in a most original glass jug which was weighted so as to tip naturally into the correct angle for pouring. Very clever.

While we waited we were served a complimentary plate of delicious finely sliced raw ham, and a bowl of buttery yellow-green olives sprinkled with rock salt. Salt, decidedly, is an important part of Portuguese cuisine.

Both the white fish dishes came on a rectangular plate with vegetables and beautiful little new potatoes roasted in their skins. My caldeirada, however, was the pièce de résistance. I was first issued with a great big bib adorned with a picture of a lobster. The reason for this became clear when the dish arrived in a hinged metal cauldron, hence the name I suppose, and Sebastiao unhooked the lid with a flourish to reveal the most beautiful and fragrant stew you have ever seen. There were lobster claws, there was a king prawn, and lumps of skate, and other white fish, in the most delicious orange-tinted broth which would have made a delicious fish soup on its own. I was equipped with all the necessary tools – a big spoon for the broth, a knife and fork and a crochet hook for digging into the lobster claws. I prepared to get myself into one delicious mess.

Some half an hour later I emerged from the primeval soup, my bib generously splashed and licking my chops. The creatures in the fishtank had now turned their backs on us in disgust. Two pitchers of the house white had slipped down nicely. Doris had found her sea bass a bit on the salty side, but Roops enjoyed his roasted cod.

While Doris and Roops went outside for a fag, I mentioned Gonzo to the guv'nor, who beamed broadly, and our coffees arrived with a complimentary snifter - three massive glasses of Portuguese brandy. Cheers, Gonzo! Much as I would have loved a pasteis de nata, I was stuffed. But I shall certainly reserve space next time, and either eat meat or sit further away from the fishtank.

It’s not the cheapest restaurant in town – but situated on the Rue des Dominicains alongside Chez Vincent and Scheltema, it wouldn’t be. We ended up coughing for about 32 euros a head, without ordering starter or dessert, but got complimentary nibbles and pousse-café. Sebastiao waved us off into the wet night, his moustaches curling in the rain. The fishtank bubbles flared briefly with a rude noise.

O Bifanas (Chez Sebastiao)

30 rue des Dominicains

1000 Brussels

NHUBE

2010-10-14T21:44:00.000-07:00

NH Hotel, Lyon St Exupéry airport

I recently spent a week touring the Luberon, and was frankly underwhelmed on many fronts, not least the food. Avoiding expensive and tourist-infested places was easy, however finding alternative places to eat was less so. On a couple of occasions I resorted to buying some bread, cheese and fruit from the local market and picnicking in a beauty spot. At Isle-sur-la-Sorgue I had a couple of fairly agreeable lunches but pleasant places to eat an evening meal in small Luberon towns - in Apt, at least, where I was staying - are thin on the ground. You would be forgiven for thinking the national dish of Provence is pizza.

I flew back to Brussels from Lyon, where I arrived with a few hours to spare before my flight. Lyon St Exupery airport, which caters mostly to the likes of Easyjet, doesn't boast much in the way of gourmet dining, but the NH Hotel at the airport had a nice-looking restaurant offering a 16-euro two-course lunch during the week. I calculated that I had two and a half hours to kill, so I went for the 22-euro formula, which throws in a third course and a glass of wine. It was quite delicious, well served by courteous and well-trained staff, although I apologise if I can't remember what I had. Some kind of fish as a main course, I think. Chef himself came out to greet each table individually and ask how we had enjoyed the lunch.

"I've just spent a week in Provence, and this is the best meal I've had all week!" I told him. He beamed.

Only on my return did I check out the restaurant on the internet and found it was part of the Nhube concept restaurants designed for the Spanish NH hotel chain by famed Catalan chef Ferran Adria. Well of course! I should have guessed. Nhube restaurants can be found in many NH hotels in Spain and elsewhere, many of them at airports.

Next time I won't bother going further than Lyon, aptly named "la capitale gourmande".

I may not ever make it to El Bulli but at least I've sampled a little of Ferran Adria's magic

SEVENTEEN

2010-09-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

I recently jumped aboard the Thalys to visit Vi Hornblower who has just taken up residence in Paris not a million miles from the Champs-Elysées, having become the Paris correspondent of the Reading Chronicle. Vi's retired husband Desmond had still not awoken after a week in the sleep clinic last March, so she called up her old flame Reggie, who used to be Something Big in Bauxite, and was on one of his regular jaunts from darkest Africa where he has an important position as The Despot's Special Adviser, to join us for lunch.

We piled into the Bistro du 17eme, on avenue de Villiers near Pereire RER and metro, which offers a 38 euro menu including aperitif, three courses, half a bottle of wine per person and coffee. The Bistro is part of a chain of seven restaurants which all serve the same menu, and includes the Bistro Melrose, one of Harold's and my favourite troughs in the old days. Harold used to love the foie gras, although could not pronounce it to save his life, and ended up making it sound like some kind of sushi.

The Bistro du 17e is very classy, with proper linen tablecloths and napkins, and lots of plush and mirrors. We perused the menu over three kir royales, which gave me flashbacks to the Bloggers' Christmas party the year before last in Reading. Violet and I had foie gras de canard to start, in memory of Harold, and Reggie had a Gateau Landais, which was a very posh potato cake.

To follow I skillfully dissected a simple but perfectly cooked sole meunière au beurre, served with a little tub of flawless creamed potato. I do find it sad that restaurants don't have fish knives any more, even in Paris. Vi had perfect carré d'agneau, cooked à point, with gratin dauphinois. Reggie, being a fairly unadventurous type, had entrecote with pommes frites, or steak and chips to you. We washed this down with a bottle of Touraine blanc between Violet and me, and Reggie had a whole bottle of Premières Cotes de Blaye red at no extra charge. The service was elegant, efficient and the staff all spoke English, which was just as well as a number of our neighbours appeared to be from the better parts of Surrey.

How we managed to hold a conversation with our faces constantly in our plates is a mystery, but we hardly stopped nattering. I now know more about bauxite than I will ever need to, but Reggie was so charming that he kept us both enthralled. It is unusual for Vi to be enthralled by anything over 25, especially fully-dressed, but I guess Reggie and she had previous. It was sweet to see the two of them flirting competitively with the young waiter.

Vi and I were already stuffed but couldn't resist the dessert list. I was served something wonderful called a Magnifique, which was indeed magnifique, a sort of mousse with a caramelized topping, which I admired for several seconds while Vi demolished her Millefeuille with its salty caramel sauce. Reggie, ever circumspect, went for the cheese, having the dregs of his whole bottle of red to finish off.

Three coffees later we paid the bill and staggered back to Violet's luxurious penthouse on a roll, where we polished off two bottles of champers and Reggie, who is what is known as an Old Africa Hand in the office, regaled us with his tales of derring-do and adventures up the Zambezi. Vi dug out some old photos of her dancing the can-can in a dugout canoe going over Victoria Falls, and how we laughed when she told us that Desmond was known to the local lingo as "Little White Man With Huge Set of Bongos".

The Bistro Company comprises:

Le Bistro du 17e, 108 avenue de Villiers, Paris 17e
Le Bistro Melrose, place de Clichy, Paris 17e
Le Bistro St Ferdinand, 275 boulevard Pereire, Paris 17e
Le Bistro de Breteuil, 3 place de Breteuil, Paris 7e
Le Bistro des Deux Théatres, 18 rue Blanche, Paris 9e
Le Bistro Champetre,107 rue St Charles, Paris 15e
Le Bistro de la Muette, 10 chaussée de la Muette, Paris 16e

BRUSSELS GRILL

2010-06-25T23:35:00.001-07:00

Yes, which part of me would you like?

I have been in Brussels five years now and every working day have walked past a Brussels Grill without feeling the remotest desire to eat there. The red-and-yellow steer horns sign, the menu with its big colour pictures, all had the appeal of a Berni Inn steakhouse circa 1980. Even when the terrace was heaving on a hot day, its location right on a very busy main road did not tempt me.

The other day I couldn't avoid going there for a group lunch. Most of us, being girlies, had salads. Which turned out to be amazing - copious, fresh, varied, and good value. I had the salade aux lardons, with comes with a generous helping of bacon bits and a barely boiled egg sitting on a dressed green salad. The salad dressing is delicious and the leaves are fresh and crunchy. Two colleagues had the goat's cheese salad and the seafood salad, which both pronounced to their satisfaction, confirmed by their empty plates at the end of the meal. A couple of other colleagues went for steaks, and demolished them. The meat is Argentinian and is, apparently, excellent.

It was one of those days when I had a craving for chips, which - together with being able to fill out my tax return unaided - makes me realize I am becoming quite Belgian. The large portion of frites - easily enough for two - came in a bowl and were excellent. Our waiter was a speedy wag with a constant line in chat in French and English, and managed to keep all 10 of us happy despite the terrace being absolutely chocker on the first really hot day of the summer. The terrace has canopies if the heat is too much. Sadly there's not much they can do about the location, right on the Avenue du Boulevard by one of the exits to Rogier metro station, but I'm told the basement dining room is very pleasant.

Brussels Grill is a franchise operation, and there are other branches at Porte de Namur and Place de Brouckère, handily placed for the UGC cinemas. The Boston Cafe at Porte de Namur and Raphael just off boulevard Anspach are also part of the same group.

Salads cost around 8.50 euros which is exceptional good value. Steaks a bit more expensive but not outrageous. With a soft drink I think my share came to about 17 euros.

I'd definitely go back again, and try the meat next time. I'd recommend the Brussels Grill for lunch on a work day, or a pre- or post-cinema dinner. It would even be suitable for dinner for a big group where you didn't want to waste too much time over choosing your dishes. Not really suitable for a romantic wedding anniversary dinner, it doesn't have the charm of Meet Meat, but if you're out shopping and get to the top of the Rue Neuve, it's just across the street, under the Sheraton Hotel.

BRUSSELS GRILL
avenue du Boulevard 21
1210 St Josse
(Metro: Rogier)

place de Brouckère 21
1000 Brussels
(Metro: Brouckère)

avenue du Toison d'Or 7
1050 Ixelles
(Metro: Porte de Namur)

Website: http://www.brussels-grill.be/EN/Restaurants.php

TEA AND EAT

2010-06-25T07:38:00.000-07:00

TEA AND EAT is a funny name for a chain of restaurants. OK, EAT is TEA with the T at the beginning instead of the end .... I wonder if they're anything to do with MEET MEAT?

Anyhoo, I was down at Woluwe Shopping Mall and felt a tad peckish. As restaurants in shopping centres go, it's a bit more upmarket than Debenham's Style Cafe. It's hidden away down a corridor just after C&A, and looks like just a few tables behind a perspex screen. However, once inside you find a circular bar where you can park your man while you get some more retail therapy in, a spacious restaurant with high tables, low tables, and a wraparound terrace for the rare Brussels warm weekend. The decor is very 90's Islington - you know, lots of bamboo, a whiff of Zen ambience, a glass cylinder goldfish tank on the bar. The waiting staff are young, smiley and attractive, and the service is fairly smart.

There's a shop inside the restaurant where you can buy upmarket foodie things like fancy olive oil and poncey tea. You know, essentials. Generally sold in big clunky bottles with the name of the product in big black letters, e.g. SIROP. Merchandising is part of the Tea & Eat experience, and they have shops in various locations. As retailers they compete with Oliviers & Co. and Pain Quotidien for the yummy mummy demographic. The restaurant competes with the excellent Cook & Book (another inspired name!) across the road. For my money, I prefer Cook & Book for its proximity to, well, books, of which there are none in Woluwe Shopping Centre. But if you're an habitué of Habitat, Tea & Eat is exactly where you should go afterwards to peruse the catalogue. If they could only move across the way, they could become Habitat's in-store restaurant. (Habitat actually has an in-store restaurant, which is so badly situated that I found myself examining the tables looking for a price tag).

Tea & Eat is popular with the eurocrats, and can be found in the more affluent expat areas such as Woluwe and near Place Stephanie in Ixelles. If they were in London they would be based in Stoke Newington. The "Tea" in the title indicates that they specialise in, er, tea, and so they do - they are exclusive distributors of Betjeman and Barton teas in Belgium, but I didn't see much evidence of anyone consuming it. One table were having a bottle of champagne with their meal. I hope they'd finished their shopping. I demonstrated great self control and sipped a glass of house white wine with my smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel whilst observing my fellow shoppers.

The bagel was toasted, and served with lashings of good Scottish salmon, plenty of cream cheese and a very fresh salad. It wasn't cheap at 14.50 euros but if you want cheap, Quick is just across the way. The salad sauce came in a miniature Perrier type green bottle, and although delicious, let's just say I'm glad I wasn't wearing a navy blue dress to spill it on, if you follow me. Sadly it is not one of the products on sale in the outlet, but is made to the chef's closely guarded secret recipe.

With the wine and a tip, there was no change out of 20 euros. But you don't come out smelling of chips.

BREAKFAST IN AMERICA

2010-06-11T11:55:00.000-07:00

Consistently good: Margaritas

A friend of mine once gave me his analysis on why Americans were all neurotic.

"You go to a restaurant, and they give you a great big laminated menu with colour photographs. Every item on it has a whole paragraph of descriptive along the lines of: try our succulent quarter-pounder, freshly made with a generous four ounces of prime ground beef from Angus cattle fed on the lush grasslands of North Dakota, seasoned with Tahitian rock salt and cracked black pepper from the slopes of Mount Popocatapetl, lovingly barbecued over a hickory-wood charcoal fire and laid on a bed of shredded iceberg lettuce and shavings of white salad onion fresh from our organic kitchen garden, layered with thin slices of juicy plum tomato flown in this morning from Italy, and lightly drizzled with homemade low-cholesterol mayonnaise made personally by our Chef , all of this encased in a warm sesame bun and served to you courteously by our staff."

"It takes you 20 minutes to read the menu, and another 20 minutes to decide what you want.

"And when you get your food, it's just a burger.

"That's why Americans are all in therapy - they're all suffering from chronic disappointment."

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I have spent most of last month travelling in America, and did my best to eat American wherever possible. This only involved a burger once, not counting the MuckDonalds I had one night because everything else was closed (in Vegas! 24/7 my eye).

Farmers Market in LA, early morning

I have always wanted to say the immortal words: "Pastrami on rye and hold the mayo!" I finally got my chance in Los Angeles, not at one of the famous Jewish delis down on West Pico but at Phil's Deli in the Farmers Market. The "small" size had "only" 400 grammes of beef - that's about a pound. I'd always thought pastrami was an Italian speciality but it is in fact Jewish, a prime side of beef seasoned in brine and then steamed until the meat is so tender it melts in your mouth. Also known as a salt beef sandwich, in Jewish delis it is often served with a large dill pickle. Mine was relatively unadorned, served in plain white rye bread and washed down with a Martinelli's apple juice in an apple-shaped bottle.

San Francisco was the only place where I chose to eat "foreign" - but Chinatown is a must, and the Chinese community have been there so long that San Francisco Chinese is probably a cuisine in its own right by now, rather like Scottish-Indian. I happened upon the Far East Cafe on Grant, which is a cavernous high-ceilinged room with the full-on look of old Shanghai - red paint, gilt, ornate heavy wooden furniture, and dragons. It has been in operation since 1920. Down one side of the room are cosy little booths with carved wooden swing doors, for a tete-a-tete or a discreet opium deal. The service is brisk and unsmiling, but at least they don't interrupt you three times while you're eating with "Everything OK with you guys?". I had won ton soup, followed by Peking baby ribs with fried rice, and a pot of green tea. I could eat in there every day.

Cioppino: Italian dish invented in San Francisco

Dungeness crab down on Fisherman's Wharf is another San Francisco classic. A local speciality is cioppino, a sort of fish stew but which involves molluscs so was off limits for my delicate stomach. I had a bad cold, so maybe that's why the crab cakes didn't taste of anything. I was in one of the Italian restaurants on Jefferson Street - it could have been Alioto's, or Tarantino's, or Scoma's, I don't know, they're all Italian and all serve crab. I ordered a glass of white Zinfandel to go with my meal. The waitress served me a glass of rosé. I pointed out that I had ordered a WHITE Zinfandel. That is a White Zinfandel, she said. But it's pink, I said. She went away and the manager came back to explain to me that a White Zinfandel is in fact a rosé wine. Whatever. In Starbuck's if you want a small latte, you have to ask for a TALL latte. Honestly, sometimes it's like being in a foreign country.

The third in my trio of San Francisco culinary classics is John's Grill. This is one of the settings in Dashiell Hammett's "The Maltese Falcon" and is, fittingly, the HQ of the San Francisco Dashiell Hammett Society. The interior is classic American grill room with photos of all the famous patrons on the walls. The food is fairly ordinary - not bad, but not exciting. I had seafood cannelloni which was slightly underwhelming and not cheap.

The patio of the La Fonda

Moving on to New Mexico, this was a risky place for a dame with a delicate palate. In Santa Fe I primed my lips with a margarita at the elegant La Fonda Inn. The origins of this hotel are fascinating, it was one of the original Harvey Inns which inspired the movie "The Harvey Girls" starring Judy Garland. I was invited to taste tamales with mole sauce at Café Pasqual's in Santa Fe. I didn't like either much. Tamales are made with maize flour, and maize, as anyone who has lived in Africa will tell you, is a very tasteless cereal. Mexican food seems to be either fiery hot or completely bland, with no subtlety of flavours in between. Although it is not true, as Billy Connolly contends, that all Mexican dishes are the same, only folded differently (see photos - although if you can tell a burrito from an enchilada you must be a local). At The Alley Inn in Taos I liked the fish and chicken tacos, but the chicken tostada at the Guadalajara Grill, also in Taos, was quite blah. Back in Santa Fe, Cowgirl is a fun place to eat, and I demolished a whole side of BBQ ribs to even my surprise.

Tacos (2)

Enchilada

Burrito

American breakfasts require a whole menu to themselves, and I tried to sample every type of breakfast from bagels to eggs Benedict, leaving out waffles as I live in Belgium and knew they wouldn't be up to scratch. Starbucks was just confusing - there's a whole system there and if you don't know it you look like a twit. The girl took my order and then asked me my name. "My name??" I repeated, baffled. "Yes, you pick up your order at the other counter down there, so we call out your name when it's ready," she explained patiently, as if talking to a child.

I tried pancakes, thinking they would be something like the pancakes here, which are shop bought but then cooked gently in butter. When they arrived, there was a stack of three bogstandard Scotch pancakes, barely warmed out of the packet, stuck together with confectioner's cream and covered in icing sugar, with blueberries and strawberries and a jug of maple syrup. The maple syrup proved necessary as they were so dry. It looked pretty but was a heart attack on a plate.

Comes with a complimentary defibbrilator

In San Francisco there is a chain of diners called Lori's which are replicas of the traditional 1950's diner, with red leather bar stools, booths, lots of chrome, and staff in perky little white hats. Well at least it's not called "Happy Days". I went to one to try the "famous Lori's French toast" which sounded delicious, but when it arrived was just a thick slice of industrial brioche soaked in egg and milk and shoved under the grill, served covered in icing sugar. The Americans seem to think food is something shameful to be hidden by sauces, syrups, sugar, anything to disguise the flavour, or lack of one.

In several places I ordered just a toasted bagel or simple eggs over easy and bacon, which they do very well. They also top your coffee up as many times as you like. I had to try Eggs Benedict once, and did so in a posh hotel in Las Vegas. The eggs were fine, but once I'd scraped off the heavy layer of chilli-spiced Hollandaise sauce I found they were sitting on a thick gammon steak which itself was sitting on a couple of English muffins. With freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee it turned out to be a $30 breakfast, but as I'd been too busy to treat myself to a decent dinner in Vegas, and had a long afternoon at LAX airport in view followed by an overnight flight, it kept me going till England, where I had the first decent cup of tea I'd had in three weeks.

Eggs Benedict

Vegas is full of swanky empty restaurants. Mon Ami Gabi at the Paris always seemed to be full, and I would guess requires advance booking. But you don't need to be a high roller to get a good meal in Vegas. The Hawaiian Market has a number of places to eat, including a very pleasant open-air Mexican cantina where you can eat breakfast, lunch or dinner, or just sit and sip a frozen margarita or a Corona. The Fashion Show shopping mall has a food court on the 1st floor (sorry, 2nd floor over there) which is not top quality but you can eat quick and cheap and choose from about 10 different dining options. The Chinese wasn't bad. House of Blues in the Mandalay Bay resort has a good Southern menu, and I can recomment the chicken gumbo as well as the music.

I can also recommend the margaritas.

PARIS IN THE SPRING - LE PHENICIA

2010-04-05T01:08:00.001-07:00

Tango dancers by Botero

On my last night in Paris we all went out for a lovely Lebanese meal at Phénicia. It's posh Leb, with tablecloths, Fairouz warbling discreetly in the background and subdued lighting, none of your doner kebabs and belly dancers wobbling their navels in your face. Vi and I clinked kir royales and Desmond woke up long enough to order a pastis, before demolishing a selection of mezze, which if I remember correctly, consisted of kebbe (lemon shaped meatballs with a crunchy coating), stufffed vine leaves, spicy sausage, tabboulé and Lebanese flat bread. The Hornblowers have healthy appetites, and even the children attacked a main course. I had skewered lamb, which was tender and perfectly cooked - just pink inside. The wine was Lebanese Chateau Musar and surprisingly pleasant. Not cheap, mind you, but at least there were no burnt bits to set Hepzibah off.

Children get bored easily, so I lent Hepzibah my camera to keep her quiet. She took some rather good pictures of the food:

Kebbe by Hepzibah Hornblower

The children have been schooled early in art appreciation. Hermione, for example, is a fan of Kandinsky. Hepzibah, being a typical 9-year-old, found the Botero painting on the wall fascinating and took a photograph. It's a bit out of focus. Can you see which part of the painting it is, boys and girls?

We thought we were stuffed after all that, but still found room for a plate of baklava pastries shared between us, which we adults washed down with mint tea. Service was unobtrusive but attentive, and the best thing was we only had about 20 metres to waddle back to bed.

PARIS IN THE SPRING - LE PETIT VILLIERS

2010-04-05T00:32:00.000-07:00

The weekend before Easter I tripped down to Paris to visit the Hornblowers. On arrival they whisked me off to Le Petit Villiers for dinner. An unexpectedly reasonable and down-home family restaurant in a posh part of town, it offers French country cooking in a traditional atmosphere, with red checkered tablecloths and a covered enclosed terrace for smokers. You get a fair choice for your 22 euros menu du jour, with a 9-euro fixed menu for kids (steak-frites, dessert) which was fine for the Hornblowers two granddaughters, Hermione and Hepzibah. Or so we thought. It was past Hepzibah's bedtime and she was going to make us pay. She didn't want the children's menu.

"But you always have steak-frites!" said Vi.

Hepzibah whinged, wittered, griped and grizzelled. When her steak-frites arrived she didn't like it. It was a bit burnt on the outside and she didn't like "the black bits". Children's menus are all very well but, like vegetarian menus, they shouldn't be a variation on the normal menu. Chefs should know how to cook for children. She ate her frites, and drank her Coke, which at least woke her up and made her forget about the burnt steak.

Our food was fine, although Vi did say she knew what Hepzibah meant about the black bits on the steak. My eyes lit up when I saw "rognons sauce moutarde", my favourite. They were served in a creamy mustardy sauce, but hadn't been separated, they were still "on the vine", so to speak, which made me wonder how they managed to get the piddle out of them. I was always taught to cut the sinew out of kidneys and salt and rinse them to remove the traces of animal urine, and it's true they do smell a bit pissy when they're cooking. However, they had obviously found some way of taking the pee, as they were delicious and very tender, although I would have preferred them to be pink inside, as ordered, rather than plain raw.

When it came to the dessert, Hepzibah of course didn't want the set pudding. The manager, who had remarked kindly "There is always one who is a star," told her she could have anything she wanted from the menu, which defused her. During all this time Hermione, her 11-year-old sister, had sat good as gold and eaten everything that was put in front of her. She didn't much fancy the set dessert either but to reward her grown-up behaviour, I had arranged to swap desserts if she preferred mine. In years to come, Hermione will be quietly and successfully negotiating in the background while Hepzibah is selling her story to the tabloids.

The service was friendly and brisk, although the manager had his hands full with all tables busy on a Thursday night. Apart from the slightly overcooked steak and the slightly undercooked kidneys, we had to agree that the 100 euro bill for 3 adults and 2 children was indeed, as the website says, "un rapport qualité-prix exceptionnel".

Le Petit Villiers

75 av. de Villiers

75017 Paris
(near metro Wagram)
Tél. : 01 48 88 96 59

LA ROCHELLE - A TASTE OF THE SEA

2009-10-06T06:32:00.000-07:00

Like any French town qui se respecte, La Rochelle has so many restaurants that you could eat lunch and dinner in a different one every day for six months and never come back to the same place twice. Half the restaurants in town seemed to be owned by one or other of the Coutanceau brothers, or their famous father Richard. Gregory owns not one but three restaurants, two of them in the Rue St Jean! Les Flots, right under the Tour de la Chaine, is his flagship restaurant. Le Comptoir des Voyages showcases dishes from all over the world, and L'Entr'acte is his bistro. His brother Christopher is content to run the beach restaurant (two Michelin stars and membership of the prestigious Relais et Chateaux group) named after himself and his father, at the Plage de la Concurrence. And apparently there's a kid sister called Jennyfer who's just qualified as a chef, so expect to see the Coutanceau marque expand even further.

La Rochelle is famous for its molluscs, which is unfortunate for me, as I can't eat them. Mouclade is a casserole of mussels cooked in white wine. The oysters are fresh from Fouras, opposite the Ile d'Oléron. But there are plenty of creperies owned by Bretons who've slipped down the coast.

La Part des Anges
Tucked into a corner of the rue de la Chaine just off the Vieux Port, the Angels' Portion offers a menu within the 22-28 euros range.

Le Rozell
46 rue St Nicolas
Agreeable little creperie in the bobo Quartier St Nicolas, where you can have a filled crepe and a bowl of cider for under 10 euros.

Les 4 Sergents on Rue St Jean du Pérot was fully booked on the Friday night I tried to get a table, but I've earmarked it for my next visit. So instead I ended up in

Le Terroir 45 rue St Jean du Pérot. The menu was around 29 euros, but it was my last night so I pushed the boat out. It was a sailing town, after all.

Apart from La Rochelle, Nanteuil-en-Vallée in the Charente deserves a mention. It's one of the Michelin Green Guide's Villages Pittoresques de France, and has two decent restaurants:

L'Auberge de l'Argentor, where I had a slap-up four-course Sunday lunch with wine for under 40 euros. The menu costs 29 euros and includes a mise-en-bouche, starter, main course, cheese and dessert. The chef is a real proper chef, and every dish is a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach. The service is excellent, and the place is very popular with the English. Don't let that put you off. The Argentor, if you were wondering, is the name of the little river that runs through the village, and along which you could take a stroll after lunch. It will lead you to an arboretum with a water garden and some excellent landscaping.

L'Auberge de l'Argentor

The Auberge de St Jean was not tried, but looks good too with a 24 euro lunch menu and tables set out in the shadow of the church.

Les Flots
1 rue de la Chaine
17000 La Rochelle
Tél. 05 46 41 32 51

Richard et Christopher Coutanceau
Plage de la Concurrence
17000 La Rochelle
Tél. 05 46 41 48 19

Les 4 Sergents
49 rue St Jean du Pérot
17000 La Rochelle
Tel: 05 46 41 35 80

L'Auberge de lArgentor
17, rue Guillaume Le Noble
16700 Nanteuil-en-vallée
Tél: 05 45 31 85 20

Auberge de St Jean 5 rue Fontaine St Jean
16700 Nanteuil-en-vallée Tel : 05.45.89.11.79

FINE FINNAN HADDIE

2009-08-30T01:49:00.000-07:00

Scotland produces some of the best meat and fish in the UK, not to mention their biggest export, whisky. Haggis, Cullen skink, Athol Brose, Finnan haddie and Arbroath Smokies are all exclusively Scottish dishes, the last of which have even obtained PDO status. I remember seeing a roomfull of French food buyers reduced to silent admiration once at a Scottish food show in Paris. And yet what do they advertise to the rest of the UK? Deep-fried Mars bars, fish suppers, Scotch pies, Irn Bru. You'd think they didn't want the English to visit.

I wouldn't recommend eating on Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow. A curry house is almost a pilgrimage when you learn that chicken tikka masala was invented in this city - but The Indian Gallery was really slightly below average, despite a pleasant corner location with big windows through which I observed the young gels (barely legal some of them) going uptown for a night out in the skimpiest of outfits. If the weather hadn't been so inclement I would have ventured towards Kelvinside and the shrine of the chicken tikka masala, the Shish Mahal. Along with Andy Warhol, Ali Ahmed Aslam has used a can of soup to attain a kind of immortality.

I identified what has to be the worst Chinese restaurant in Scotland, and possibly in the UK. There was little attempt at decor, ancient or modern, and the staff barely spoke English. The waitress was a surly little thing who blew her nose loudly while waiting for a customer's order then put the snotty rag back in her waistcoat pocket where it stayed all evening. Despite the fact that only 3 of the 30-odd tables were occupied, they rushed the customers as if there were 3 coach parties coming in any minute. There was no wine by the glass, she said unapologetically. She plonked a bottle of apple juice down unopened on my table with a glass and walked away again. The poor people at the next table were trying to get her attention, but she was too busy round the corner chatting to the manageress. The crispy duck dishes were available as half or whole ducks. I asked if I could have a quarter (quite common practice in most Chinese restaurants). She shouted at me that I could have a quarter of Peking duck but not of crispy duck. If anyone would like to explain the difference, please feel free. To be fair, the quarter of duck came with a double helping of microwaved pancakes plonked on a plate which was stuck on top of a platewarmer. They had obviously never seen bamboo steamers or chopsticks. I wondered which part of China these people were from. The Chinese equivalent of Rochdale, I shouldn't wonder. I ate my meal quickly, whilst watching some young ladies smoking and drinking beer out of bottles in the doorway of a sports bar opposite. Just so that you don't make the same mistake as me, avoid the Jade Garden at 303 Sauchiehall Street, on the corner of Holland Street.

"blas" (with a small b), right opposite the Kelvingrove Art Gallery in the posh West End, is a wee gem. They serve traditional Scottish fare in a modern way. Of course I could not resist ordering the haggis. The girl didn't even burst out laughing. "Och no, we eat it too ... sometimes" she said. It was served as a timbale, with the tatties on the bottom, a layer of neeps in the middle and the haggis (from Cockburn's of Dingwall) on top, surrounded by a swirl of tasty gravy. Washed down by a glass of chilled Sauvignon, it was delicious. But the dessert was what made me nearly do a Meg Ryan. Sticky toffee pudding in caramel sauce with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. The pudding was dark and very moist, I might go so far as to say saturated, and married perfectly with the creamy luxury vanilla ice cream, made by Mackie's of Aberdeen. The sauce, moreover, was ... well, suffice it to say I told the gel to convey to Chef that he had made an old woman very happy.

The revamped East end of Glasgow has been renamed the "Merchant City", and is chock full of trendy, if not always good, restaurants and bars. It's a regeneration along the lines of London's East End, with old warehouse conversions and covered markets turned into continental style brasseries. At QUA in Ingram Street, I had one of the best pizzas I have ever eaten. The restaurant is owned by one of Glasgow's oldest Italian catering families, of which there are a fair few.

Nardini's of Largs: sky pretty accurate

Out on the Ayrshire coast in Largs, where I was staying, there is only one name. Nardini's. "Scotland's most famous ice cream parlour" has expanded into a small empire, and it is only a matter of time before the town is renamed Nardiniville. They have four outlets - the main parlour which now incorporates a cake shop and a proper pizza/pasta restaurant; The Green Shutters on the sea front by Bath Street; Nardini's at The Moorings right by the ferry, and next door to it Dolci Nardini the cakeshop. Frankly the weather was not conducive to sampling ice cream, so I did not venture into any of the Nardini establishments, but purchased a small tub of ice cream to taste. It was all right, but frankly not a patch on Berthillon of the Ile St Louis in Paris.

Rothesay - the main drag

Rothesay, the main town on the Isle of Bute, does not offer a huge choice. It is very run down and many store fronts are boarded up, as holidaymakers have abandoned the isles for the guaranteed sunshine and cheap drinks of Ayia Napa and suchlike. Shame. There are two Zavaroni establishments on the front - neither of them particularly upmarket, but the name is memorable for knowing that this is the family of Lena Zavaroni, a talented singer who succumbed to anorexia nervosa. It makes you wonder if growing up in a chip shop might have anything to do with it. In view of the tragedy of Scotland's greatest belter since Lulu, we thought a bag of chips might be tasteless, in more ways than one, so opted for the so-called "award-winning" Galley Restaurant (they never name the award do they?) in the "Discovery Centre" (formerly the winter garden) on the Esplanade with its panoramic view of the bay.

The Winter Gardens, Rothesay

It was empty, but clean and the manageress was as welcoming as she could be while sorting through her laundry. We weren't too optimistic about the quality of the food, and I played it safe with a macaroni cheese, while Maroon interrogated the waitress about the origin of the fish and chips. All local, she assured him. I cast an eye out over the harbour, visibly lacking in fishing boats or paraphernalia thereof. It was not, apparently, very good. Had we done our homework we could have eaten in one of any number of good restaurants which are hidden away on the island. The Russian Tavern at Port Bannatyne will be my choice if I ever go back, which is highly unlikely.

Edinburgh was in full festival mode and I was swanning about with Old Uncle Edinburgh himself, comedian Arthur Smith. He took me for lunch at the North Bridge Brasserie in the boutique Scotsman Hotel. Very nice.

Our waiter was French - always a good sign. I followed Arthur's lead, as behoves a celeb with a busy schedule, as I had another appointment that afternoon. We had two starters each - he went for the gazpacho, and I had the terrine of pork, which was a bit like rillettes or potted meat, with pear chutney, and we both had the duck and endive salad as well. The restaurant is secluded and expensively cushioned from all the festival madness outside. Later I went for a drink at The Dome on George Street. This former Royal Bank of Scotland building is simply choc-full of gorgeous gorgeousness. As the MC in "Cabaret" might say - even ze toilets are beoooodifull. Edinburgh is full of luxurious places, I may well return.

As for that mysterious combination, the "full Scottish breakfast", there was no sign of porridge at the Novotel. The self-service buffet was mobbed by coach parties who ate fruit salad and bacon and eggs off the same plate. Only when the various McLintocks, Murrays and Campbells of Toronto, Brisbane and Hoboken respectively had gone off on their "roots" coach tours could I get near the dregs they had left in their wake. Cereal, pastries. Eggs, bacon, sausage, beans ... so far, so generic British. Black pudding on Sunday ... big deal. No porridge. No oatcakes. No finnan haddie or kippers. Whit kinda fuell Scottish ye call thish?

The Indian Gallery
450 Sauchiehall St
Glasgow
Tel: 0141 332 3355

Shish Mahal
66-68 Park Rd
Glasgow G4 9JF
Tel: 0141 334 1057

The Jade Garden (information given only as a warning)
303 Sauchiehall Street
Glasgow
(Telephone not necessary)

blas
1397 Argyle Street
Kelvingrove
Glasgow G3 8AN
Tel: 0141 357 4328

QUA
68 Ingram Street
Glasgow G1
Tel: 0845 8338869

North Bridge Brasserie
20 North Bridge
Edinburgh EH1 1YT
Tel: +44 (0)131 556 5565

The Dome
14 George Street Edinburgh EH2 2PF
Tel: 0131 624 8624

LA BECASSE: ALL FLESH AND BLOOD

2008-09-27T17:00:00.000-07:00

The nights are drawing in, the falling leaves drift past my window, and the prospect of another long cold winter looms. Not that you would notice much difference from the summer we've just had. Christian and pagan rituals alike at this time of year are all tied up with withering, darkness and death. At the end of this month falls All Hallows with its American commercial entity Hallowe'en, when we honour the departed to appease them from coming back and haunting us. All over the world different nationalities celebrate the arrival of the "dark side" of the earth's yearly cycle in different ways, often verging on the macabre.

In Poland, for example, the entire population heads for the cemeteries on All Hallows Eve to light candles and tidy up graves. The overall effect is rather jolly, the cemeteries are like Piccadilly Circus and the flickering multi-coloured candles creat the effect of a sort of nightclub for the departed. The late Late show, you might say. It's just as commercial as Hallowe'en in its own way: candlemakers and chrysanthemum growers can retire to the south of France for the winter on the strength of their October sales. Parents take their children to visit the ancestors and to pay homage to the many who gave their lives in defence of their country. This could explain the uniquely Polish absence of any fear of death, which you will have witnessed if you've ever been in the back of a Warsaw taxi.

Ixelles cemetery is a peaceful and tidy place, where the tombs are better kept than most people's front gardens. The section where many soldiers of the Great War are buried is particularly moving, the rows of tombstones laid out as if on parade in straight lines, separated by hedges which recall the trenches where so many of them met their deaths - mostly Belgian, but a large number of French, British, Russian and Italian soldiers too. The fact that the Armistice fell so close to All Hallows makes it all the more poignant.

The cemetery is close to the ULB campus and the large number of young people in the area is a cheering reminder that life goes on. After a pensive stroll among the tombs with Bert, musing on pre-paid funeral plans, we had worked up an appetite, and in the fading light we thought it prudent to leave the eternally slumbering to their everlasting peace and repair to the restaurant across the street for a fortifying apéritif. La Bécasse is a no-nonsense traditional brasserie in rustic style, with efficient waiters in long aprons. The menu is extensive with a lot of beef - particularly raw, in the form of carpaccio, filet américain and steak tartare. It's popular for Sunday lunch, and in fine weather you can eat outside with a cheery view of the cemetery gates. In winter a roaring log fire will keep the cold out.

After a very posh kir with a maraschino cherry in it (I'm easily impressed) a bowl of piping hot French onion soup warmed me up. Bert, who is something of a carnivore, had a plate of glistening carpaccio. I couldn't resist my favourite kidneys in an unctuous mustard sauce, which came with four perfectly formed potato croquettes - arranged in the form of a cross! And just as well. Bert's steak tartare consisted of a two-inch thick slab of raw prime minced beef with a raw egg, chopped onions, chives, side salad and chips. The cow (vegetarians look away now) was only just dead, and the meat was bright red ... Bert’s fangs flashed once, and then his face was in his plate, and all that could be heard were Teutonic chomping and slurping sounds. I started to feel a bit uneasy when he got very insistent that we be home before dark … there really is something of the night about Bert occasionally. Lucky I eat a lot of garlic. Happily, it transpired that he just wanted to catch Match of the Day! What a relief. Sometimes I let my imagination run wild.

Intimations of mortality make me want to eat heartily to stave off the reaper. I finished off my meal with a Dame Blanche, an appropriate ghostly dessert for the time of year, and a coffee. Count around 30-35 euros a head with wine.

La Bécasse

Chaussee de Boondael 476

1050 Ixelles / Elsene

Tel: 02 649 0641

http://www.labecasse.net

KANTJIL & DE TIJGER, Amsterdam

2008-09-19T09:22:00.000-07:00

The Netherlands produce many comestibles of note, not all of which are ingested via the stomach. "Grow your own" in Amsterdam does NOT mean strawberries. Dutch cheese, fruit and vegetables, and chocolate are exported all over the world. However, unless you have a weakness for raw herring, you will probably find Dutch cuisine pretty bland and non-specific, and, as in Britain, the local cuisine is considered something for preparing at home and not for eating out. However, Amsterdam has a vast selection of foreign restaurants, and if you love meat, more "Argentinian" steak houses than any city this side of Buenos Aires.

Rijsttafel is the Indonesian cuisine which has become to Holland what Indian cuisine is to Britain, and for the same reasons: The Dutch were the colonial masters in the East Indies, and adapted the local food to suit their tastes. There are more Indonesian restaurants in Amsterdam there than you can shake a shadow puppet at. On a Saturday evening we must have got the last free table at Kantjil & de Tijger, so I would recommend booking in advance. It is a smart, modern restaurant with no kitsch Indonesian decor. Not having the faintest idea what we were ordering, we picked out a selection of meat and vegetarian dishes, two kinds of rice and one bowl of noodles. The Dutch and Indonesian waiting staff speak perfect English and can advise on all the dishes. Be careful, some of them such as ajam smoor chicken make a Vindaloo look mild, and there's nothing on the menu to warn you.

The dishes that arrived were very diverse, ranging from fresh fruit to blow-your-head-off chicken, but on the whole very tasty with more diverse flavours than a curry meal. I particularly liked the gado gado, which is a dish of lightly steamed vegetables with a peanut sauce, as well as staple dishes such as nasi goreng (fried rice) and bami goreng (fried noodles). With three beers and a bottle of house white, we came out for just under 25 euros a head, bellies full. A full rijsttafel menu can be had here for 22 to 28 euros a head, without wine, and if you can run to it, I'd recommend going for the full monty and getting a wider view of what Indonesian cuisine has to offer.

Kantjil & De Tijger
Spuistraat 291-293
1012 VS Amsterdam
Tel: 020 620 0994
www.kantjil.nl

NICOLAS AND MARTIN

2008-06-29T09:10:00.000-07:00

Denizens of the Woluwe/Montgomery areas will know one or both of these pretty restaurants, noticeable by their attractive tropical terrasses which are constantly busy in the warmer months. Vi Hornblower and I often meet for lunch at Le Jardin de Nicolas, where my favourite dish is the "salade folle", or "crazy salad". It is a bit of a unorthodox mixture, with smoked salmon, prawns, foie gras and parma ham sitting side by side on a huge plate with a delicious mixed salad involving both fruit and vegetables. If you didn't want to fanny about with starters, main course and dessert, you could just eat everything off the plate in the right order and call it a 3-course meal.

Le Jardin de Nicolas is also popular for its wide range of cocktails at a very reasonable 7.50 euros a throw, although one criticism is that the tables are a little too close together. However, this is a good excuse to chat to any nice young men who might be dining alone alongside you. Especially when you've had a couple of cocktails. The poor lad who was accosted by Violet and me has probably crossed "gigolo" off his list of career options. But if you are partial to the sophisticated older woman with a taste for fine dining, Nicolas' Garden is the place for you, young man! (The editor has my details).

Salade Folle at Le Jardin de Nicolas

I recently took guests to dinner at Le Martin-Pecheur, sister restaurant to Le Jardin de Nicolas, which has more of a brasserie style. Its attractive terrace was already full, so we were given a table inside, by an open window, which afforded us a little shelter from the noise and pollution of the Boulevard Brand Whitlock.

The menu is - as you might expect from a restaurant named after a kingfisher - largely fish-oriented. The starters, with a few exceptions, are fishy or vegetarian, and the croquettes de scampis are exceptionally generous. I had to explain to my Australian visitors that "scampi" here is not actually scampi, but shrimp, although what we call shrimp they would probably call wichety grubs. An English menu is available, on request.

Main courses offer some meat options - a 250g Belgian fillet steak was served perfectly cooked, with an attractive garnish of salad and frites, and a choice of sauces. My fillets of Dover sole in breadcrumbs were equally delicious, and portions are generous. Lamb kebabs are another meat dish, and the chicken curry, which we spotted someone wolfing down as we walked in, looked and smelled delicious. Be sure to check the blackboards for the day's specials, too. Both Martin's and Nicolas' offer a "lite" option, which is roughly the same dishes without the chips and sauce. Such flexibility is refreshing after the gastro-fascism of some French restaurants, and the busy tables bear testimony to good service.

The desserts are divine: my guests had a simple Dame Blanche and a fresh fruit salad, while I went the whole hog and ordered the Tarte Tatin with vanilla ice cream, drizzled in caramel and Calvados. That certainly hit the spot, and I nearly did a Meg Ryan. The serving staff were efficient, professional and elegant, especially the absolutely charming restaurant manager in a lovely crushed raspberry shirt, all spoke very good English and went out of their way to accommodate my Aussie guests' slightly unorthodox dining etiquette. The waitress didn't even bat an eyelid at being called "mate".

We had a bottle of Bandol rosé, which was kept chilled in an ice bucket (always makes the wine look more expensive, don't you think?). The total bill for one starter, two main courses and three desserts with wine came to 90 euros -- not the cheapest place in town, but good value nonetheless.

Neither Nicolas or Martin take reservations, so be sure to get there in time to bag a good table. They both offer, in addition to the main menu, a selection of snacky dishes, such as different kinds of Croque Monsieur, salads and stir-fries, which makes them ideal for a quick lunch. There is also a child's menu available at both restaurants. Parking is a bit tricky, especially at Le Martin-Pecheur, but both places are less than 5 minutes walk from Montgoméry metro.

Le Jardin de Nicolas
137 avenue de Tervuren
http://www.lejardindenicolas.be/

Le Martin Pecheur
100 boulevard Brand Whitlock
(corner of avenue Georges-Henri)
http://www.lemartinpecheur.be/

MEET MEAT

2008-05-23T09:40:00.000-07:00

A good steak is hard to find. One hardly ever orders steak in a restaurant these days, as it's likely to be tough, stringy or chewy. And there's the lurking idea that it requires no real cooking, therefore one is more likely to order battery-farmed chicken that's been marinated in chives and Pernod and gently steamed over a charcoal brazier ... in other words, it's been treated better dead than alive. (I have not eaten chicken in a restaurant since Easter, when I saw Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's galling Channel 4 documentary about intensive chicken farming).

Argentine cows are pampa'd (see what I did there?) and consequently give meat that cuts like butter and tastes like heaven. Argentinian steak houses were all the rage in the 1980s. I remember going to one in Paris during that Falklands business, where I had a well-lubricated meal with a bunch of Brits, and on departing we sang "God Save the Queen" and annoyed the owner terribly. Oh callow youth!

"Meet Meat" on rue Stevin is in an old Bruxellois house which has been totally modernized, and the interior is all clean lines, blond wood floors, minimalist black furniture and concealed lighting, to match the simple but informative menu. It was not quite warm enough to eat outside, but when it is, there is a delightful decking terrace out back.

There are various alternatives to beef on the menu, but let's face it, you go to a steak house for a steak. And Meet Meat does steaks to die for, in a choice of weights (200g, 250g, 300g) and cuts (rump, sirloin, fillet). The young, stylish, black-clad waiting staff who take your orders are efficient and helpful. Our waiter was however unable to tell us the name of the devastatingly handsome man in the fedora hat who was the subject of a Warhol-style print on the wall. "An actor ... and singer, I think ... dead now." It was (I later discovered) Carlos Gardel, Argentine heartthrob of the 50s and dance hall singer. Anyway, our waiter looked like a young Zidane, so I forgave him.

Carlos Gardel, not the waiter

The wine list is of course South American, and we chose an Argentinian merlot with the amusing name of Tango. Which in my opinion would have been a much catchier name for the restaurant. "Meet Meat" may have non-English speakers rolling in the aisles, but sounds frankly a bit childish to Anglophones. But this is a negligible criticism of a restaurant which in all other respects gets full marks.

Our meat was cooked to perfection on the open kitchen grill, and served with a choice of fries or jacket potato, beurre Maitre-d'Hotel or chilli sauce, and salad. The meat, ladies and gentlemen, deserved a round of applause. It was divine. My five lady dining companions and myself actually stopped talking and did a fair impression of Meg Ryan in the restaurant scene of "When Harry Met Sally" for a bit, which goes to show how spectacular the meat was. Two of us had New Zealand lamb chops, and the rest of us had rump or sirloin steaks. After fifteen minutes or so there were six clean plates and six very happy tummies straining the already reinforced foundation garments. We certainly felt like we'd been Tango'ed.

We did however manage to find room for dessert, and from the list of usual suspects - Dame Blanche, Crème Brulée, etc. I chose a Speculoos ice cream, which was just the ticket to round off a delightful dinner. The bill came to about 30 euros a head, count a bit more if you have a starter.

This is no place for vegetarians or ecologists. The carbon footprint required to ship all that meat and wine in from Argentina and New Zealand would cover the entire Benelux region. But sometimes (as for example when eating foie gras) one has to suspend one's green principles in favour of one's taste buds. If you like your food simple but top quality, this is the place. To paraphrase the Rolling Stones, it's only steak and chips but I like it.

Meet Meat Rue Stevin 124 1000 Brussels Tel: 02 231 0742 www.meetmeat.be

IL VESUVIO

2008-05-15T07:14:00.001-07:00

Whit weekend was hot and sunny and Brussels was awash with free entertainment: the Fete de l'Iris, the Etterbeek medieval market, it was all going off. Sadly I was tied up with feathering my new nest, so by the time I made it down to Etterbeek on Whit Monday it was, of course, all gone. Story of my life. Boats I have Missed, vol. 23.

Anyway, being a resilient soul who pulls victory from the jaws of defeat, I espied on my fruitless journey an agreeable Italian restaurant with a terrace that was full of happy diners basking in the sun. I decided to rest my weary Birkenstocks and Do Lunch.

Il Vesuvio is a bustling little family-run trattoria situated a stone's throw from La Chasse. That's a name that always makes me snigger, meaning "the hunt" but also "the flush", as in loo. Tirer la chasse = to pull the chain. Anyway, it's on the main drag of Avenue des Casernes but set back just enough that you don't have to breathe in exhaust fumes with your food. The generous canopy will save you from sunstroke too.

There is a fine selection of pizzas at reasonable prices, but as it was a holiday weekend I felt flush (geddit?) and ordered the grilled sole, which came served with fries and a braised endive. I washed it down with a quarter carafe of the house white and happily observed the good citizens of Etterbeek while trying to figure out where I was on the de Rouck street guide. The fish was very nicely cooked, although the fries were a tad McDonalds.

I have two criteria for judging Italian restaurants. Firstly, they must serve veal as well as pizza. And secondly, they must offer panna cotta on the dessert menu. Il Vesuvio did both. The panna cotta came with a choice of topping: I had mine with coffee liqueur. I can't tell you. It was the most sublime, creamy, heavenly thing I have had in my mouth since Christmas. (Don't ask) I would go back there just for the panna cotta.

The waiters are brisk, flirty and efficient in that way Italians are. My waiter must have been all of 17. And I think you all know how I like a young man. He had a cheeky grin, which widened still further when I told him the panna cotta was exquisite. "Home made, of course?" I added. He looked at me with arms outstretched: "Ma certamente, Signora! La mamma!"

Grilled sole doesn't come cheap, and at 19 euros it accounted for two-thirds of my total bill. But the pizzas are pretty reasonable (10-12 euros) so you could count around 25 euros for a standard pizza-wine-dessert meal.

Unfortunately Il Vesuvio is not open for weekend lunch or Sunday evening. But on a warm weekday or Saturday evening, or even a cold one (the interior looked cosy and welcoming) it is worth a visit. Or if you are lucky enough to have a day off during the week. The pizzas looked and smelled great, and the place was packed with regulars, so probably a good idea to book on a Saturday night.

But do remember to save room for the panna cotta. A little taste of heaven.

Il Vesuvio
Rue Mont-du-Chene 1
(corner of Avenue des Casernes)
1040 Etterbeek
Tel: 02 649 1640

KOKOB

2008-04-01T07:01:00.000-07:00

Ethiopia has more to it than long-distance runners. Kokob on the rue des Grands Carmes was a delightful surprise, situated in Fontainas, the trendy downtown district close by the Grand’Place and St Géry.

When you enter the restaurant, your nostrils will immediately flare from the olfactory memory of old-style torrefaction shops, such as the Algerian Coffee Shop in Soho, where they roast and grind the coffee beans on the premises. The slightly burnt aroma of freshly roasted coffee wakes your senses up from the minute you set foot in Kokob. Coffee is one of Ethiopia’s most important exports – it may even be what keeps those long-distance runners going – and if your sleep patterns permit, you should aim to round off your meal with the juice of the bean.

Charming Ethiopian-born co-owner Haile Leoul Abebe has a permanent smile on his face. As well he might have. Despite being a fairly new kid on the block, (they have just celebrated their first birthday) Kokob is enjoying huge success, blessed by an early visit from President Barroso and his team, as proudly displayed on their website. “Kokob” means "Star" in Amharic, and after the rave reviews they have had in the Brussels press, they soon will be. Smiley Haile described how he and Moroccan-born business partner Nassim worked for months through nights and weekends to give Kokob its distinctive contemporary but hand-crafted atmosphere. The artworks on the walls are eclectic and all made by arty pals. One in particular caught everyone’s eye, a backlit collage of citrus slices which aroused in me a deep nostalgia for a gin and tonic.

A covered terrace at the back of the restaurant transports you temporarily into the atmosphere of an East African hotel lobby in the 1930s, where you would not be surprised to see the ghost of Lawrence Durrell in his white suit and panama hat. This sheltered spot is the ideal place to down a Belgian beer or some real coffee after an afternoon’s Christmas shopping in the trendy boutiques of the rue du Midi, and peruse one of the collection of picture books on Ethiopia. The restaurant is composed of separate spaces – bar, terrace, main dining room, function room – where afternoon tea or coffee, sundowners (as we used to call them in the colonies), lunch or dinner can be enjoyed, as well as private parties and public events. Kokob also act as a cultural centre for recitals of traditional music, storytelling or promotions. Events are advertised on their website or you can join their mailing list to keep abreast of what’s coming up. They also do outside catering.

Despite the trendy location and modern décor, Kokob does not compromise on authentic Ethiopian style. Wat is the most popular dish. No that’s not a question, wat is the name of a stew made from vegetables, pulses or meat such as lamb, beef or chicken, generously seasoned with a hot chilli sauce called berbéré. There are also fish dishes and a selection of salads. The “menu découverte” or “discovery menu”, ranging from 18 to 25 euros a head depending on how hungry you are, is the nearest thing to a typical Ethiopian meal, consisting of a selection of prepared dishes served on a tray of spongey millet pancakes called injera which serve the purpose of both plate and cutlery.

Thanks to the influence of the early Coptic Christians who did not eat meat, vegetarians are easily catered for, with a vast selection of veggie dishes on offer, including spinach with mushrooms, lentils, split peas, ratatouille, ayeb (cottage cheese), to accompany the meat dishes such as diced chicken with spinach, minced beef spiced up with berbéré, and diced lamb in a creamy yogurt sauce. All the dishes are extremely tasty, and surprisingly mild - apart from the berbéré, nothing will blow your head off. An extra bowl of rolled injera strips is provided for you to break up and use them to scoop up the food on the tray. It’s a convivial and fun way of eating in a couple or a group, and apparently the typically Ethiopian way to do it is to feed each other with the mouthfuls of filled pancake. The mad, romantic fools! If you don’t fancy other people’s fingers, or even your own, cutlery can be provided on request.

Sticking on the same continent, we chose to drink a South African Nederburg Shiraz at a most reasonable 15 euros. After the meal, we were enveloped in burnt-coffee smelling steam, as the freshly-roasted beans were waved over the table like incense. If you are one of the poor unfortunates who can’t drink coffee, you can inhale it for maximum effect. The roasted coffee beans are then taken away and ground to produce a light coffee with a delicate flavour that will not keep you tossing and turning all night. Alternatively, you can sip an Ethiopian herbal tea flavoured with ginger and cinnamon. There are no desserts on the menu, but the coffee is served with a piece of homemade cake to sweeten your dreams.

Kokob is really something new and different, and serves tasty food in a warm and friendly atmosphere. Discreet Ethiopian background music is soon drowned out by the chatter of diners, as the place is invariably full by about 9 p.m. The service was discreet, efficient and accompanied by helpful explanations of the different dishes and how to eat them. The kitchen door is permanently open to the main room so you can see the chef at work. Haile and Nassim make a point of going round chatting to all their customers, and everyone gets a warm handshake and a dazzling smile on their way out, with a genuine invitation to come again.

A gold medal for Ethiopia – this new venture should run and run.

Kokob
10 rue des Grands Carmes
1000 Bruxelles
Tel: 02 511 1950
www.kokob.be

Open: Tues-Sun 12h00 – 24h00, Mon 18h00-24h00

SHISH

2008-03-28T11:36:00.000-07:00

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

2008-02-15T09:25:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-30T06:21:00.001-08:00

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

2007-12-22T06:42:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-09T07:10:00.000-08:00

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

2007-09-15T10:15:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-14T05:09:00.000-07:00

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

BRASSERIE SAINT GERMAIN

2007-03-22T10:03:00.000-07:00

The Brasserie St Germain, or BSG as it is known to habitués, sits on the corner of Place Rogier, in the shadow of the electric blue Dexia tower, about five minutes walk north of Place Brouckère in the increasingly Manhattan-like Nord district. It is attached to the Siru Art Hotel, the one with the wacky art-deco neon cupola, where each room is decorated in the style of a great artist. I trust the Van Gogh room isn’t anything like the painting with just a single bed and a wooden chair. The hotel and restaurant occupy the site of a former “grand hotel” where, according to the plaque on the wall, Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud had a “séjour passioné” in the late 1870s. During their time in Brussels, Verlaine and Rimbaud certainly had a wild time. Verlaine shot Rimbaud – only in the hand, admittedly, but it messed up his wrist action for a bit. They were the Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell of their time. You wouldn’t have wanted to be staying in the next room to those two.

The BSG is an attractive brasserie with the requisite amount of wood panels, polished brass, starched linen and sparkling glasses. It is usually packed on weekday lunchtimes with workers from the surrounding offices, tables are thin on the ground after 12:30 and the service can be rather slow if you’re not a regular. However, the food is superb, everything is freshly cooked and beautifully presented, and the set lunch of two courses plus coffee is only €13.50.

I lunched there with Vi and Desmond Hornblower, who were on their first weekender back in Brussels since their return to Blighty. I first met Vi and Desmond centuries ago during those heady days out in the tropics, when Vi once danced the can-can in a dugout canoe going over Victoria Falls and Desmond was known in the local dialect as “Little White Chief With Huge Set of Congas”. He got on the wrong side of a Tsetse fly whilst up-country in Umbongoland a few years ago, and has suffered from narcolepsy ever since, which commuting to London only seems to have exacerbated. The break seemed to do him good, he managed to stay awake throughout the entire meal.

I couldn’t resist my favourite “rognons”, or kidneys, in a delicious mustard sauce. Vi had a fillet steak which was about three inches thick and perfectly cooked. Both meat dishes were served with a little side portion of frites. Desmond had skate served with slices of boiled new potato in a parsley sauce. With a bottle of wine and two desserts the bill came to around 70 euros for three of us. The website boasts a “bar/fumoir” although not terribly clear where that is situated. You can have a nose around the dining room on the website, and check out the menu, if you’re the type that doesn’t like surprises.

The lunchtime atmosphere is brisk and bustling, just like a brasserie should be. I recommend you try it in the evening, perhaps before visiting one of the two excellent theatres in the area (the Vlaams Schouwburg, or VSB, and the Théâtre National, both a stone’s thow away).

Brasserie Saint Germain

1 place Rogier (metro: Rogier)

Tel: 02 203 2003

MARTIN'S FRITKOT

2007-02-28T06:53:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-28T06:45:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-22T09:57:00.000-08:00

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

PIZZERIA PARADISO

2006-09-06T05:23:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday night I took the Hornblowers out for a meal, as they are finally leaving Brussels and going to vegetate in deepest Bucks. They arrived with their small grand-daughters Hermione and Hepzibah, who are very well behaved in restaurants. Most of the time. They arrived more or less on time, only because I had phoned ahead and woken Desmond up. The narcolepsy isn't getting any better. Once he fell asleep in the middle of a conversation with Harold. Mind you, who hasn't?

We met at the Pizzeria Paradiso, on Museumlaan in Tervuren, which I think is one of the best Italian restaurants in Brussels. Pity it is right out in the English ghetto on the far eastern edge of the city. The food is scrumptious, and the service is always friendly and efficient. The restaurant was packed with diners, which speaks for itself. The owner-waiters speak at least four languages fluently - French, Flemish, English and Italian - and probably a few more besides, and are brilliant with children. And with Desmond.

To start, Desmond ordered a tuna carpaccio which looked absolutely mouthwatering. I tried a little bit - it was scrumptioso, wafer-thin slivers of fresh tuna drizzled with truffle, I mean twuffle, oil. I have had beef carpaccio but will certainly try tuna carpaccio next time. Vi had calamari fritti, and I had garlic prawns - one of the nice things about being single, you can eat what you want and the pillow won't complain - and was served a dish with six huge butterfly prawns sitting in a pool of melted garlic butter. Hermione and Hepzibah had home made tomato soup which was delicious, if unadventurous. But they are only 5 and 7. For main courses, the children shared a pizza carbonara, Vi had tagliatelle in a cream sauce, Desmond had a huge thin-crust pizza, and I had Saltimbocca alla Romana, delicious veal escalopes with ham and cheese in a very tasty sauce, and a plate of chips on the side which were more for the children than for me. Oh and two litres of red wine, most of which Desmond and I managed to dispose of with ease.

The Hornblower family have the appetites of birds. Vultures. Desserts were ordered - "Dames Blanches" for Hermione and the grandparents (vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce). Hepzibah was doing an Elton, didn't like any of the desserts on offer, so the waiter-boss brought her a "surprise" which she didn't like either. I would have liked a home-made panna cotta, but the boss said I needed to order it in advance, so instead I had a chocolate mousse which, like everything at Paradiso, was fait maison. A coffee and some complimentary amarettos, and we rolled out of the restaurant sighing and patting our tummies.

AU VIEUX BRUXELLES - CHEZ CAMILLE

2006-08-30T07:08:00.000-07:00

Brussels is not so much a city as a collection of villages, which I am still discovering. Long-time Brussels denizen Lolo La Clope recently introduced me to St Boniface, one of this town’s better-kept secrets. It’s in Ixelles, tucked away between the Chaussée d’Ixelles and Matongé, the African district. Matongé is Little Kinshasa, with its wig shops, wax cloth emporia and groceries selling plantain and yam. St Boniface is one street removed from Matongé, but turning off the Rue de Wavre up Rue Francart takes you into a different world. Out of Africa, you might say.

The three or four streets which make up the district sit in the shadow of the beautiful Gothic church of St Boniface. There are about 15 cafés and restaurants within the 500 metres or so radius of the church. The most popular and well-known café is L’Ultime Atome (geddit?) (it’s a French pun) whose tables cover the pavement across the corner of Rue St Boniface and Rue Ernest Solvay. The range of eateries goes from the very classic French Le St Boniface, via some ultra trendy Asian fusion places Le Deuxième Element and Citizen, trendy Italian pizza-pasta joint Mano a Mano, nouveau-Belge Belgo (any relation to the one in Covent Garden? not sure), chic minimalist wine bar Vedett, sushi bar Hana, and Greek taverna Le Syrtaki, to the downright tropical. Around the world in 80,000 calories.

Matongé spills over into St Boniface with Senegalese restaurants l’Ile de Gorée and Le Port d’Attache, and the über-trendy Au Bout du Monde where you can eat smoked antelope or boar and the interior is scattered with zebra skins and elephant heads. If Vi Hornblower went in there dressed in her trademark leopardskin print, she'd disappear into the wallpaper. Not for vegetarians, but très à la mode. I applaud this upwardly mobile ethnicity, and where West Africa is concerned, Senegal is as good as it gets. Even Peter Gabriel has a place near Dakar. On rue Ernest Solvay is atmospheric Moroccan restaurant Le Vent du Sud with its dimly-lit cushioned and lanterned interior, which Lolo rates as probably the best couscous in Brussels.

We dined at Au Vieux Bruxelles – Chez Camille at 35 rue St Boniface, which is a traditional old Brussels brasserie a bit like Chez Léon, but without the tourists. All the usual suspects on the menu – mussels, bien sur, and carbonnade, waterzooi, bunny, etc. etc. but also a good selection of fish and some slightly more elaborate dishes. Lolo had poulet a l'estragon. which was a more than generous portion, half a chicken I’d say. I had an old Flemish favourite, carbonnades à la Gueuze - do you get the irony of a Flemish dish with a French name? No? I guess that means I've been in Belgium too long. It is basically chunks of beef stewed in beer and in some less scrupulous places not much more than a tarted up beef casserole. However, I had a feeling it might be a bit special here, and I wasn’t wrong – the beef chunks were served in their own individual cooking pot, and were tender and succulent, the beer gravy was thick and unctuous, and you could actually taste the Gueuze beer, which is slightly sweet à la Newcastle Brown. Both dishes were served with chips on a side plate. (Baby new potatoes would have been more fitting. But they were crispy and golden and delicious. And - oh hang protocol – I like chips.) With a bottle of Cotes du Rhone at 23 euros, and a half bottle of water, no starter, no dessert, and no coffee, the bill came to a mere 50 euros for two. The restaurant was full, and the friendly waitress in her spotless white apron chatted away like your favourite aunty about the non-smoking law to be introduced on 1st January. She had been a 30-a-day girl, she told us, but was now using patches to help her give up the weed. "And do you feel better now?" asked Lolo hopefully, looking for encouragement to pack in the fags. "Not at all. I feel worse than I've ever felt in my life. Can't sleep, can't eat, headaches, stomach cramps ...." Lolo's face dropped, as she reached for her pack of Camel.

The atmosphere was very pleasant and cosy, homey I think our friends across the pond would say. The restaurant is family-friendly and the powder rooms are spotless. And free. Always important. So in future I will avoid taking my guests through the hordes on the rue des Bouchers, and bring them to St Boniface. Then I’ll walk them to the metro through Matongé, just for a laugh.

Au Vieux Bruxelles
35 rue St Boniface
1050 Ixelles
Tel: 02 503 31 11

CHEZ VINCENT

2006-04-10T06:31:00.000-07:00

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

2006-03-30T06:20:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-24T06:13:00.000-08:00

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.